lista de espera*

* Sometimes translations and the false friends of re-translation create something even better than the original. I know that espera and esperanza are not the same, but they sound similar to me, whose language is not Spanish. And so the wait list becomes a list of the hopeful or hopeless. (Though you can't tell it from this picture, there was actually someone hiding behind this counter.)

Where am I?

Recipe for happiness

Now follow this exactly, or it won't work:

(1) Wake up.
(2) Eat no solids -- liquids allowed -- coffee, tea, water, milk, whatever you need.
(3) Eat no lunch.
(4) Get in a taxi (water taxi for you Venetians) and direct it to the airport (with the words, "Driver, aiport please" if possible).
(5) When you're asked which airline you're flying, respond. "Oh, I don't know, xx sounds nice", where for "xx" you fill in some spot you really want to go to.
(6) Reach airport, get ticket, get through security.
(7) Shop -- I know the selection isn't great, but be more process oriented.
(8) Drink (note, it's pretty much on an empty stomach) -- two glasses of champagne or if good champagne isn't available (i.e., French) then go for a solid shot of your favourite spirit.
(9) Post blog entry about your feelings of elation while waiting for your flight.

BB

Missing (not only) my computer

As I sit down at my computer, I feel immediately at home in this sublet I've taken in New York. It's both surprising and rather obvious. Pictures, music, e-mails, even work -- they're all here.

And I realize why I 've felt stretched so thin lately. The first week away from the computer was great, but by week two, though I was checking e-mails, there was just the comfort of doing all of that in my home computing environment that I missed.

So good to be home at last, at least in computerland.

But still missing everything else...

xoxo

BB

YSL

I was sitting in Le café de Flore on Monday, sipping a chablis on a surprisingly warm, wet, and indecisive day, trying not to stare at a woman who looked remarkably like Kristin Scott Thomas and probably was (though I haven't given her much thought before she looked effortlessly elegant in a very YSLish safari suit). Next to me were two older women, old friends and regulars. The waiter greeted them warmly, evidently not having seen them for some time; I've moved to St. Tropez one of them informed him as they continued with their teatime snack.

Where else in Paris can tourists and natives blend so easily, one ignoring but charming, the other oblivious? Perhaps assuming I could not follow their conversation the old friends chatted on and on, grabbing things from my table as though I weren't there, overflowing with cups and plates from their table to the bench. I wasn't bothered, and did my best to maintain the disinterested but observant expression that the natives seem to adopt.

I was in a reverie, enjoying half understanding the conversations around me (so much better than catching all or nothing), when a newspaper seller burst in announcing the special edition for the passing of Yves St. Laurent. It was a moment, a passing, but perhaps then approrpriately received in this city where such events merit special editions and a collective introspection (the end of an era - what was that era? what is this era?)

It was an era in which it was French fashion, French food, French passion that inspired the world. Perhaps that era was itself a coda, the long and tumultuous end after the end of another truly great era. Perhaps. But she is still elegant, beautiful in this periphery of vision.

BB

Jealosy?

Jealousy is defined as defined as being afraid that someone else will take away what you already have. That's not it. Envy? That's defined as wanting what someone else has. Getting warmer. Envy seems to me to suggest wanting the very thing someone else has: I want it rather than you, kind of thing. No, that's not it, but what about my wanting it as well? That wish I was there too kind of feeling. That's it. Have a great time darlings!

xoxo

BB

Fill 'er up

I like the British term for one of these, filling station. It leaves open what exactly you will be filling up on, rather than gas station which leaves nothing to the imagination. It seems natural to me: you take a train, then walk along the coast, till you reach the filling station. Walk to the gas station? Why not? I would like to imagine what flows from the pumps of this station designed by Arne Jacobsen in 1937, imagine that it is not gasoline, but inspiration, inspiration for living with functionality, elegance, and style.

Why not walk to the gas station when you can breathe the clean sea air along the way and watch the wind turbines spinning lazily in the distance?


Why not even take a dip in the ocean?


You may live longer and have better circulation, but you will certainly be more alive.

BB

(~)

!

Covering the clichés

Landed.

Through the airport in minutes, like clockwork.

Bought chocolates.

Took the train from the airport to where I was heading.

Train left exactly on time and arrived exactly on time.

Had my first appointment, with a colleague, opposite the train station. I had promised to be there at 9 pm and was there exactly on time. She didn't notice, took it for granted.

Breakfast: ate some (a lot) of cheese.

