I think I haven't blogged much lately: (a)I got lazy and was able to condense my thoughts into Facebook soundbytes and (b)I like blogs that are accompanied by photographs and I haven't transferred any to my computer lately because of sheer laziness...okay so both points are really the same, but like, yeah, whatever!
But I have aspirations to be a writer and isn't the purpose of being one to be able to communicate without illustrations and pretty pictures. For heaven's sake, I want to be a 'big-people's' writer as I used to refer to books without pictures when I was a kid. And if there is one thing big-people's writers don't need it's pictures. Yes, I am of the time when graphic novels were known by another name...comic books! Zing! And, if you're a graphic novel afficianado....yes, yes I know they're artistic visions or whatever. They're still comic books to me.
So today I lost my clothes drier and some other stuff. Well, not lost, but strangers came to my house, paid me a pittance and took away my things. Yes, I know I advertized for them to do so but it feels wrong.
This move feels a bit of a bereavement or a divorce or something. The washer sits forlornly disconnected from its water and electricity supply, wires dangling amputated, missing its constant companion. Soon the washer too will go to someone else's house and wash their clothes. Ewww!
Okay, it's not like I'm a freak (ok I am but not *that* kind of freak) attached to inanimate, electronic devices that beep and flash lights. It's that these things are my straws and twigs. You know the kind that birds gather to build their nests. As they say in Hindi, tinka, tinka lekar ghar banaya, and now it is being scattered. You've seen those birds search for the exact right length of twig, how they test the springiness or rigidity of a twig, discarding most, selecting a few, padding it with softness to make a home. And so did I. And so did we all, in our own ways, with our own likes and dislikes and styles.
Sure, most important are the living beings in my house and soon we will have another house and this one will become just a memory, but it is elemental, this hurt of seeing my bits of straw and twigs blowing away. It's not easy, this dismantling of a home. No one said it was easy but I don't remember it being quite this hard either.
....so this was my first moving post and I did it without any pictures.
Showing posts with label Switzerland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Switzerland. Show all posts
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Meanwhile...back in Puplinge
Forgive me O Blogosphere (otherwise known as my five readers), it has been more than four months since my last post. And a lot has happened. A lot.
Well, okay one major thing has happened. Remember those saat samundar paar (across the seven seas) stories from your childhood? Those epic journeys that carried dashing heroes and intrepid heroines far from home towards adventure and love and whatever else!
I've had two of those journeys across the seven seas: Number 1 as really a young'un to the shores...errr..the blue grasses of Kentucky from the Ganga kinarey of Allahabad.
Number two, more than 20 years later from the snootiness of Boston to the chocolate box prettiness and genuinely wealthy environs of Switzerland. And we settled in the little village of Puplinge which had once been part of Savoy territory and joined the Confederation Helvetique (CH - the real name of Switzerland dont'cha know) and is now barely a hop and skip away (if you can do that for one km) from neighboring France, the little town of Ambilly.
Life in this border village of ours has been one of serenity, beauty, friendship. We have vineyards and fields and on clear days impressive views of the Alps and of Mont Blanc. I had friends I met for coffee and wine in the evening and cards at night. We met them at one of our two local restaurants across the road from each other, a 2-5 minute walk from anywhere in the village. We could walk back inebriated after delicious and fun dinners from their homes and they could do the same from ours.
You know how this is going to end, don't you? All the old cliches come to mind: all good things must come to an end, etc. etc. The younger me might have railed against letting go of this idyllic life. The older (though not always wiser) me knows that life is ephemeral and happiness is a dew drop. I enjoyed my Swiss contentment but now it is time to move on.
To a place I never cared for when I lived there: Boston. But I plan to go back with a better attitude, to find the things, the people, the aura that makes Boston unique and loveable and to live in that. If and when we move on from there so be it. Until then I will enjoy New England's fall colors, tuck into lobster feasts and love its accents.
Perhaps I am sanguine because I am moving to that most literary of Massachussett towns: Concord. Yes, home to Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Louisa May Alcott among others. Find your three-name authors in Concord. Come November, there will be another three-name (aspiring one) calling Concord home. Moi!
Watch this space for updates...and a recording of my Concord life when I get there. C'est la vie!
