So, it cannot be denied that slowly but surely my brain has started to take on the colour, consistency and intelligence of mushy peas (which I so despise) since the beginning of my 6 month work abstinence. I feel as though my return to England, coupled with overwhelming boredom and impending dread for fear of being alone all day have drastically intensified the deterioration of my central neurons and it is almost guaranteed that before the sun sets on this day (which is in about 6 hours) I will have slipped into another state of dementia altogether. Yes, I am bored, lonely and frustrated at having nothing to do here. I feel as though I have decided to take 2 weeks of phoney sick leave and as a result have resorted to skulking around town, saturated with guilt and trying to be as inconspicuous as possible......
It's a good thing (for a lot of reasons) that I went to spend Monday night with my Godparents. They say a change is as good as a holiday (not that I need anymore of those) and I needed a change of scenery from number 8 Freke Rd. Going to my Godparents' house is like going home for me. I have lived there just shy of 2 years and the familiar sounds of Natalie practicing her piano and Robert's deep voice on the telephone are most comforting. It is such a real home, filled with treasures like champagne, elegant crockery and privacy. It is so tastefully furnished and welcoming, a sanctuary in noisy London. Most important of all though, are the people inside it, my adoptive family, who I thrust myself upon 2 years ago and have been stuck to ever since.
They have shared a part of London with me that I am quite sure most South Africans here have not experienced. They have involved me in many aspects of their family life which have taken me right across London, out into Oxford and down into Surrey and beyond. And what happened to me yesterday is a perfect example of just how interesting life with my adoptive family can be: While we were having dinner, Natalie's extraordinarily talented, eccentric and rumoured to be aristocratic Russian piano teacher called to say that the following morning the maestro, BORIS PETRUSHANSKY would be giving a Master class at The Royal Academy of Music. Now to give you some background, a few moths ago we had Sofya Gulyak come and stay with us and play for us (our own private concert) at Brookgreen while she was competing in the London Piano Festival. Sofya won second prize and then went on to win first prize at the LEED'S PIANO COMPETITION this year (the first ever female winner). This young up and coming star's teacher is Boris Petrushansky and so it would be tantamount to treason for us to miss an opportunity to see him teach and play.
On arrival at the Academy, we were ushered into Duke's Hall, a very grand yet intimate setting for the recital and on Natalie and Lydia's insistence, we were seated first row on the left, so we could see the pianist's fingers of course (I must confess I did not know this was the reason) What an experience this Master class was. The Academy offered up its most talented pianists to be instructed, coached and occasionally teased by the Maestro (he compared one part of the student's rendition of Prokofiev's Sonata no.2 with the sounds of Chinese water torture) It was fascinating to hear him warble off in Russian while transforming the piece with his own interpretations. He made the music come alive with his metaphors and imagery and even a musica non-intelligentsia like me could not help but be inspired as he struck or caressed the keys with such passion.
Such little mornings are an ever welcome distraction from the depths of boredom and self-loathing which arise from unemployment and a subsequent lack of routine. They are the benefits of having an artistically inspired God mother who has lived here for 30 years. They are also, a gentle reminder that London is not such a bad place after all and that varied and exciting life really does exist beyond the boundaries of the Northcote Road.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Back on Mud Island
So the New York glory days are over and now I am lying in bed staring out the window to a cold and blustery London. I can't really pretend that the night we left NY the weather was any better than the morning we arrived in London, but London does have this rather glum, dreary, suburban feel to it, something which is obliterated by the lights and constant stream of people in Manhattan. Because Manhattan is so over crowded, just about every building has some type of restaurant/shop/something in its frontage, this creates a sense of life and light and one never really feels that alone. The same cannot be said for walking up suburban Clapham street at 6pm on a Friday night- quiet as a grave.
I think I am really missing our Manhattan home. As Steve very cleverly observed, Manhattan's demographics are dictated by its economics. Because it is so expensive to live on the island, it results in all the dregs and drudgery being flushed out in all directions north, south, east and west (except for parts of Brooklyn)- resulting in an area populated by young, chic, cash heavy professionals who demand and can afford the best living NY has to offer. Thus the abundance of fabulous restaurants, bars, galleries and shops. Living where we did was like hanging out in a playground of beautiful people, who by their very nature were setting the trends of tomorrow. What a place to play in!!
Last night after dinner, Steve and I were driving home and he made a comment which I thought so accurately summed up NY dining vs London Dining. In NY there is a common saying about restaurants: "it's the kind of restaurant where you could go again" it means that the food is that good that it warrants a second visit as opposed to just trying a new restaurant (quite the statement in flattery) whereas in London, if one says "it's the kind of restaurant where you could go again" it means that one has not been poisioned by the food the first time round and that it was not bad enough to not warrant another visit. Good and bad. hmmmmm... two very different concepts.
There is something quite endearing about the Americans' total lack of self depreciation. They are a fiercely patriotic bunch (I counted 36 US flags outside of people'shouses on Staten island in a 15 minute walk) and at no stage feel any shame to hold their hands to their hearts and blurt out their anthem and their "God bless Americas". There is no irony in their loyalty, (probably why Steve could never settle here permanenently- he's too cynical and too socialist) they lap up the cheese of the American dream in its entireity. Perhaps this song will give you a sense of what it is all about. This has been played non stop in every cab, spin class, restaurant and radio station the city throughout- every New Yorker humming along, strumming their fingers to the beat. Don't mind if I do.......
Jay Zee: Empire State of Mind
I think I am really missing our Manhattan home. As Steve very cleverly observed, Manhattan's demographics are dictated by its economics. Because it is so expensive to live on the island, it results in all the dregs and drudgery being flushed out in all directions north, south, east and west (except for parts of Brooklyn)- resulting in an area populated by young, chic, cash heavy professionals who demand and can afford the best living NY has to offer. Thus the abundance of fabulous restaurants, bars, galleries and shops. Living where we did was like hanging out in a playground of beautiful people, who by their very nature were setting the trends of tomorrow. What a place to play in!!
Last night after dinner, Steve and I were driving home and he made a comment which I thought so accurately summed up NY dining vs London Dining. In NY there is a common saying about restaurants: "it's the kind of restaurant where you could go again" it means that the food is that good that it warrants a second visit as opposed to just trying a new restaurant (quite the statement in flattery) whereas in London, if one says "it's the kind of restaurant where you could go again" it means that one has not been poisioned by the food the first time round and that it was not bad enough to not warrant another visit. Good and bad. hmmmmm... two very different concepts.
There is something quite endearing about the Americans' total lack of self depreciation. They are a fiercely patriotic bunch (I counted 36 US flags outside of people'shouses on Staten island in a 15 minute walk) and at no stage feel any shame to hold their hands to their hearts and blurt out their anthem and their "God bless Americas". There is no irony in their loyalty, (probably why Steve could never settle here permanenently- he's too cynical and too socialist) they lap up the cheese of the American dream in its entireity. Perhaps this song will give you a sense of what it is all about. This has been played non stop in every cab, spin class, restaurant and radio station the city throughout- every New Yorker humming along, strumming their fingers to the beat. Don't mind if I do.......
Jay Zee: Empire State of Mind
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Dressler, a diner's delight.....
Just a quick one.... for anyone coming to NY, this is theeeeee place you have to eat:
DRESSLER
Siutated just off the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn. Seductive decor, sublime food, superior staff. My number one here so far.
Tuck in......
DRESSLER
Siutated just off the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn. Seductive decor, sublime food, superior staff. My number one here so far.
Tuck in......
Friday, November 6, 2009
Happy Halloween!!!