Some guilt at the large breakfast. Saw some steps leading up the side of the hill:

Climbed them (because they were there, naturally). Not a spectacular view, but did enjoy the clean air on top.



(And my calves still pinch when I walk after going down these stairs...)


Spend the day flugelbinding. Caught the train to my next destination.



Goodbye Switzerland.

BB

P.S. I do love the Swiss railway clocks, which is what this is though it's hard to see...

In Lindsay-Lohanesque Rehab or Jack Bauer Rescue Me or Have You Ever Eaten a Hazelnut?

Do you know how every celeb worth their salt has done a stint in rehab? A spokesman announces that he or she has retreated to a rehab center in the Arizona dessert to deal with his or her issues. Well, here I am in Cyprus, doing just that. Well granted that LL is both truly talented and truly messed up, and I am neither. (Don't give me a hard time on this -- have you seen -- truly seen -- Freaky Friday?) And also let me grant that this is a hotel and not a rehab center. And also let it be said that I'm not any kind of addict because I don't want my parents to start thinking that about me...

Well, Mom, Dad, I am an Internet addict. I picked this hotel because it had (was supposed to have) wifi. When I arrived last night I found out it did not. I threw a fit. A bottled fit. This morning I did my best impression of a very busy, very important person who just has to work (I'm "working" now), and they upgraded me to a suite with a hardline. It is offseason after all. Other than me, one romanticish couple, and one couple with a baby, there is no one else here. In this hotel. In this town. On this island. (Other than the natives, who seem to hide.)

When facing the bleak prospect of an Internets free weekend, I took some consolation that I had remembered to pack the remaining 3 DVDs of 24 Season 3 that I have not yet seen.* So I figured worst case, it would be a veg out weekend. Fortunately, things have turned for the better. I trundled down the road to some very beautiful mosaics. On the way back stopped in at the market and bought two bottles screw-top wine and two bottles of water (notice how mature I am - wine and water in equal proportions, even at lunch).

After a burst of sun, it is cloudy, but (I live in London and laugh in the face of clouds and) am looking at the sea. I think I'll actually do some work now (for 15 or 20 minutes).

Then I'll lie in my bed, and wait for Jack to rescue me.

Cheers,

BB

P.S. Have you ever eaten a hazelnut? I feel a little bit silly, like one of those people who doesn't understand that tomato sauce comes from tomatoes rather than a tube, but today for the first time I ate a hazelnut. Now I have had hazelnut ice cream (fave), hazelnut chocolate, and even (hate to confess this) hazelnut coffee (in my defense, it was the late 80s, and back then we thought these things were sophisticated). But never had I had a hazelnut until this morning. And you know, it tastes like a hazelnut!

* I see you shaking your head, saying to yourself, "Poor BB..." Then this vision bifurcates. In one, version you say, "Nutters, truly off the rails". In the other, you say, "Used to have better taste." Then to both I reply meekly that I also brought Hana-Bi and Wild Strawberries. In the first, you reinterate, "Nutters, truly nutters." In the second, you just shake your head sadly as though watching someone spread a layer of caviar on wonderbread.

Your corny inspirational phrase here

Insert your corny inspirational phrase here:



No bird flies higher than on his own wings...

You'll never fly as high as on your own wings...

Trust yourself and you'll soar...

Solitude is the biggest high...

Join in! It's really easy / not as hard as it seems actually quite difficult.

Cheers,

BB

Puting the B back in BB

No , not what you might first have thought, I'm not off at some beauty treatment, indeed perhaps quite the opposite. Instead it's the first-b that needs a little bit of revitalizing -- I'm in Bombay!

I'll return in a few weeks a few pounds heavier but otherwise happier in every way.

More soon.

BB

Where am I?

This isn't a skill testing question for you, nor for that matter a prelude to dropping hints about the fabulous places I've been or am going. You know I am not that subtle. It's a question to myself. I know which city I am in (Boston), and will be (New York, then London). But am referring to those moments where the mind loses its natural references points, like a kind of temporal-spatial dizziness. I need to call a friend, and can't remember whether 6 am here is midnight or noon there, when I realize that 6 am here is also 6 am there. I am sitting in the cinema, and while the images flicker on the screen I suddenly am uncertain where I am. This kind of transport of rapture is of course what art is supposed to achieve, though I'm not sure the 5th Harry Potter film qualifies as art (don't give me a hard time on this one please - HP is children's food, and we all need that from time to time). What I mean is more like this. Even when you're indoors, don't you have a mental map of what the street outside will look like and how it connects to everything else? When you see an image of the screen (which happened to be London in HP 5), don't you say to yourself here (if it's the same town where you happen to be -- happens often in NY or London) or there (if it happens to be some other place you know well) or exotic (places you don't know at all). What happens when this mechanism breaks down? You float: the familiar looks exotic, the exotic vaguely familiar and calming.