Monday, November 23, 2009
Guitwilight
Ok, so I am not part of the screaming women screaming for Twilight and Robert Pattinson. And *gasp* I haven't read the Twilight saga. But it's impossible to steer clear of the frenzy, and a couple of nights ago I even watched the first movie when it showed up on a Sky movie channel. If I was a teenager I'd swoon too. Young Robert is rather yummy but alarmingly pale.
But let's face it, vampires are not new. I used to love Dracula movies, and of, course there's something incredibly sensual and even sexual about being loved by the undead I suppose. And yes, I even read and watched Interview with a Vampire though I was squidged out by then 8-year old Kirsten Dunst locking lips with a grown-up Brad Pitt.
Vampires are old hat, whether they be pale teenagers with James Dean hair or a cloaked Count yearning for his Mina. So...what can you do to put a twist on an old favorite? Fear not, I have found the answer where all answers are to be found...the Internet of course.
This is to my pals (you know who you are) who are Twilight addicts. You know you're the best, so enjoy this new take on an age-old fave.
But let's face it, vampires are not new. I used to love Dracula movies, and of, course there's something incredibly sensual and even sexual about being loved by the undead I suppose. And yes, I even read and watched Interview with a Vampire though I was squidged out by then 8-year old Kirsten Dunst locking lips with a grown-up Brad Pitt.
Vampires are old hat, whether they be pale teenagers with James Dean hair or a cloaked Count yearning for his Mina. So...what can you do to put a twist on an old favorite? Fear not, I have found the answer where all answers are to be found...the Internet of course.
This is to my pals (you know who you are) who are Twilight addicts. You know you're the best, so enjoy this new take on an age-old fave.
| Guinew Moon from Electric Spoofaloo on Take180.com |
Monday, October 26, 2009
Of Winds and Poets and Me
I have a confession. I wasn't always in love with Lord Byron. There was a time, brief though it was, when another poet ruled my heart and still comes a close second to Byron. Initially, there was something repulsive about Byron, what with his debauchery, his lusty affairs...the incest. All the things that would later make him fascinating were a bit much for a child. Okay, maybe I was still fascinating but in an icky way. I needed to be a little older (13? 14?) to swoon for Byron's dark moodiness.
But my first dead poetic crush was someone close to Byron, their lives intertwined. Yes, Shelley. I know, I know. He was a bit icky (open marriage anyone?) too but he did have that delicious renegade quality, the romance of the exile, the tangled life...and all by the time he was 26 when he drowned. Most tragic!
A few weeks ago the Bise was whipping around Geneva, pushing me from the back as I walked, tangling my hair into a bird's nest around me. And it started me thinking of all things wind-related.
How the wind becomes part of our literary selves? How we ascribe certain attributes to the winds we experience.
In my childhood in India, there was the loo (no...not a toilet). The loo is a hot, dry wind that blows during the height of summer in the Indo-Gangetic Plains. Rather than doubling my efforts, here is how I describe the loo in my novel The Burden of Foreknowledge (2007).
"When the loo blows, it brings with it the heat of the desert and its gritty sand, driving people indoors for refuge. I go out to feed our cows and it slithers up my nostrils until I choke. I gasp for breath trying to suck in the thin, super-heated air. It is as if a fiery serpent is trying to make its home inside me.
Just as I think I cannot bear it any more, I stumble back inside. The wind haunts us for days, whistling and whining like an angry, vengeful ghost. If I venture outside I wind a wet cloth around my head...."
But it was also the loo that made watermelons and melons ripen to perfect sweetness, as the dryness sucked out the excess water and concentrated the sugars. It makes Indian mangoes into the almost mythical fruit that they are.
In Switzerland, I encoutered the Bise, French for "a light kiss." Let me tell you, there is nothing light about it. It should be French for a "kick in the ass." It is fierce, is generally dry and attacks us from northern climes. The only upside is that it is accompanies blue, clear skies. It creates beautiful days but, as the loo can kill a human being through almost instant dehydration (within hours, even minutes), the Bise acts on the nervous system. How I don't know. It sounds pleasant but I need to research it some more.
Victor Hugo wrote a poem, Le Bise about it.
"Le bise le bruit d'un geant qui soupire;
La fenetre palpite et la port respire;
Le vent d'hiver glapit sous les tuile des toits;
Le feu fait a mon atre une pale dorure;
Le trou de ma serrure
Me souffle sur les doigts."