Growing up as a child in South Africa, Halloween was never a big deal. I think I can remember only 2 years or so where we dressed up and went out trick or treating. Half the time, the neighbours didn't know what the concept of trick or treat was and often we resorted to catapulting stones or boiled streets at their windows (or pets) because they had given us tins of tomato paste for lack of any other treats in their larders. Let me state that there is no confusion about what trick or treating is in NY. America is the HOME of Halloween (well, the cheesy Hollywood version of it at least)
The tradition actually takes its origin from the Celtic pagan Festival of Samhain, which celebrates the end of the lighter half of the year and the beginning of the darker half of the year. It was believed that during this time the border between the "Otherworld" and earth became thinner and thus could provide ghosts and ghouls an opportunity to pass through. The need to ward off evil spirits resulted in people wearing "scary costumes" and thus Halloween was born (it should however be noted that instead of wearing scary costumes these days most American girls use Halloween as an excuse to look as smutty and slutty as possible. For example wearing a bikini and pair of vampire teeth) Interestingly, in traditional Celtic celebration, large turnips were hollowed out, carved with faces and put in windows to ward off evil spirits, in North America, the turnips were replaced with pumpkins because they were much more readily available and easier to carve out because they were much bigger. The lead up to Halloween and just the general atmosphere in the city in the fall is most exciting. There are pumpkins on every doorstep and in every window and every shop is selling Halloween paraphernalia and costumes. A list was sent around our apartment building asking us if we would be available to participate in T or T for the kids living in our building, we even had a special Halloween display erected in the reception and the spinning class I went to on Friday morning was a "Halloween special ride" where the lights were turned off and we were forced to wear glow in the dark arm bands while cardboard pumpkins dangled above our heads!! Steve and I erroneously did not take the festival day too seriously and it was only when on Oct 30th, that I decided to go and find us some costumes and was greeted by a 20 minute queue around the block, did I realise just what a big deal this Halloween business was. Like all buildings in NY, the costume shop did not look that big from the outside, but once I was in- I was totally overwhelmed by its 2 floors, specialized sections (dominatrix section, religious section, sci-fi section etc....) and its quirky staff wearing costumes ranging from KluKluxKlan members in g-strings and fishnet stockings to Bavarian beer maids with Pinocchio noses and witches hats. It was crazy. Greenwich village was transformed into a strictly pedestrian area and which provided the perfect setting for gawking at the the freaks in the Village Parade. The city was totally heaving, everyone with an excuse to be as festive as they liked. We marched in the rain to various house parties and finally ended up some horrible downstairs dungeon club thing- where we were ushered in by a bouncer dressed up as a totem pole and then served Grade A Rusky Wodka by a waitress in a Yogi bear suit. We walked home well after midnight (surprising for two oldies like us!) and the streets were still rammed with party-goers in all sorts of funky outfits. Needless to say, on Sunday morning NY was the quietest I have ever seen it. Not even the cab drivers had bothered to get out of bed. In fact, I am quite sure that the only crazy people awake were the 42 000 runners who were up at 4am to compete in the marathon..... aaahhh (and I hate to use the phrase) New York, the city that never sleeps.
The tradition actually takes its origin from the Celtic pagan Festival of Samhain, which celebrates the end of the lighter half of the year and the beginning of the darker half of the year. It was believed that during this time the border between the "Otherworld" and earth became thinner and thus could provide ghosts and ghouls an opportunity to pass through. The need to ward off evil spirits resulted in people wearing "scary costumes" and thus Halloween was born (it should however be noted that instead of wearing scary costumes these days most American girls use Halloween as an excuse to look as smutty and slutty as possible. For example wearing a bikini and pair of vampire teeth) Interestingly, in traditional Celtic celebration, large turnips were hollowed out, carved with faces and put in windows to ward off evil spirits, in North America, the turnips were replaced with pumpkins because they were much more readily available and easier to carve out because they were much bigger. The lead up to Halloween and just the general atmosphere in the city in the fall is most exciting. There are pumpkins on every doorstep and in every window and every shop is selling Halloween paraphernalia and costumes. A list was sent around our apartment building asking us if we would be available to participate in T or T for the kids living in our building, we even had a special Halloween display erected in the reception and the spinning class I went to on Friday morning was a "Halloween special ride" where the lights were turned off and we were forced to wear glow in the dark arm bands while cardboard pumpkins dangled above our heads!! Steve and I erroneously did not take the festival day too seriously and it was only when on Oct 30th, that I decided to go and find us some costumes and was greeted by a 20 minute queue around the block, did I realise just what a big deal this Halloween business was. Like all buildings in NY, the costume shop did not look that big from the outside, but once I was in- I was totally overwhelmed by its 2 floors, specialized sections (dominatrix section, religious section, sci-fi section etc....) and its quirky staff wearing costumes ranging from KluKluxKlan members in g-strings and fishnet stockings to Bavarian beer maids with Pinocchio noses and witches hats. It was crazy. Greenwich village was transformed into a strictly pedestrian area and which provided the perfect setting for gawking at the the freaks in the Village Parade. The city was totally heaving, everyone with an excuse to be as festive as they liked. We marched in the rain to various house parties and finally ended up some horrible downstairs dungeon club thing- where we were ushered in by a bouncer dressed up as a totem pole and then served Grade A Rusky Wodka by a waitress in a Yogi bear suit. We walked home well after midnight (surprising for two oldies like us!) and the streets were still rammed with party-goers in all sorts of funky outfits. Needless to say, on Sunday morning NY was the quietest I have ever seen it. Not even the cab drivers had bothered to get out of bed. In fact, I am quite sure that the only crazy people awake were the 42 000 runners who were up at 4am to compete in the marathon..... aaahhh (and I hate to use the phrase) New York, the city that never sleeps.
Friday, October 30, 2009
A detour in Wine Country
It is an absolutely glorious morning here. The sun is definitely getting out of bed later these mornings and like everything in New York, it's a real spectacle to behold. From East the West the whole skyline is brushed with pinks and yellows and all the windows on the east side of the buildings reflect columns of light that make them look like they are on fire. It has become a favourite ritual of mine to let Steve bring me my book and coffee in bed while I watch New York wake up.
The sunsets are equally as exciting. The sky swirls with hues of purple and pink and makes the west sides of the buildings look they are melting in pools of liquid light. Twilight is this fleeting moment where last streaks of dusky, natural light are fused with the first neon lights of the iconic New York night. It gets me everytime.
I wish that I could take some pictures to show you what I am talking about but I recently lost my camera in a Redwood forest in California (R.I.P old faithful) who I now imagine is lying under a leaf somewhere, growing mould, only to be found by archeologists in 1000 years time who will conclude that in fact Vikings did still live in America in 2009. (pictures of Steve/Yeti/Eric the Red as evidence)
But now, more about Cal-i-for-neye-a : We decided that no trip to America would be complete without a visit to the Golden State. So, we boarded a plane, flew 4378km in 6 hours, crossed 3 hours worth of time zones and landed in San Francisco at midnight. By 10 the next morning we were flying (low lying, in our rented Nissan Almera- yeah baby!!) across the Golden Gate Bridge towards Wine country. The next 3 days were filled with the clinking of glasses and the smelling and slurping of wine and a subsequent memory loss that prevents me from writing anything further.......
Touring wine country requires methodical planning and care- none of which we used when rolling our way through the Napa, Sonoma and Dry Creek Valleys. It is rather daunting to be faced with about 1000 wineries to choose from, so our plan was simple. 1st winery farthest away, 2nd, 3rd and 4th wineries slightly closer to home, last winery closest to home.... I think you get the picture. More wine = less co-ordination = shorter distance to drive home. The best thing about America though is that it is illegal to be breathalized!! It breaches your right to personal security or some rubbish like that- so in order for the coppers to tell whether or not a driver has been drinking, they ask them to take the "walk the line test". Seriously, in 1st world America, the way to establish a person's sobriety is to make them walk a straight line....Whooopeee for us. Steve practiced walking the line for minutes every morning (just to get his eye in) in case we got stopped. And of course we never did, this is wine country afterall- a place where coppers don't need to patrol the streets because people are taking their tastings seriously and behaving like mature and responsible adults..... Ja right!!!!!
In short, we had a magical time. We drank some of the finest wines that NoCal has to offer, we admired breathtaking vistas of thousands of vines turning red, brown and gold in the fall-time, we walked in the redwood forests which had trees 1400 years old and 300 feet high, (felt like something out of Lord of the Rings- most amazing forests I have ever been to) we revelled in the late summer sun and to top it all off we hired a tandem and cycled our way around the Dry Creek River Valley tasting wine. Operation Tandem was nothing short of a sleek, well-oiled machine running with Military precision, by the late afternoon the tandem was a bit to well oiled and I belive we were spotted trying to "bunny hop" the pavements in the Healdsburg plaza. The trip was a rip roaring success- We now have 3 cases of wine on their way to us in NY (we found the receipts stuffed into the panier of the tandem) and we trying to work out if we will have to drink them all (help!!!) or try and smuggle them back into the UK.
Our last day was back in San Fran with Steve's oldest buddy, who as a baby used to sit in his high-chair and throw food at a crawling, hungry Steve down below. Well I guess some things never change because Woodsy and Christina fattened us up with with noteworthy cooking and hospitality while we soaked up views of Golden Gate in a ghostly fog and a fireball sunset.
Before we knew it, our 5 days were up. It was time to be bundled back into the human sardine- can and shot across the sky for another 6 hours over America's great mountains, desserts and lakes to our home away from home. The sight of Manhattan's twinkling lights are like a soothing tonic to the weary traveller's soul, they are a beacon of safety in the dark night. I don't know what it is about this city, but it makes me feel so welcome, so at ease, as though I have been living here all my life.
PS: Winery with the best view is JOSEPH PHELPS
Winery to avoid at all costs is CASTELLO DI AMOROSA
Best for food and wine pairing WILLIAMSON WINES. This is owned by an Aussie (who Steve had a real bromance with) whose aim is to pair all wine with food- he has even made a wine to go with 2 day old pizza. Is a delightful character who proudly displayed his fat guts as " 500 grand worth of Research and development"
The sunsets are equally as exciting. The sky swirls with hues of purple and pink and makes the west sides of the buildings look they are melting in pools of liquid light. Twilight is this fleeting moment where last streaks of dusky, natural light are fused with the first neon lights of the iconic New York night. It gets me everytime.