Where am I?

BB

Prrrrrrr?

Is this a cat's life? Eating a succession of fine meals accompanied by a veritable bowl of wine and then time in the afternoon to rest and think of meals past and meals future? Is this what it means to purr contentedly? I am of course referring to my most recent trip to Italy, and if all of the above includes worrying about adding too much fat in the wrong places then I think it is.

I don't want to alarm our Italian friends (hello friends) into thinking that I am like a starving refugee washed up on their shores (though it often seems like this). I do sleep in a warm bed, and I had seen hot and cold running water before being in Italy. What I had not seen (since my last time in Italy - admittedly it was only June, but it seems like the dim past) was a succession of fine meals ranging from a low of 13 Euros (a deliciously thin pizza and a carafe of red wine) to the bank-breaking extravagance of 40 Euros for a no-holes-barred, 4-course meal at a fancy spot. At my neighborhood spot in London I would pay 20-25 pounds for one of those meals where you carefully tiptoe across the menu like a minefield in order to convince your friends that you aren't either very stingy, poor, or suffering from an eating disorder (I'll have a side of field greens please and an ice water).

Yes, there was more than food on this trip. There was art, typically the older masterish variety.


There were mediaeval towns. There was driving and road trip music (more on the latter some other time). There was a wedding.

But as my stomach grumbles at getting back to dry toast and Danon Activia, my mind seems to wander back to a plate of truffle scented pasta and a half litre of Montefalco Rosso.

(Note the wall that is used to keep out starving foreign tourists.)

Prrrrrrr ... grrrrrr...

BB

Prices in London

Coming back to London did however make me experience renewed sticker shock. I did this post a while back but never published it. I reproduce it here in its period charm.

* * *

Every newcomer to a city has his or her usual complaints. In London, I believe they are, in this order: the weather, prices, and the underground. More on the weather and the underground some other time.

This is the first in a perhaps to-be-continued series called "London Shopping Basket". My goal is not to complain about how expensive things are, though perhaps this is true. Nor is it to comment on how much better the quality is in London than New York or London of years past, though perhaps this is true. These two tasks I leave to you.

Shopping list 29 May 2007
>Brown lentils (canned, gluten free, vegetarian, no gmo, etc.,), 400 grams, £ 0.95
>Macedoine de legumes (a jar of assorted vegetables from France), 720 mL, £3.50
>Breadsticks (pinazatelli grissini torinesi tipo "0"), 300g, £2.20
>Semi-skimmed milk (unhomogenized, organic, from Somerset), 1L, £1.60

>Emmental cheese, 375 grams, £3.48
>French table wine (Gerard Betrannd, Vin de pays d'oc, Merlot, 2003), 750 mL, £ 6.95

Total (including VAT), £18.68

Cheers,

BB

Back in the saddle

Back in the saddle of the cowperson lifestyle that is life at the aglet factory. Whilst I was away, no breakthroughs, still the same little transparent caps at the end of your shoelaces.

After a weekend of glorious London summer weather (resembles glorious autumn weather in New York - warm and dry), I awoke to the usual London sky frowning down on me. Had I missed that moody visage? Yes.

Welcome back the city says to me, and I say to myself.

Cheers,

BB

Flugelbinder World Tour

8 days, 7 different city stints, 5 unique cities, 3 countries, 3 airlines, 2 continents, 2 pairs of shoes (not enough), one bag (not nearly enough), one trusty Mac Book Pro (plenty), and 1 auto-correcting lights-out anti-jet lag constitution (not for sale).

It's a flugelbinder's life as they say.

But back home soon (oops, seem to have misplaced it).

Cheers,

BB

Invisible

I supposed to be there, but instead I'm here. Except I'm not really here. So if you see me here, then you didn't. If you thought you spotted me there, then perhaps you did, or at least that's my story. Clear?

BB

Flugelbinder's holiday

As you might have gathered I'm still in New York. I'm here on a bit of a flugelbinder's holiday. For those of you not familiar with this term, it substantially resembles a busman's holiday. When we travel, we take our work with us: always in our minds and sometimes in our tool bags. A little bit like a child with a toy in his or her pocket, it brings order. But one's passion can also be a burden.

Cheers,

BB