(Bad translation but here goes:
The Bise is a brutish giant who sighs
The window flutters and the harbor breathes
The winter wind yelps under the roof tiles
The fire has been guilding my atre (??) blade.
Through the hole of the lock
I feel the wind's breath on my fingers)
That's me 'enjoying' a windy evening by the lake. Freezing! Note the hair whipping around, the scrunched eyes, and the frantic waves on our usually calm lake.
We are also lucky(?) in Switzerland to sometimes be treated to the Mistral, arguably the wind with the most beautiful name. Isn't it a lovely name for a girl? The Mistral too is strong, cold and usually dry and passes through the Rhone valleys. It can cause Mediterranean storms. In the Provencal Christmas crib there is usually always a shepherd who holds his hat, his cloak billowing around him because of the Mistral. Sadly, but appropriately, a French missile has been named Mistral.
Interesting isn't it, that we are rarely moved by gentle breezes. Winds are elemental. They create weather systems and born because of them. They have well-worn paths and we can trace the seasons through the winds that are part of our lives.
And, why was it, when I lived in the land of the hot loo, when we looked forward to winter for relief from summer, that the one poem I loved was about a wind. Yes, for it was his lovely Ode to the West Wing that made me fall in love with Shelley. It's a little bit dark, even macabre, it's fanciful, it talks about the power of the wind, its twin roles as destroyer and preserver, and touches on the circle of seasons and that of life. It leaves the reader with hope. Here it is:
Ode to the West Wind by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1803-1882)
I
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: 0 thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave,until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear!
II
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like Earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!
III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened Earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Guilt Money
In front of the WTO building.
He was waiting on the median, waiting for the cars to stop.
The Porsches, the Mercedes', a Bentley, a Rolls, and others.
Leaning heavily on his cane, his eyes fixed downwards he limped from car to car.
Some windows never came down, others waved him away.
A quick hand emerged from some, dropped a coin or two in his cupped palm.
Guilt money is what I gave him.
A few francs into his hand.
Merci, he said..
His eyes skittered away from mine.
And I saw the barely formed peach fuzz on his chin, by his side-burns.
I've seen beggars all my life and, yes, sometimes they all tend to blend in.
But sometimes, one of them unwittingly reaches out and breaks through the curtain that separates us in this land of plenty, of more than plenty.
Does the money go on drink? Drugs? To a crime boss?
Or does it buy something to eat? A brief respite from the hardness of the tarmac underfoot? Some softness in a life where other options have been discarded?
We can never know this.
Do guilt money givers deserve to know this?
Do I need to know what my guilt money buys for the temporarily visible?
In the side-view mirror I watch his body twist and sway as he makes his slow way down the line of cars behind me.
And I think again of the smooth peach-fuzz. He was somebody's baby once, not so long ago?
Held. Loved. Fed.
What happened?
He was waiting on the median, waiting for the cars to stop.
The Porsches, the Mercedes', a Bentley, a Rolls, and others.
Leaning heavily on his cane, his eyes fixed downwards he limped from car to car.
Some windows never came down, others waved him away.
A quick hand emerged from some, dropped a coin or two in his cupped palm.
Guilt money is what I gave him.
A few francs into his hand.
Merci, he said..
His eyes skittered away from mine.
And I saw the barely formed peach fuzz on his chin, by his side-burns.
I've seen beggars all my life and, yes, sometimes they all tend to blend in.
But sometimes, one of them unwittingly reaches out and breaks through the curtain that separates us in this land of plenty, of more than plenty.
Does the money go on drink? Drugs? To a crime boss?
Or does it buy something to eat? A brief respite from the hardness of the tarmac underfoot? Some softness in a life where other options have been discarded?
We can never know this.
Do guilt money givers deserve to know this?
Do I need to know what my guilt money buys for the temporarily visible?
In the side-view mirror I watch his body twist and sway as he makes his slow way down the line of cars behind me.
And I think again of the smooth peach-fuzz. He was somebody's baby once, not so long ago?
Held. Loved. Fed.
What happened?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Picking Flowers in Geneva
Just a couple of miles from my house is a field of flowers. I drive past at least a few times a week. What does that sign say?