I wish that I could take some pictures to show you what I am talking about but I recently lost my camera in a Redwood forest in California (R.I.P old faithful) who I now imagine is lying under a leaf somewhere, growing mould, only to be found by archeologists in 1000 years time who will conclude that in fact Vikings did still live in America in 2009. (pictures of Steve/Yeti/Eric the Red as evidence)
But now, more about Cal-i-for-neye-a : We decided that no trip to America would be complete without a visit to the Golden State. So, we boarded a plane, flew 4378km in 6 hours, crossed 3 hours worth of time zones and landed in San Francisco at midnight. By 10 the next morning we were flying (low lying, in our rented Nissan Almera- yeah baby!!) across the Golden Gate Bridge towards Wine country. The next 3 days were filled with the clinking of glasses and the smelling and slurping of wine and a subsequent memory loss that prevents me from writing anything further.......
Touring wine country requires methodical planning and care- none of which we used when rolling our way through the Napa, Sonoma and Dry Creek Valleys. It is rather daunting to be faced with about 1000 wineries to choose from, so our plan was simple. 1st winery farthest away, 2nd, 3rd and 4th wineries slightly closer to home, last winery closest to home.... I think you get the picture. More wine = less co-ordination = shorter distance to drive home. The best thing about America though is that it is illegal to be breathalized!! It breaches your right to personal security or some rubbish like that- so in order for the coppers to tell whether or not a driver has been drinking, they ask them to take the "walk the line test". Seriously, in 1st world America, the way to establish a person's sobriety is to make them walk a straight line....Whooopeee for us. Steve practiced walking the line for minutes every morning (just to get his eye in) in case we got stopped. And of course we never did, this is wine country afterall- a place where coppers don't need to patrol the streets because people are taking their tastings seriously and behaving like mature and responsible adults..... Ja right!!!!!
In short, we had a magical time. We drank some of the finest wines that NoCal has to offer, we admired breathtaking vistas of thousands of vines turning red, brown and gold in the fall-time, we walked in the redwood forests which had trees 1400 years old and 300 feet high, (felt like something out of Lord of the Rings- most amazing forests I have ever been to) we revelled in the late summer sun and to top it all off we hired a tandem and cycled our way around the Dry Creek River Valley tasting wine. Operation Tandem was nothing short of a sleek, well-oiled machine running with Military precision, by the late afternoon the tandem was a bit to well oiled and I belive we were spotted trying to "bunny hop" the pavements in the Healdsburg plaza. The trip was a rip roaring success- We now have 3 cases of wine on their way to us in NY (we found the receipts stuffed into the panier of the tandem) and we trying to work out if we will have to drink them all (help!!!) or try and smuggle them back into the UK.
Our last day was back in San Fran with Steve's oldest buddy, who as a baby used to sit in his high-chair and throw food at a crawling, hungry Steve down below. Well I guess some things never change because Woodsy and Christina fattened us up with with noteworthy cooking and hospitality while we soaked up views of Golden Gate in a ghostly fog and a fireball sunset.
Before we knew it, our 5 days were up. It was time to be bundled back into the human sardine- can and shot across the sky for another 6 hours over America's great mountains, desserts and lakes to our home away from home. The sight of Manhattan's twinkling lights are like a soothing tonic to the weary traveller's soul, they are a beacon of safety in the dark night. I don't know what it is about this city, but it makes me feel so welcome, so at ease, as though I have been living here all my life.
PS: Winery with the best view is JOSEPH PHELPS
Winery to avoid at all costs is CASTELLO DI AMOROSA
Best for food and wine pairing WILLIAMSON WINES. This is owned by an Aussie (who Steve had a real bromance with) whose aim is to pair all wine with food- he has even made a wine to go with 2 day old pizza. Is a delightful character who proudly displayed his fat guts as " 500 grand worth of Research and development"
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Rainy day Wednesday
It is a really glum day in NY today. I knew even before I opened my eyes this morning that it was going to be cold and wet outside because I could hear all morning traffic in the streets below kicking up great pools of water as it sped by .The accuracy of my auditory skills was confirmed (not bad for 17% hearing in one ear) as Steve raised the blinds, unveiled the gloomy skyline and let out a sigh. As huge droplets of water splashed our apartment's windows, I couldn't help but be grateful that I was not putting on a suit and going to work on Madison Avenue this morning.
Hours have passed since the dark dawn and still the grey light has not changed. Mist and clouds are swirling nearby and have obliterated my glorious view of the Empire state and Chrysler buildings. I can't even see the clock tower (about 10 blocks away) which I always use to tell the time (probably explains why I got out of bed so late!!!) I hate this type rainy day, it makes me think about the 6 months of London winter that I am about to endure. Seasonal Affect Disorder ( otherwize known as SAD or wanting to jump off Waterloo Bridge with bags of cement strapped to my legs) is a term that I have become familiar with since my move to the UK. These sorts of endless grey days really burden my soul, the cure either another emigration or 20 sessions under a Sun lamp for Christmas.
In most cities I have lived in or visited it either rains really hard really briefly, then abates and skies clear ( Oh yes Johannesburg how I miss you) or it drizzles lightly for hours until the wet has permeated everything including your skin and manages to soak itself right into your bones (oh yes London, you know what I'm talking about) but in NY, it appears to beable to do both of these things simultaneously, (trust the Americans to have to be bigger and better than everyone else) there is bucketing, pelting, sloshing rain.... ALL DAY LONG! And I have learned (judging by the state of my rain-soaked trousers) that on days like these outdoor activities are to be avoided at all costs.
These are days to curl up on the sofa with a good book and a steak sandwhich, (both of which can be ordered online and delivered within the hour- God bless America!!) and feel sorry for all the poor plastic bag-clothed delivery guys, delivering take -out to seasonally affected sun worshipers like me.
Hours have passed since the dark dawn and still the grey light has not changed. Mist and clouds are swirling nearby and have obliterated my glorious view of the Empire state and Chrysler buildings. I can't even see the clock tower (about 10 blocks away) which I always use to tell the time (probably explains why I got out of bed so late!!!) I hate this type rainy day, it makes me think about the 6 months of London winter that I am about to endure. Seasonal Affect Disorder ( otherwize known as SAD or wanting to jump off Waterloo Bridge with bags of cement strapped to my legs) is a term that I have become familiar with since my move to the UK. These sorts of endless grey days really burden my soul, the cure either another emigration or 20 sessions under a Sun lamp for Christmas.
In most cities I have lived in or visited it either rains really hard really briefly, then abates and skies clear ( Oh yes Johannesburg how I miss you) or it drizzles lightly for hours until the wet has permeated everything including your skin and manages to soak itself right into your bones (oh yes London, you know what I'm talking about) but in NY, it appears to beable to do both of these things simultaneously, (trust the Americans to have to be bigger and better than everyone else) there is bucketing, pelting, sloshing rain.... ALL DAY LONG! And I have learned (judging by the state of my rain-soaked trousers) that on days like these outdoor activities are to be avoided at all costs.
These are days to curl up on the sofa with a good book and a steak sandwhich, (both of which can be ordered online and delivered within the hour- God bless America!!) and feel sorry for all the poor plastic bag-clothed delivery guys, delivering take -out to seasonally affected sun worshipers like me.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
I have just finished reading this book: The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. It has left me a little wet eyed and with a horrible feeling in my gut- a brief mourning for those souls in this world whose lives have so little good in them, for those that know their only taste of beauty right before their very lights are snuffed out. A moment's silence please....
The Brief and Wondorous Life of Oscar Wao is not only a definitively fictitious, humours (and equally tragic) story about the shitty-gritty life of a young Dominican muchacho growing up in America but it is also an extremely insightful account of the history of the Dominican Republic under Trujillos' rule. "Trujillo who?" you say (well that's what I said) To give you an idea: take Mugabe and multiple by a thousand, now add the blood-lust of Pol Pot and the Sex drive of Errol Flynn and HEY PRESTO you have Trujillo! Ruler of the Dominican Republic from 1930-1961. This guy makes Hilter look like the Sugar Plum Fairy.
While the World was consumed with WW1 and WW2, no less sinister things were taking place on a tiny island in the Carribean. The DR was was held hostage by el presidente Trujullio for 30 years and his became one of the bloodiest and most terrifying regimes the world over. Like the majority of these despotic slugs, Trujillo dirtied himself with all matter of things highly villanous and unspeakable in their brutality. He launched a machete and hate fuelled campaign against fellow Haitian islanders (keeping very quiet aboiut his Haitian mother), he had jailed, tortured or murdered any Intelligentsia or successful members of the community who to refused to kiss his butt, he raped the wives and daughters of his comrades and like all- amassed billions of dollars while driving his people into the depths of poverty and starvation.
