Master Class with Boris

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.

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

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......

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.

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"

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.

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.