Perhaps I need to take a closer look? Ah yes, it says, one franc per flower. Note the handy little box (attached to the pole) into which I'll need to leave the cash.
I think I'll get some. Where to begin?
There, we have them. Hmmm...time to do the math and count the blooms. Aaah! Nothing like fresh flowers.
Perhaps I need to take a closer look? Ah yes, it says, one franc per flower. Note the handy little box (attached to the pole) into which I'll need to leave the cash.
I think I'll get some. Where to begin?
There, we have them. Hmmm...time to do the math and count the blooms. Aaah! Nothing like fresh flowers.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Still Life on the Street
Okay, so it was technically not a still life. It was more of a mural really but let's not get caught up in the details. As you might (or might not have) noticed I took a blogging vacation, or a vacation from blogging, and now I'm back, sort of, kind of. Still in a funk but I think I'm emerging. And so there I was on Rue du Rhone, near Confederation and there he sat as the world went around him and by him. Unperturbed and focused, still within the hubbub.
The artist, sitting on the sidewalk, transforming it. On a hot day when the asphalt was burning to the touch, shimmering in the sun, he sat in a verdant meadow full of wildflowers and placid cows and weird woodland creatures. Spectators stood on the sides of the taped off sidewalk-canvas. A tram went by, then two. Shoppers passed him by, shoppers from everywhere. Loose-jawed American accents mingled with languages others didn't understand. Arabic, Tamil, Hindi, French, Italian, and German simmered together under the sun.
And the artist never looked up, even when someone dropped coins, plink by plink, into his metal bowl. Not even when the soft rustle of paper bills joined the coins. He painstakingly painted a white flower, then added some more blades of grass, added a spray of pink flowers to a tree.
The world goes on as it does. The one who creates...does.
The artist, sitting on the sidewalk, transforming it. On a hot day when the asphalt was burning to the touch, shimmering in the sun, he sat in a verdant meadow full of wildflowers and placid cows and weird woodland creatures. Spectators stood on the sides of the taped off sidewalk-canvas. A tram went by, then two. Shoppers passed him by, shoppers from everywhere. Loose-jawed American accents mingled with languages others didn't understand. Arabic, Tamil, Hindi, French, Italian, and German simmered together under the sun.
And the artist never looked up, even when someone dropped coins, plink by plink, into his metal bowl. Not even when the soft rustle of paper bills joined the coins. He painstakingly painted a white flower, then added some more blades of grass, added a spray of pink flowers to a tree.
The world goes on as it does. The one who creates...does.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Spring Fever, Spring Cleaning, Spring Madness
Was it subconscious, that sudden desire to turn my blog green, change the header and shake it all about? I didn't plan to do it. I just looked at my blog and decided I need to change it...just a bit.
I am not as brave as my friend and writer Bina Shah (her new novel just came out in Italy! Bravo!) who deletes or lets go of old blogs to start new ones more often than I would dare.
Myself, I like that sense of continuity, of history, of seeing the evolution from the first post to whichever one this is. But I don't like stagnation, hence the new green blog.
I realized that the night I did this was also the night we jumped time here in Switzerland (a few weeks behind the U.S.). Is this somehow hard-wired into us, this spring frenzy of newness.
It's not just all bunnies and flowers and the new brightness of the light after all. Is it something more elemental that made me wander around my basement and toss out so much tossable stuff that had just lingered for months? Old suitcases with ground-down, wobbly wheels. Bags whose zippers stick or just plain don't work. A *well-made* (yeah right) Swiss fan that fell apart in three, cheap, white plastic pieces, and an aluminium fan head. An old Ikea stool that had seen better days...oh, like three years ago. A patio swing which had lost one essential piece in the move over from Boston (yes, two years ago, people).Odds and ends. Bits and pieces. Trash.
The day before that I raided my closet and packed up clothes I had not worn in years. Those one-day-I-will-fit-into-this clothes are gone. Most Swiss towns and even villages have a convenient old clothes and shoes drop-off point, and yesterday they received from me: one 110L garbage bag full of clothes, one 60L bag of shoes, one smaller E. Leclerc bag of clothes. They're all still good and wearable and I hope someone can enjoy them.
Was it also a coincidence that today, a Monday, just a couple of hours ago, the first day after all this cleaning out...I started the first chapter of my new novel? I wrote two pages. Wow!