The sad thing is that the DR is not an isolated case in history. There are hundreds of countries that have suffered under similar circumstances. What is worth noting is that these stories are far less publicised and less well known than the great battles of WW1 and 2. Now, I understand that these Wars involved more than 2 countries at any given time (hence WORLD WAR), but it might be worth noting that these were often the most powerful countires in the world and I sometimes get the sense that the "importance" of their war-faring history has drowned out the voices who tell the tale of less powerful nations. Don't get me wrong, I am in no way understating the calamity that gripped the world in those Wars ( and I know what side my bread is buttered) but I am quite sure that the victims of these less publicised wars suffered no less than their American, Russian and European counter-parts.
The fact is that the money and power of the nations involved in the World Wars has given that history presidence above all else. The citizens of these wealthier nations have had the capital to both create and access countless films, books, documentaires etc about their nations' history, while the butchered Bosniacs (1992), the 2 million murdered and 4 million displaced Sudanese (2002) and indeed the beleaguered Dominicans' stories remain largely unheard. The truth is, nobody cares about the Cambodias and the DR's of this world, these are not rich counties who can easily pay for their plight to be heard, they do not have the patronage to catapult their misery into stardom. And of course history repeats itself, just as one Trujillo is assasinated and another is born, the world sits back and worries about its own problems. Junot Diaz has managed to captivate his nation's story in a most explosive yet articulate way and has given a voice to a country who would otherwize be yet another silent prop on the world's stage.
The Brief and Wondorous Life of Oscar Wao is not only a definitively fictitious, humours (and equally tragic) story about the shitty-gritty life of a young Dominican muchacho growing up in America but it is also an extremely insightful account of the history of the Dominican Republic under Trujillos' rule. "Trujillo who?" you say (well that's what I said) To give you an idea: take Mugabe and multiple by a thousand, now add the blood-lust of Pol Pot and the Sex drive of Errol Flynn and HEY PRESTO you have Trujillo! Ruler of the Dominican Republic from 1930-1961. This guy makes Hilter look like the Sugar Plum Fairy.
While the World was consumed with WW1 and WW2, no less sinister things were taking place on a tiny island in the Carribean. The DR was was held hostage by el presidente Trujullio for 30 years and his became one of the bloodiest and most terrifying regimes the world over. Like the majority of these despotic slugs, Trujillo dirtied himself with all matter of things highly villanous and unspeakable in their brutality. He launched a machete and hate fuelled campaign against fellow Haitian islanders (keeping very quiet aboiut his Haitian mother), he had jailed, tortured or murdered any Intelligentsia or successful members of the community who to refused to kiss his butt, he raped the wives and daughters of his comrades and like all- amassed billions of dollars while driving his people into the depths of poverty and starvation.
The sad thing is that the DR is not an isolated case in history. There are hundreds of countries that have suffered under similar circumstances. What is worth noting is that these stories are far less publicised and less well known than the great battles of WW1 and 2. Now, I understand that these Wars involved more than 2 countries at any given time (hence WORLD WAR), but it might be worth noting that these were often the most powerful countires in the world and I sometimes get the sense that the "importance" of their war-faring history has drowned out the voices who tell the tale of less powerful nations. Don't get me wrong, I am in no way understating the calamity that gripped the world in those Wars ( and I know what side my bread is buttered) but I am quite sure that the victims of these less publicised wars suffered no less than their American, Russian and European counter-parts.
The fact is that the money and power of the nations involved in the World Wars has given that history presidence above all else. The citizens of these wealthier nations have had the capital to both create and access countless films, books, documentaires etc about their nations' history, while the butchered Bosniacs (1992), the 2 million murdered and 4 million displaced Sudanese (2002) and indeed the beleaguered Dominicans' stories remain largely unheard. The truth is, nobody cares about the Cambodias and the DR's of this world, these are not rich counties who can easily pay for their plight to be heard, they do not have the patronage to catapult their misery into stardom. And of course history repeats itself, just as one Trujillo is assasinated and another is born, the world sits back and worries about its own problems. Junot Diaz has managed to captivate his nation's story in a most explosive yet articulate way and has given a voice to a country who would otherwize be yet another silent prop on the world's stage.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A naturalized New Yaawker in no time....
A few days ago, I was siting in a charming little coffee shop in Soho refueling on espresso after a hard days walking. The purpose of all this physical exertion was to locate a downtown street fair which, disappointingly, turned out to be nothing more than 20 stalls offering up greasy falafels and imported Chinese clothing and sunglasses. ( items which I belive, are not endemic to NY)
Quite disappointed in the lack of purchasable merchandise, I decided the trip home would have to include a wander down shop-studded Elizabeth Street in the hope that i could find something to buy there. And by the time I stumbled upon Soho Babies, I was so itching to splurge some cash (most of which is technically not mine) that within one very swift swipe of my credit card my adorable little godson had become the lucky beneficiary my pent-up "previously denied-spending" frustration.
Satisfied that I now tangible proof of having done something that day, (just in case Steve thinks I'm loafing) I decided to reward myself with a coffee break and that is how ended up meeting Rebecca from Colorado. I must have eyed her out (like all desperately lonely women with no one to talk to during the day do) because she gave me a big smile and before I knew it we were talking about our relative backgrounds and what we were doing in the Big Apple. I discovered that she was here for just the weekend, though had visited numerous times before.
She must have been pretty impressed with my credentials because then (Yes, you won't belive it) .... she (an Americano) asked me (a bloody mixed up south African, dating an Aussie, living in London) if I could recommend a restaurant for dinner that night! And finally, THE MOMENT OF GLORY I HAD BEEN WAITING FOR.... all these weeks of gorging myself had finally paid off! I watched myself reel off a page of names in order of cuisine, preference and location with the coolness of a cucumber. Uber cool. And soon I was laughing at myself, a lot. Ha ha Walters, you've become a naturalized New Yaawker in no time at all.
Quite disappointed in the lack of purchasable merchandise, I decided the trip home would have to include a wander down shop-studded Elizabeth Street in the hope that i could find something to buy there. And by the time I stumbled upon Soho Babies, I was so itching to splurge some cash (most of which is technically not mine) that within one very swift swipe of my credit card my adorable little godson had become the lucky beneficiary my pent-up "previously denied-spending" frustration.
Satisfied that I now tangible proof of having done something that day, (just in case Steve thinks I'm loafing) I decided to reward myself with a coffee break and that is how ended up meeting Rebecca from Colorado. I must have eyed her out (like all desperately lonely women with no one to talk to during the day do) because she gave me a big smile and before I knew it we were talking about our relative backgrounds and what we were doing in the Big Apple. I discovered that she was here for just the weekend, though had visited numerous times before.
She must have been pretty impressed with my credentials because then (Yes, you won't belive it) .... she (an Americano) asked me (a bloody mixed up south African, dating an Aussie, living in London) if I could recommend a restaurant for dinner that night! And finally, THE MOMENT OF GLORY I HAD BEEN WAITING FOR.... all these weeks of gorging myself had finally paid off! I watched myself reel off a page of names in order of cuisine, preference and location with the coolness of a cucumber. Uber cool. And soon I was laughing at myself, a lot. Ha ha Walters, you've become a naturalized New Yaawker in no time at all.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Lekan from Lagos
One of the things I have been doing here, which I have not mentioned until now is some volunteering. It's nothing too exciting and my main project that I have been working on is a Forest Restoration project on Staten Island. But that is another story for another time. I want to tell you about what I did today in a real bad 'hood deep in the heart of Brooklyn. Me and 20 other volunteers were asked by New York Cares to help revitalize the school by painting murals in its classrooms and canteen. They were partnered by Walt Disney who did an excellent job of glamming things up "Hollywood Style" and provided TV cameras, excellent grub and hundreds of pairs of these ridiculous Mickey Mouse Ears which they expected every volunteer to wear. (I won't tell you whether or not I wore mine)
Despite looking like a group of defunct rodents, spirits were high and in no time everyone had found a partner and was deciding on what colours to use for their paintings. Everyone, except me that was.( even volunteers are snobs! HA!) I stood around waiting (casually) to see where I could help and was approached by a very friendly Lekan Lawanson, whose teeth were as white as his skin was black. "You can paint with me. " he said and in an instant I knew he was no Yankee pure blood. (Great- the only other African illegal immigrant in the room and I get to be his partner for the day) Deflecting my annoyance and the saying "like attracts like" from my mind with an even bigger smile, I accepted his invitation.
Lekan and I got busy fetching our various paint cans and after agreeing on who was doing what, got down to the business of brightening underprivileged children's lives. After the initial pleasantries were exchanged, I realised that Lekan and I had more in common than I had originally thought (illegal African immigrants remember) We had both left our motherland in search of safer more stable lives. We were both volunteering because neither of us was working. BUT I was in New York, on holiday with my boyfriend and would be going back to my community in London. He would never leave New York, was struggling to get a job without papers and had last seen his family 17 years ago.
In the few hours I spent with Lekan, I learned about his life. I was quite grateful he never asked me about mine, it would have been embarrassing to recount how easy and full of opportunity it has been. He has been living in Brooklyn by himself for 17 years. He left Nigeria as it was riddled with corruption and crime (sound familiar?) and sought refuge and The American Dream across the Atlantic. He risked everything (and still does) to earn an honest wage and sought simply to uplift the condition of his dreary existence. Initially, the Americas were kind to him, work on the black market was easy to get after a number of years he had managed to secure an Accounting role in the hotel industry. But after 9/11 security's fist tightened and work without papers was hard to come by. After a botched marriage (for a greencard) and $10,000's in expenses- he is no closer to being recognised here than he was when the Boeings' wheels touched down at JFK, 17 years ago. He can't go home, life there has passed too-long without him, so instead he exists like a ghost, taking whatever New York will give him. ( just to note- I find it a huge irony that he is doing volunteer work. i.e giving back to a country who does not even aknowledge him) All he has now is hope, hope that Obama and his fellow Democrats will look kindly upon his case and the cases of the other 11 million illegal immigrants currently residing in the USA.
How bad are things in Africa that Lekan chooses this life of desperate solitude over legalised citizenship? Lekan, is one of millions that have left, prepared to give up everything they have for nothing but uncertainty. We have walked, swum, flown from our nests to seek shelter while the bloody wars, rivalries and injustices rage unabated. The governments do not govern, they line their pockets and sew jewels into their cloth while their people are crushed by suffering.
We are both migrants, though the glaring disparity in the quality of our lives is quite tragic. I constantly find it tough, this "starting your life again" business and I have had bolstering support and love to ease it all. I don't belive anyone who leaves their homeland seeking amnesty wants to willfully. If life was that good on nascent soil, we would have no reason to leave. My heart is heavy today for all those tangled in these journeys far across the globe, so little yet so much left behind, so much yet so little to hope for.
Despite looking like a group of defunct rodents, spirits were high and in no time everyone had found a partner and was deciding on what colours to use for their paintings. Everyone, except me that was.( even volunteers are snobs! HA!) I stood around waiting (casually) to see where I could help and was approached by a very friendly Lekan Lawanson, whose teeth were as white as his skin was black. "You can paint with me. " he said and in an instant I knew he was no Yankee pure blood. (Great- the only other African illegal immigrant in the room and I get to be his partner for the day) Deflecting my annoyance and the saying "like attracts like" from my mind with an even bigger smile, I accepted his invitation.
Lekan and I got busy fetching our various paint cans and after agreeing on who was doing what, got down to the business of brightening underprivileged children's lives. After the initial pleasantries were exchanged, I realised that Lekan and I had more in common than I had originally thought (illegal African immigrants remember) We had both left our motherland in search of safer more stable lives. We were both volunteering because neither of us was working. BUT I was in New York, on holiday with my boyfriend and would be going back to my community in London. He would never leave New York, was struggling to get a job without papers and had last seen his family 17 years ago.
In the few hours I spent with Lekan, I learned about his life. I was quite grateful he never asked me about mine, it would have been embarrassing to recount how easy and full of opportunity it has been. He has been living in Brooklyn by himself for 17 years. He left Nigeria as it was riddled with corruption and crime (sound familiar?) and sought refuge and The American Dream across the Atlantic. He risked everything (and still does) to earn an honest wage and sought simply to uplift the condition of his dreary existence. Initially, the Americas were kind to him, work on the black market was easy to get after a number of years he had managed to secure an Accounting role in the hotel industry. But after 9/11 security's fist tightened and work without papers was hard to come by. After a botched marriage (for a greencard) and $10,000's in expenses- he is no closer to being recognised here than he was when the Boeings' wheels touched down at JFK, 17 years ago. He can't go home, life there has passed too-long without him, so instead he exists like a ghost, taking whatever New York will give him. ( just to note- I find it a huge irony that he is doing volunteer work. i.e giving back to a country who does not even aknowledge him) All he has now is hope, hope that Obama and his fellow Democrats will look kindly upon his case and the cases of the other 11 million illegal immigrants currently residing in the USA.
How bad are things in Africa that Lekan chooses this life of desperate solitude over legalised citizenship? Lekan, is one of millions that have left, prepared to give up everything they have for nothing but uncertainty. We have walked, swum, flown from our nests to seek shelter while the bloody wars, rivalries and injustices rage unabated. The governments do not govern, they line their pockets and sew jewels into their cloth while their people are crushed by suffering.
We are both migrants, though the glaring disparity in the quality of our lives is quite tragic. I constantly find it tough, this "starting your life again" business and I have had bolstering support and love to ease it all. I don't belive anyone who leaves their homeland seeking amnesty wants to willfully. If life was that good on nascent soil, we would have no reason to leave. My heart is heavy today for all those tangled in these journeys far across the globe, so little yet so much left behind, so much yet so little to hope for.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
From Malbec 2010 to Rioja 1994
One of the great things in life is not knowing how bad something is, until it's over. There is some satisfaction to be had knowing only once something is over, that it really wasn't that great. It's like drinking a bottle of 2010 Argentinean Malbec and then sucking back on a 1994 Rioja- only on first smell and taste of the Rioja do you realise just how bad the Malbec was.
I am having this exact feeling right now. And I am having it because I had no idea what a dump our last apartment was until we moved into our new one. Don't get me wrong- the interior of all these corporate housing places is all the same (Though this one missing the blue wall- thank God) but it's the (and I hate to use the phrase) " location, location, location" that has transformed NY from a young, new world Malbec into an old world Rioja for me. In English terms, I have just moved from Canary Wharf to Nottinghill, in South African terms I have just moved from Midrand to Parkhurst. Oh yes baby, I am a rocking and a rolling in the junction between east village/greenwhich village and Soho. It is a crucible of hip/retro/vintage/urban chic and I am bubbling away right in its epicentre.
Here are, in my opinion some of the most obvious benefits of our new abode:
1. Roof terrace above (private, open space is sheer luxury in NY)
2. Wholefoods below (no need to cook anymore)
3. Restaurants, cafes, bistros, delis in abundance around (reaffirms point 2)
4. Double glazed windows (to drown out the sound of traffic which otherwize abates only between 5 and 6am)
5. No corporate blue wall to match brown furniture (guarantees my sanity for at least another week)
6. Subway across the street (just in case I ever contemplate not going in a cab)
7. Laundry service (to ensure I NEVER get into the habit of washing Steve's clothes)
8. Gym ( To help work off that Rioja that I am starting to enjoy so much)
We celebrated our new home by showing off and asking an old friend of mine from South Africa to stay for the weekend. He was thoroughly impressed, particularly by the double glazed windows. It was satisfying to show him that I was moving up in the world, even if it was only because Steve must be doing something right at work. (for those of you who did not detect any irony in that last paragraph... you know me so well)
On our first night alone in Avalon at Chrystie, we decided to step out and see what the neighbourhood had to offer. We realised just then just how much we had to get through, but thought PRUNE was a perfect place to start. One more bottle of Rioja please.....
I am having this exact feeling right now. And I am having it because I had no idea what a dump our last apartment was until we moved into our new one. Don't get me wrong- the interior of all these corporate housing places is all the same (Though this one missing the blue wall- thank God) but it's the (and I hate to use the phrase) " location, location, location" that has transformed NY from a young, new world Malbec into an old world Rioja for me. In English terms, I have just moved from Canary Wharf to Nottinghill, in South African terms I have just moved from Midrand to Parkhurst. Oh yes baby, I am a rocking and a rolling in the junction between east village/greenwhich village and Soho. It is a crucible of hip/retro/vintage/urban chic and I am bubbling away right in its epicentre.
Here are, in my opinion some of the most obvious benefits of our new abode:
1. Roof terrace above (private, open space is sheer luxury in NY)
2. Wholefoods below (no need to cook anymore)
3. Restaurants, cafes, bistros, delis in abundance around (reaffirms point 2)
4. Double glazed windows (to drown out the sound of traffic which otherwize abates only between 5 and 6am)
5. No corporate blue wall to match brown furniture (guarantees my sanity for at least another week)
6. Subway across the street (just in case I ever contemplate not going in a cab)
7. Laundry service (to ensure I NEVER get into the habit of washing Steve's clothes)
8. Gym ( To help work off that Rioja that I am starting to enjoy so much)
We celebrated our new home by showing off and asking an old friend of mine from South Africa to stay for the weekend. He was thoroughly impressed, particularly by the double glazed windows. It was satisfying to show him that I was moving up in the world, even if it was only because Steve must be doing something right at work. (for those of you who did not detect any irony in that last paragraph... you know me so well)
On our first night alone in Avalon at Chrystie, we decided to step out and see what the neighbourhood had to offer. We realised just then just how much we had to get through, but thought PRUNE was a perfect place to start. One more bottle of Rioja please.....