I find this stage exhilirating and terrifying. Starting something new, and that too at the start of Spring, the prospect of new adventures in writing, new explorations, discovering what thoughts and feelings I have within myself, and watching them arrive fully-formed on to paper (okay, on a computer screen, but why quibble, paper is tres romantique, non?).
And frightening because I never know if I am going to complete this novel that I am so pumped up about now. Fear because, like most writers, I often arrive at that meandering quagmire where I realize I have written myself into a swamp of crap, and can't find a way out. Then I just want to hit Delete and get rid of the trash I've written. Fear because what if it isn't any good. What if I am not any good? Do I delude myself with this writing thing. Aaahhh, such self-indulgent writerly angst.
Boo hoo!
Spring is not just renewal and re-birth is it? Like any creation, there is inherent violence in the way a little bud bursts into flower, there is explosiveness in newness, in spring storms, in the way new growth fights its way back after a winter of hibernation. That is what makes it new perhaps.
And so, here it is, farewell to the dark days of winter. And welcome, Spring. Don't come in like a lamb. Roar! For it is in those instants of heightened senses that truth emerges and only then that my writing rings clear.
Blah! Blah! Blah! See what Spring does to me? It's Spring Madness! Muaah haaa haaa!
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Two cities, four phones, and a thief
Now anyone who knows me knows I am no fan of Boston. Okay, maybe as a tourist but our three years there we complained. A lot. And we love Geneva. Okay, maybe not as much as our beloved California (that's a story for another post). But something happened yesterday that positively made me yearn for Boston. Weird, huh?
First the backstory: In Boston a certain someone in our family lost his phone. Twice. Once in the not so great neighborhood of Hyde Park and once near the Brookline Theater, more upscale area but still in Boston, a large city, with a sporadically rough reputation and a not unimpressive crime rate. Each time the person who found the phone scrolled through, found the number marked Home, called us and told us they had our phone. Then they stayed with the phone until we went over and picked it up.
Then there is Geneva. When we first moved here, my niece had her phone swiped. A nice new Razr. It disappeared from some kebab restaurant. That's all we know. No one called. No one let us know.
Yesterday I had lunch with a friend at the Brasserie Lipp. Nice place, right? I went to the restroom. My phone rang and I just took it out of my bag to stop it ringing and yes, I admit it, I put it on the little sanitary receptacle box in the stall. Came out, washed my hands (yes, I actually did :-), walked out the door. There were other women waiting to use the two stalls. All upscale Geneva types with VL bags, Hermes scarves and hoity toity expressions.
I walked out the door and within five feet of it, fumbled for my phone, remembered where I had last seen in, ran back to the bathroom stall. No. Ah, okay, someone must have turned it in. Talked to the staff. Left my home phone number and name in case someone turned it in. No one had turned it in. I came home and called back an hour or two later. Ample time for someone to have turned it in. Nope.
So this is what I learned. Apparently, for certain people in our fair city, it doesn't matter if you're drenched in expensive designer clothes, at heart some people are just thieves. And this is for that one thief in particular. Shame on you!
Really, if I walked in found a phone what would I do? Turn it in. There is no question. Which person walks in and goes, cool, Lipp is now rewarding its customers by giving us all Samsung flip phones in the restrooms? Shame. On. You.
Now beneath my cynical exterior does dwell an optimist of sorts. I can't believe someone would steal. Period! So I am going to call the restaurant again and see if someone turned it in but I fear that is just my naivete talking.
One more thing, thief (who I know will never read this blog), the phone you switched off as soon as you swiped it (and perhaps even saw me frantically return to the restaurant and search for my phone. what were you eating, btw?)...well, once you switch it off and then switch it back on, you need a PIN. That's right. You get three chances to get it right before the phone locks up. Have fun!
Loser!
So anyone who needs to contact me or has been trying to call. Please call me at home or email. I don't have a cell phone for the moment.
First the backstory: In Boston a certain someone in our family lost his phone. Twice. Once in the not so great neighborhood of Hyde Park and once near the Brookline Theater, more upscale area but still in Boston, a large city, with a sporadically rough reputation and a not unimpressive crime rate. Each time the person who found the phone scrolled through, found the number marked Home, called us and told us they had our phone. Then they stayed with the phone until we went over and picked it up.