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
A favourite in the MET
My first experience of the MET was probably as daunting anyone's. It is a fairly colossal structure, hogging a whopping 13 acres of Central Park and just walking up the front steps can be tiring if not executed with care. The great hall is teeming with students, tourists and art aficionados alike and it takes some time to extricate oneself from the chaos in order to purchase a ticket.
It ain't cheap to get into this place either, $20 is the going rate for normal people (elderly, poor, students and homeless pay less than $10- hey I could be any of those!!!) What they don't tell you though is that $20 is the "recommended" fee, you could actually give as little as you wanted to, though I reckon you would have to endure a series of reproachful glares if you offered up anything under $5.
The fee entitles you to a cute little purple badge (which is easily attached to any item of clothing) which in turn entitles you access to explore the cavernous halls of the museum. (Please beware though that the cute little purple badge is not valid ever day thereafter- Museum security swooped down on me as I was casually/surreptitiously trying to enter the Greek and Roman Sculpture exhibit the following day)
A veteran MET goer wisely advised me to pick a single collection that I was interested in and to spend time in that collection alone instead of trying to see the whole museum in one trip. So after I saw The American wing, the European Paintings, The Lehman collection, Egyptian Art, Medieval Art, Modern and Contemporary Art, Arts of Africa, Oceania and the Americas, Musical Instruments and Ancient Near Eastern Art, I decided to settle on a slow and appreciate stroll through the area of Japanese Art.
This was, almost instantly, my favourite part of the museum. The entire collection is housed in a private enclave, tucked away from the freneticism of the rest of the museum. And as one enters this cocoon of silence, one gets the impression that this is an environment where some very serious art appreciation should be taking place.
The walls are lined with screens from 2 to 14 panels in length painted with scenes of life dating back over 500 years. The most impressive of all is Kano Takanobu's (1571- 1618) 12 panel folding screen in ink, gold and colour on gilded paper. It depicts a scene of The Emperor visiting some fisherman and the artist's attention to beauty is quite breathtaking. Takanobu's works are extremely rare and this is one of just a handful of his signed works, making it all the more exotic.
Another artist of interest is Shibata Zeshin (1807-1891). Zeshin studied under some of the greatest masters in Kyoto and as well as exhibiting his extraordinary talent in painting, he also went on to invent and perfect a technique called urushi-e, painting with lacquer. His increasing popularity prompted the Imperial Palace to comission much of the work he did and towards the end of his career he was made Japan's official representative to several international exhibitions, including Vienna 1894. Here, the West was exposed to his unique style of art and it is his work which has inspired much of the Japanese art traded in the West today.
After a lengthy ogling session, I came to the conclusion that I had found "my favourite" in the MET and that any longer there would blur my memories of these fine Japanese treasures with other works I had seen that day. I needed to evacuate quickly before I started reminiscing about Rembrandt's in Kimonos.....
http://www.metmuseum.org/press_room/index.asp
It ain't cheap to get into this place either, $20 is the going rate for normal people (elderly, poor, students and homeless pay less than $10- hey I could be any of those!!!) What they don't tell you though is that $20 is the "recommended" fee, you could actually give as little as you wanted to, though I reckon you would have to endure a series of reproachful glares if you offered up anything under $5.
The fee entitles you to a cute little purple badge (which is easily attached to any item of clothing) which in turn entitles you access to explore the cavernous halls of the museum. (Please beware though that the cute little purple badge is not valid ever day thereafter- Museum security swooped down on me as I was casually/surreptitiously trying to enter the Greek and Roman Sculpture exhibit the following day)
A veteran MET goer wisely advised me to pick a single collection that I was interested in and to spend time in that collection alone instead of trying to see the whole museum in one trip. So after I saw The American wing, the European Paintings, The Lehman collection, Egyptian Art, Medieval Art, Modern and Contemporary Art, Arts of Africa, Oceania and the Americas, Musical Instruments and Ancient Near Eastern Art, I decided to settle on a slow and appreciate stroll through the area of Japanese Art.
This was, almost instantly, my favourite part of the museum. The entire collection is housed in a private enclave, tucked away from the freneticism of the rest of the museum. And as one enters this cocoon of silence, one gets the impression that this is an environment where some very serious art appreciation should be taking place.
The walls are lined with screens from 2 to 14 panels in length painted with scenes of life dating back over 500 years. The most impressive of all is Kano Takanobu's (1571- 1618) 12 panel folding screen in ink, gold and colour on gilded paper. It depicts a scene of The Emperor visiting some fisherman and the artist's attention to beauty is quite breathtaking. Takanobu's works are extremely rare and this is one of just a handful of his signed works, making it all the more exotic.
Another artist of interest is Shibata Zeshin (1807-1891). Zeshin studied under some of the greatest masters in Kyoto and as well as exhibiting his extraordinary talent in painting, he also went on to invent and perfect a technique called urushi-e, painting with lacquer. His increasing popularity prompted the Imperial Palace to comission much of the work he did and towards the end of his career he was made Japan's official representative to several international exhibitions, including Vienna 1894. Here, the West was exposed to his unique style of art and it is his work which has inspired much of the Japanese art traded in the West today.
After a lengthy ogling session, I came to the conclusion that I had found "my favourite" in the MET and that any longer there would blur my memories of these fine Japanese treasures with other works I had seen that day. I needed to evacuate quickly before I started reminiscing about Rembrandt's in Kimonos.....
http://www.metmuseum.org/press_room/index.asp
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Millions of More-ish Morsels....
NY is THE city of food. The presence of it is as ubiquitous as the Yellow Cab. Its cuisine is truly global and the variations range from pepperoni pizza pie and pastrami bagels to delicate dimsum and dirty martinis. Food is to New Yaawkers as Mecca is to Islam. The thousands of shrines dedicated to food make New York the perfect city for food-crawling, though I suspect that to taste it in its entirety would be a life-time occupation. We have no life-time, we have only 8 weeks (actually now 6 and counting) but are most willing to have a good crack at tasting nonetheless. NY is perfect fort Steve and I, it' s a playground where we get to experience the only thing we have in common.... our love of FOOD!!!
The first thing we have learned about eating in NY is that it is nothing like eating in London. London is not the kind of city where you can just decide on a whim to pop out for dinner and not know where you are going. Eating out in London without careful research is a very dangerous sport. We have become quite anal about our dining out in the capital and before we go anywhere countless hours are spend mulling over and cross-referencing guides to good grub. London is unforgiving to the novice "mistake making"eater. If you are not careful you will get 6/10 food for 10/10 prices. In fact there is not a masive difference in price when it comes to quality- and it is easy to end up to paying a lot of money for bad food as it is for good food. NY is quite the opposite. Steve and I being total food-obsessives have bought a number of good food guides for the city.... and it seems that no matter what we choose we just cant get it wrong. I am not exaggerating when i say that I am eating the "The BEST OF" a lot of things I have eaten in my life ( can't be that hard when you live at McDonalds right?) Wherever we go, whatever we eat... we are pleasantly surprised and I seem to be gobbling up goodies at a rate unbecoming of a lady, or of a man for that matter.
What is also very exciting is the number of green markets dispersed all over the city. New York state is obviously a rich and fertile land and we are treated daily to fresh (and I must be boring and say organic) produce grown on neighbouring farms. It is quite a treat to wander down to the market in Union Square and let the plethora of sumptuous food guide my decisions on what to make for dinner. Being so spoilt for choice (and probably because I have nothing else to do) makes dinner preparations positively thrilling. PRAISE TO THE FOOD OF NEW YORK!!
Amazing places to shop and eat are:
Union Square Market (mid-town Manhattan) http://www.cenyc.org/greenmarket
and an indoor market with some outstanding bakeries and a fantastic fish shop:
http://www.chelseamarket.com/
our local wine spot: http://www.boweryandvine.com/
The first thing we have learned about eating in NY is that it is nothing like eating in London. London is not the kind of city where you can just decide on a whim to pop out for dinner and not know where you are going. Eating out in London without careful research is a very dangerous sport. We have become quite anal about our dining out in the capital and before we go anywhere countless hours are spend mulling over and cross-referencing guides to good grub. London is unforgiving to the novice "mistake making"eater. If you are not careful you will get 6/10 food for 10/10 prices. In fact there is not a masive difference in price when it comes to quality- and it is easy to end up to paying a lot of money for bad food as it is for good food. NY is quite the opposite. Steve and I being total food-obsessives have bought a number of good food guides for the city.... and it seems that no matter what we choose we just cant get it wrong. I am not exaggerating when i say that I am eating the "The BEST OF" a lot of things I have eaten in my life ( can't be that hard when you live at McDonalds right?) Wherever we go, whatever we eat... we are pleasantly surprised and I seem to be gobbling up goodies at a rate unbecoming of a lady, or of a man for that matter.
What is also very exciting is the number of green markets dispersed all over the city. New York state is obviously a rich and fertile land and we are treated daily to fresh (and I must be boring and say organic) produce grown on neighbouring farms. It is quite a treat to wander down to the market in Union Square and let the plethora of sumptuous food guide my decisions on what to make for dinner. Being so spoilt for choice (and probably because I have nothing else to do) makes dinner preparations positively thrilling. PRAISE TO THE FOOD OF NEW YORK!!
Amazing places to shop and eat are:
Union Square Market (mid-town Manhattan) http://www.cenyc.org/greenmarket
and an indoor market with some outstanding bakeries and a fantastic fish shop:
http://www.chelseamarket.com/
our local wine spot: http://www.boweryandvine.com/
Monday, September 28, 2009
A Tale of Woe
There have always been urban legends circulating about just how little Americans know about the rest of the world. I have heard stories of some South Africans telling American folk in the mid-west that we ride elephants to school and wear animal skins as clothes.
I guess when you live in the world's richest and most powerful nation who dominates everything from film (Hollywood) to finance (Wall Street) there is just no need to aknowledge life beyond the Atlantic. I have always been a little skeptical about just how ill-informed they were until I had this experience in a grocery store on Saturday morning.....
Characters: Kate Walters (playing herself)
Ricky Bobby (store attendant) with a real New Yaaker's drawl
Setting: Deli on 2nd Ave, Mid-town NYC, Saturday morning-roughly 10am.
Kate: Good morning, could you please show me where the jams are?
RB: Oh, the jelly. Yes ma'am that is right on aisle 1, over there.
Kate: Excellent, thank you.
RB: I hope you don't mind my asking, but is that is real English accent you have there ma'am? Cause I love the sound of a real British English accent
Kate: No actually, I am a South African, but I live in London.
RB: (slightly confused look on his face) A South African huh? So that's French right?
Kate: well, I imagine that someone in South Africa speaks french, but it's not the main language. There are a number of native languages and our European languages are English and a dialect of Dutch.
RB: (silence- processing this information) Oh right...... well that's strange cause I had a friend who came from Africa and he said it were french over there. So it's not french in the South of Africa???
Kate: (now thinking uh-oh) Well he might have come from West Africa, say the Congo, they speak French over there.
RB: Oh right (more silence, more thinking) I saw one of 'em films about africa, "Hotel Rwanda" was that Southern Africa?
Kate: (with some irony in my voice now) Oh no, that was probably Rwanda.
RB: So what's it like anyway? Living in Africa?
Kate: Well, it's tough. 3rd world country, very little social security ( I am guessing he will understand this term) very high rates of unemployment......
RB: Well, I betya it aint as tough as living here in New York City. They say that if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. (He starts humming Frank Sinatra's New New York and starts doing the can can) What's the name of that guy who sang this song, you know, New York New York?
Kate: Frank Sinatra. (moron!!)
RB: So what you doing in the big apple then?
Kate: Not much to be honest. My boyfriend has been transferred over here for a few months for work and I'm just hanging out with him.
RB: Oh cool. So is your boyfriend also English?
Kate: (wait a second- I just told you that I am south african!!!) No he is Australian.
RB: Wow- how far is it a plane from London to Australia.
Kate: Hmmmm... not too sure, like 23 hours or something.
RB: NO WAY!!! It must be tough trying to see your boyfriend
Kate: (OK- time to abort- this is clearly an exercise in futility) Yip, real tough! (BIG SMILE) Sorry where did you say that jam was?
RB: Jelly, aisle 1 on the right.
I guess when you live in the world's richest and most powerful nation who dominates everything from film (Hollywood) to finance (Wall Street) there is just no need to aknowledge life beyond the Atlantic. I have always been a little skeptical about just how ill-informed they were until I had this experience in a grocery store on Saturday morning.....
A Tale of Woe- by Kate Ashley Walters
a brief insght into the US-centricity of The American People
Characters: Kate Walters (playing herself)
Ricky Bobby (store attendant) with a real New Yaaker's drawl
Setting: Deli on 2nd Ave, Mid-town NYC, Saturday morning-roughly 10am.
Kate: Good morning, could you please show me where the jams are?
RB: Oh, the jelly. Yes ma'am that is right on aisle 1, over there.
Kate: Excellent, thank you.
RB: I hope you don't mind my asking, but is that is real English accent you have there ma'am? Cause I love the sound of a real British English accent
Kate: No actually, I am a South African, but I live in London.
RB: (slightly confused look on his face) A South African huh? So that's French right?
Kate: well, I imagine that someone in South Africa speaks french, but it's not the main language. There are a number of native languages and our European languages are English and a dialect of Dutch.
RB: (silence- processing this information) Oh right...... well that's strange cause I had a friend who came from Africa and he said it were french over there. So it's not french in the South of Africa???
Kate: (now thinking uh-oh) Well he might have come from West Africa, say the Congo, they speak French over there.
RB: Oh right (more silence, more thinking) I saw one of 'em films about africa, "Hotel Rwanda" was that Southern Africa?
Kate: (with some irony in my voice now) Oh no, that was probably Rwanda.
RB: So what's it like anyway? Living in Africa?
Kate: Well, it's tough. 3rd world country, very little social security ( I am guessing he will understand this term) very high rates of unemployment......
RB: Well, I betya it aint as tough as living here in New York City. They say that if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. (He starts humming Frank Sinatra's New New York and starts doing the can can) What's the name of that guy who sang this song, you know, New York New York?
Kate: Frank Sinatra. (moron!!)
RB: So what you doing in the big apple then?
Kate: Not much to be honest. My boyfriend has been transferred over here for a few months for work and I'm just hanging out with him.
RB: Oh cool. So is your boyfriend also English?
Kate: (wait a second- I just told you that I am south african!!!) No he is Australian.
RB: Wow- how far is it a plane from London to Australia.
Kate: Hmmmm... not too sure, like 23 hours or something.
RB: NO WAY!!! It must be tough trying to see your boyfriend
Kate: (OK- time to abort- this is clearly an exercise in futility) Yip, real tough! (BIG SMILE) Sorry where did you say that jam was?
RB: Jelly, aisle 1 on the right.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Legacy of Burritos
I have exercised more here in the last 5 days than I have in the past 3 months.
This is probably a good thing. I guess there is no better opportunity than this one to shed the legacy of Coronas, Burritos and Fajitas that has gathered around my waistline since our trip to Mexico. With all this time on my hands, if I don't shake 'em extra kg's, I will be a failure unto the Society of Kept Women.
I now understand why "the kept woman" is a reknowned slim creature.... She uses her ample free time exercising for hours in the gym or dabbling in little extra-marital affairs (both of which have been known to work up a sweat)
Gym, of course was my less preferred option, but seeing as it was only the (not-so-sultry) construction workers on the building site opposite our apartment that offered any hope of seduction, I have decided to beat the Burritos the honest way.
I did think also of posting pictures as part of my weight loss blog- but they couldn't shrink to fit and besides, I wasn't going to risk being reported to the Internet Police for obscene and unlawful imagery.
This is probably a good thing. I guess there is no better opportunity than this one to shed the legacy of Coronas, Burritos and Fajitas that has gathered around my waistline since our trip to Mexico. With all this time on my hands, if I don't shake 'em extra kg's, I will be a failure unto the Society of Kept Women.
I now understand why "the kept woman" is a reknowned slim creature.... She uses her ample free time exercising for hours in the gym or dabbling in little extra-marital affairs (both of which have been known to work up a sweat)
Gym, of course was my less preferred option, but seeing as it was only the (not-so-sultry) construction workers on the building site opposite our apartment that offered any hope of seduction, I have decided to beat the Burritos the honest way.
I did think also of posting pictures as part of my weight loss blog- but they couldn't shrink to fit and besides, I wasn't going to risk being reported to the Internet Police for obscene and unlawful imagery.
The Frick Collection
The Frick is an opulent mansion which houses one of the world's most extensive private art collections. It originally belonged to Henry Clay Frick who was one of the great American industrialists and art collectors. Frick was born in Pennsylvania, US in 1849 and by the age of 21 was well on his way to becoming one of America's richest men. With the help of his life-long friend and financier extraordinaire, Andrew Mellon http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_W._Mellon Frick established the Frick Coke Company which supplied and was in partnership with Carnegie Steel Company.