Then there is Geneva. When we first moved here, my niece had her phone swiped. A nice new Razr. It disappeared from some kebab restaurant. That's all we know. No one called. No one let us know.
Yesterday I had lunch with a friend at the Brasserie Lipp. Nice place, right? I went to the restroom. My phone rang and I just took it out of my bag to stop it ringing and yes, I admit it, I put it on the little sanitary receptacle box in the stall. Came out, washed my hands (yes, I actually did :-), walked out the door. There were other women waiting to use the two stalls. All upscale Geneva types with VL bags, Hermes scarves and hoity toity expressions.
I walked out the door and within five feet of it, fumbled for my phone, remembered where I had last seen in, ran back to the bathroom stall. No. Ah, okay, someone must have turned it in. Talked to the staff. Left my home phone number and name in case someone turned it in. No one had turned it in. I came home and called back an hour or two later. Ample time for someone to have turned it in. Nope.
So this is what I learned. Apparently, for certain people in our fair city, it doesn't matter if you're drenched in expensive designer clothes, at heart some people are just thieves. And this is for that one thief in particular. Shame on you!
Really, if I walked in found a phone what would I do? Turn it in. There is no question. Which person walks in and goes, cool, Lipp is now rewarding its customers by giving us all Samsung flip phones in the restrooms? Shame. On. You.
Now beneath my cynical exterior does dwell an optimist of sorts. I can't believe someone would steal. Period! So I am going to call the restaurant again and see if someone turned it in but I fear that is just my naivete talking.
One more thing, thief (who I know will never read this blog), the phone you switched off as soon as you swiped it (and perhaps even saw me frantically return to the restaurant and search for my phone. what were you eating, btw?)...well, once you switch it off and then switch it back on, you need a PIN. That's right. You get three chances to get it right before the phone locks up. Have fun!
Loser!
So anyone who needs to contact me or has been trying to call. Please call me at home or email. I don't have a cell phone for the moment.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
On rainy days you can see nothing...
...but on clear days you can see forever. On the last clear day we had I took these pictures. It reminds me that beyond the veil of mists and clouds lies breathtaking beauty. And it gets me through these loooong rainy days. So enjoy!
I can't believe the Mont Blanc is so close to my house
Grapes on the vine. When will they flow as wine?
I can't believe the Mont Blanc is so close to my house
Grapes on the vine. When will they flow as wine?
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
I'm back
Came back yesterday. Couldn't sleep on the flight from Boston to Amsterdam. And then, in Amsterdam, we sat in the plane for a long time, on the ground because of technical problems. Then we had to de-plane and re-board. Exhausted, still running my mystery fever (16 days and counting) which seemed to have burned up all my motivation and energy. I need to make a doctor's appointment and just can't find the energy within myself. Feeling sorry for myself doesn't help...but boy it sure does feel good.
I come back with mixed feelings. Back home, to my space, to my crazy dog, to the wonderful scenery. But also really homesick for the U.S., especially since it's election time and all the Obama excitement :-(. Can't have it all....which is so not fair.
I come back with mixed feelings. Back home, to my space, to my crazy dog, to the wonderful scenery. But also really homesick for the U.S., especially since it's election time and all the Obama excitement :-(. Can't have it all....which is so not fair.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Keepin' it going
So, I am not in a blogging mood these days. One, I'm in kind of a blah state of mind. Two, I am actually trying to complete this second draft...maybe even a third. But since I am paranoidly thinking that if I don't blog at least once in a while I might just forget to do it at all, here is a blog entry. Hah! And I'll throw in a picture of Naina for free...after a long hike in Champery in Valais. It is beautiful and she is cute and to maintain that theme of loveliness I've cropped myself out though you can see my hand :-)
Saturday, July 05, 2008
May we help you?
Ok, I am not for overly sweet and sentimental posts (or at least I don't think I am), and I usually don't like the nicer things in life...to write about that is. Mainly because I like living in the bog of eternal darkness and wallow in the pit of muck and despair.
But today, this morning, something sweet happened. And I gotta write about it.
Let me take you back to a while ago when we hired some guys to put together a bunch of bookshelves for us (yes, they were Ikea and yes, I am a lazy, unmechanically evolved dolt...what you gotta say about that? Huh?)...anyway. So, these gentlemen put together the shelves and an odd table or two but left the folded cartons on the patio.
It's sad but I couldn't figure out how to dispose of them here. I mean, in the U.S., we had a separate garbage bin for this stuff, put it outside the house on the designated day and it disappeared. Ok, so maybe it headed for the nearest landfill and I'll rot in hell...but I digress.
Then I realized that I could take it to the dump and recycling place at the edge of our little vilalge, right where I put the plastic and pet, and glass and paper, adn that there was a place for cartons as well. Yipppeee!
So off I went, with these folded cartons in the trunk of my car. I got there, flipped the trunk and sighed...these things were going to take a few trips to break down further and stuff them into the impossibly small containers. Oh damn!
Then these two young men appeared...boys really...14, maybe 15. We exchanged bon jours (can I say how it thrills me to see young people here say the equivalent of good morning or good day rather than grunting a laconic hi...but I digress again)...then they asked me something in rapid French and I responded in not so rapid...ok, totally halting French that I didn't understand them.
May we help you?
Whaaat?
OMG, these two boys made the trips from the trunk to the bins and did a meticulous job disposing off the cartons for me. They also laughed needlessly like teeangers seem to do, and one of them walked into a metal divider thingie...and yowled in his barely broken voice.
They were awkward and sweet and so adorable. And, yes...damnit they were so sweet.
Michael and Joel, you are wonderful young men, and a credit to your parents, your village and your country. I was glad to shake your hand and say thanks. You were a great start to my day. Thanks!
But today, this morning, something sweet happened. And I gotta write about it.
Let me take you back to a while ago when we hired some guys to put together a bunch of bookshelves for us (yes, they were Ikea and yes, I am a lazy, unmechanically evolved dolt...what you gotta say about that? Huh?)...anyway. So, these gentlemen put together the shelves and an odd table or two but left the folded cartons on the patio.
It's sad but I couldn't figure out how to dispose of them here. I mean, in the U.S., we had a separate garbage bin for this stuff, put it outside the house on the designated day and it disappeared. Ok, so maybe it headed for the nearest landfill and I'll rot in hell...but I digress.
Then I realized that I could take it to the dump and recycling place at the edge of our little vilalge, right where I put the plastic and pet, and glass and paper, adn that there was a place for cartons as well. Yipppeee!
So off I went, with these folded cartons in the trunk of my car. I got there, flipped the trunk and sighed...these things were going to take a few trips to break down further and stuff them into the impossibly small containers. Oh damn!
Then these two young men appeared...boys really...14, maybe 15. We exchanged bon jours (can I say how it thrills me to see young people here say the equivalent of good morning or good day rather than grunting a laconic hi...but I digress again)...then they asked me something in rapid French and I responded in not so rapid...ok, totally halting French that I didn't understand them.
May we help you?
Whaaat?
OMG, these two boys made the trips from the trunk to the bins and did a meticulous job disposing off the cartons for me. They also laughed needlessly like teeangers seem to do, and one of them walked into a metal divider thingie...and yowled in his barely broken voice.
They were awkward and sweet and so adorable. And, yes...damnit they were so sweet.
Michael and Joel, you are wonderful young men, and a credit to your parents, your village and your country. I was glad to shake your hand and say thanks. You were a great start to my day. Thanks!
Friday, March 21, 2008
Sounds of Silence
My new laptop doesn't hum. It makes no sound but the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard sound loud...almost echoing off the walls. And there is silence outside. Can there be an overload of silence? No people. No cars at this time. No dogs. If I slow down my breathing will the wind roar like a torrent? Silent stillness.
I leave for India in a couple of weeks and almost always before I do I think of silence. Because if there is something India is not it's silent. There are, of course, those silent spaces high up in the Himalayas, and the desolate stretches in the desert. But in place that I tend to live and visit there is almost constant noise.
And like someone stepping out from behind a sound-proofed cell at first I cringe. It seems to go from nothing to no holds barred noises. This starts at the airport. The decibel of sound in the arrivals area at the airport. The clicks, the cries, the taps, the talking, the laughter. India--with its sensory overload assaults you with this wall of noise that follows you home.