Carnegie Steel Company was founded by Andrew Carnegie, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_Carnegie a penniless Scot who arrived with a wave of immigrants to the US in the early 1800's. Carnegie's was the epitome of a "rags to riches" story and by the 1890's, Carnegie steel was the biggest and most profitable industrial enterprise in the world. His huge entrepreneurial success made Andrew Carnegie the second richest man in human history (after John D. Rockefeller) and many public buildings Pennsylvania and NY still carry his name.
Frick's partnership with Carnegie rendered him the title of "The World's 60th richest man of all time" and vast sums of Frick's fortune were spent on acquiring fine pieces of art.
Interestingly, just before Carnegie died, he sold his steel empire to renowned banker, J.P. Morgan and after J.P. Morgan's death, parts of his private art collection were bought by Henry Frick. These special paintings, were originally commissioned by Louis XV's mistress, Madame du Barry and Frick appreciated them so much that decided to build a special room to display them http://www.frick.org/virtual/fragonard.htm
In the early 1900's, Frick moved from Pennsylvania to NYC, bought an enormous piece of land (one whole block to be exact) between 70th St and 5th Ave and built an 18th Century- inspired mansion to house his formidable collection. Some of the Masters include Vermeer, Degas, Renoir, Van Dyk, Turner and Gainsborough.
The museum today resembles much of what the residence was like over 100 years ago. The furniture has been expertly preserved and many rooms have been left exactly as though they were still lived in. The sheer size and grandeur is dazzling, even by today's standards and it seems almost an impossible luxury that anyone could have had just that much space in New York City. One recurring theme which I certainly felt when standing in everyone of the richly decorated rooms, was that Frick must have been an extremely powerful and magnanimous man whose imposing spirit to this day, still presides throughout.
VERDICT: THE FRICK IS A MUST!! Check it out.... http://www.frick.org/,
Carnegie Steel Company was founded by Andrew Carnegie, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_Carnegie a penniless Scot who arrived with a wave of immigrants to the US in the early 1800's. Carnegie's was the epitome of a "rags to riches" story and by the 1890's, Carnegie steel was the biggest and most profitable industrial enterprise in the world. His huge entrepreneurial success made Andrew Carnegie the second richest man in human history (after John D. Rockefeller) and many public buildings Pennsylvania and NY still carry his name.
Frick's partnership with Carnegie rendered him the title of "The World's 60th richest man of all time" and vast sums of Frick's fortune were spent on acquiring fine pieces of art.
Interestingly, just before Carnegie died, he sold his steel empire to renowned banker, J.P. Morgan and after J.P. Morgan's death, parts of his private art collection were bought by Henry Frick. These special paintings, were originally commissioned by Louis XV's mistress, Madame du Barry and Frick appreciated them so much that decided to build a special room to display them http://www.frick.org/virtual/fragonard.htm
In the early 1900's, Frick moved from Pennsylvania to NYC, bought an enormous piece of land (one whole block to be exact) between 70th St and 5th Ave and built an 18th Century- inspired mansion to house his formidable collection. Some of the Masters include Vermeer, Degas, Renoir, Van Dyk, Turner and Gainsborough.
The museum today resembles much of what the residence was like over 100 years ago. The furniture has been expertly preserved and many rooms have been left exactly as though they were still lived in. The sheer size and grandeur is dazzling, even by today's standards and it seems almost an impossible luxury that anyone could have had just that much space in New York City. One recurring theme which I certainly felt when standing in everyone of the richly decorated rooms, was that Frick must have been an extremely powerful and magnanimous man whose imposing spirit to this day, still presides throughout.
VERDICT: THE FRICK IS A MUST!! Check it out.... http://www.frick.org/,
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
CHING CHONG CHA!
My first "official" excursion alone was right down the very guts of the city beast towards its derriere... or certainly what smelled like its derriere, China Town. Slowly but surely all semblance of Western culture disappears as Lafayette mutates into Centre Street. The air is buzzing with the bustle of business as vendors, restaurant owners and herbal doctors peddle their wares. This place is so authentic that I had to keep reminding myself that was actually in America. In fact, the only thing that alluded to my true location were the $USD being used in every transaction. My theory that China is taking over the world was fully confirmed when I noticed that half of Little Italy (which proudly displays the Italian paraphenalia on every street light) is nothing more than a row of Chinese shops.
After much wandering around, I noticed my precious little feet started to feel tired and achey, so I promptly treated myself to a foot massge whiched turned out to be every bit as rewarding as I had hoped, though sadly did not include a happy ending. See below
It was a happy ending for me though as I spent the rest of my afternoon at The Golden Bridge resaturant gobbling up the most delicious dimsum that I have ever tasted, all for $9. The pastry was light, the ingredients were superior and best of all- didn't taste anything like dog. YUMO!
It was a happy ending for me though as I spent the rest of my afternoon at The Golden Bridge resaturant gobbling up the most delicious dimsum that I have ever tasted, all for $9. The pastry was light, the ingredients were superior and best of all- didn't taste anything like dog. YUMO!
First weekend..
The American dream was soon shattered when I arrived on 240 East 27th Str (Mid-town NY for you first-timers) ascended 20 floors in an elevator and had my first taste of corporate housing. Bright blue wall, brown sofa, IKEA wood... that "safe" yet sort of mass produced, impersonal feel and I could only imagine that every other apartment this company owns is decorated in exactly the same way. So this is the happy little cage where I am going to be passing my days. Goody!
The cage abaondoned, we headed for the great outdoors and spent much of the weekend walking the streets of New York, soaking in every bit of the life around us and sampling some of the finest junk food America has to offer.
We were invited out on Saturday night for drinks and there was even promise of having some of our very own New Yorker friends (who are all actually Australians working here that grew up with Steve in Melbourne). By Sunday night, in a haze of jet-lag and hangover, I was convinced that I could spend an eternity in this city alone and never feel bored or lonely.
By 8am Monday morning, once Steve had vanished to 11 Madison Ave and I was left staring at the blue corporate wall, alone, my thoughts were of another nature altogether. I was being swept about in a wave of panic. What the hell was I thinking agreeing to come to NYC alone (in reality) for 7 weeks??? I needed a plan of action, a strategy, a modus operandi, if you will, to keep my mind stimulated enough ultimately, to PREVENT the decay of my cerebrum. And so, with this urgent matter at the forefront of my grey matter, I decided to make another cup of tea, get back into bed and worry about it the next day.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
How it all began....
Firstly, let me start this blog by saying that I have always secretly despised people who write blogs. Since its inception, the art of blogging has been an anomaly to me and I have always wondered what matter of arrogance or sheer stupidity possesses those who decide to publicly splurge the contents of their lives on the WORLD WIDE WEB. And now... oh dear... despite my prejudices and increasing sense of self-loathing, I am tackling the keyboard and prostituting my life to anyone with Internet access who can read.
The reason for my sudden pro-blog status is a 7 week trip to the Big Apple, sans employment and a subsequent surplus amount of time on my hands with nothing to do.
Now, you must know that I am not not well practiced in the art of being "a kept woman". Unfortunately, I currently cannot justify long hours in bed (without an impending sense of guilt), while my other half slaves to right the wrongs of the Credit Crunch and pay the bills. So, albeit that I am not officially working, my work here is of a different nature and aside from picking up dirty underwear off the floor and washing dishing, I will be working hard on seeing as much as NY has to offer!! And I will endeavour to share the fruits of my labour with you on this blog, right from the "Epicentre of the Free world"
"Free World" , my ass. For migrants like me travelling on a south african passport (a.k.a the Green Mamba), the USA is not an easy place to access. Getting a visa is a pretty terrifying process. there are very strict instructions on what to bring: passport, pictures, paperwork and even stricter instructions on what not to bring: mobile phones, magnetic devices, muslims. it is worth bringing a book to read (so long as it is not anti-Semitic in nature) as it is a long and arduous morning at Grosvenor House. Luckily, mine turned out to be a successful one and I was given 10 years ( sounds rather reminiscent of a jail sentence). Being given 10 years in the old GM was a particularly happy moment in my life as Steve and I, had no plan B had I been denied a visa and that would have entailed many weeks of moping and moaning.
When travelling on the mamba, one is quite used to "Customs and Immigration" being a rather demoralizing affair. Having a customs official stare at me as though I am a scum of the earth, amnesty seeking, blood sucking parasitic tick is all but new to me- however the amount of sheer disgust oozing from every pore of the US customs official who fingerprinted me, elevated 3rd- world- tourist- antagonism to a whole new level. One bad look and I was going straight to hell with Osama. After much interrogation (though luckily avoiding an anal probe) I was allowed through the Golden gates.
It was only 30 minutes later, once i was being driven over Brooklyn Bridge by the world's friendliest cab driver, staring at the skyline of the world's most famous city on a most perfect late summer's day, did I fully understand just why the Americanos are so protective of their homeland. At first glance NY was every bit as impressive as I had imagined. It all felt like something out of a movie set and I could feel myself getting well and truly sucked into the American Dream......
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