And then you stop and listen. And trace the origins of each sound and suddenly it's not so chaotic any more. There is a comforting rhythm to the day. The milkman rings the bell in the morning, followed by the woman who comes to clean, followed by the cook, then the gardner, then the chauffeur. And the house fills with the sounds of their labor and that of their gossip. If you stay still and listen you can find out everything about the cosmos that surrounds our house, from the scandals of the servants' quarters to the goings-on of the neighbors.
And then you can even enter the spaces within which silence rules. They exist but you have to find them by navigating through the tunnels of noise. They are restful and calm mirages that shatter into noise if you spend too much time there. There is silence in the early morning when tendrils bluish-grey smoke rises from the stove of the nearby tea shop. There is no sound as the nightwatchman stretches and twists before making his way to the string cot under the tree where he will sleep the day away. And as night falls, each time he strikes the ground with his staff, a simple percussion to warn no-gooders that this area is under his surveillance, there is silence in between each strike. Between each cry the koel makes, its voice rising to impossible heights, unbelievable in such a small bird, there is absolute silence.
The first days back in the U.S., or now to my quiet Swiss village are always hard. Sometimes the silence makes me wonder if I am the only living soul in a sea of the dead and I want to scream and scream and scream until I wake everyone up into sound. And then the silence grows on me and now as I listen I can make out the gentle swishing of the trees outside my window, the snuffle of a dog as it goes by for its walk, even the distant sound of cars as they drive slowly past the narrow road. My neighbor's door opens and closes. I hear the car start, purr softly as she leaves.
And I realize that silence and sound are hidden siamese twins. Each exists within the other though not always seen. You have to use your ears as magical instruments to coax out first one and then the other. You can never rule either but you can surf between the two at will. Just....listen.
I leave for India in a couple of weeks and almost always before I do I think of silence. Because if there is something India is not it's silent. There are, of course, those silent spaces high up in the Himalayas, and the desolate stretches in the desert. But in place that I tend to live and visit there is almost constant noise.
And like someone stepping out from behind a sound-proofed cell at first I cringe. It seems to go from nothing to no holds barred noises. This starts at the airport. The decibel of sound in the arrivals area at the airport. The clicks, the cries, the taps, the talking, the laughter. India--with its sensory overload assaults you with this wall of noise that follows you home.
And then you stop and listen. And trace the origins of each sound and suddenly it's not so chaotic any more. There is a comforting rhythm to the day. The milkman rings the bell in the morning, followed by the woman who comes to clean, followed by the cook, then the gardner, then the chauffeur. And the house fills with the sounds of their labor and that of their gossip. If you stay still and listen you can find out everything about the cosmos that surrounds our house, from the scandals of the servants' quarters to the goings-on of the neighbors.
And then you can even enter the spaces within which silence rules. They exist but you have to find them by navigating through the tunnels of noise. They are restful and calm mirages that shatter into noise if you spend too much time there. There is silence in the early morning when tendrils bluish-grey smoke rises from the stove of the nearby tea shop. There is no sound as the nightwatchman stretches and twists before making his way to the string cot under the tree where he will sleep the day away. And as night falls, each time he strikes the ground with his staff, a simple percussion to warn no-gooders that this area is under his surveillance, there is silence in between each strike. Between each cry the koel makes, its voice rising to impossible heights, unbelievable in such a small bird, there is absolute silence.
The first days back in the U.S., or now to my quiet Swiss village are always hard. Sometimes the silence makes me wonder if I am the only living soul in a sea of the dead and I want to scream and scream and scream until I wake everyone up into sound. And then the silence grows on me and now as I listen I can make out the gentle swishing of the trees outside my window, the snuffle of a dog as it goes by for its walk, even the distant sound of cars as they drive slowly past the narrow road. My neighbor's door opens and closes. I hear the car start, purr softly as she leaves.
And I realize that silence and sound are hidden siamese twins. Each exists within the other though not always seen. You have to use your ears as magical instruments to coax out first one and then the other. You can never rule either but you can surf between the two at will. Just....listen.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Ten Paise
Do you remember the first time you realized that you wanted to be a writer? That, perhaps you were a writer? Do you remember the first actual piece you wrote? I do.
I was seven and in second grade and we were supposed to write our first essay. Such a grown-up assignment. We were supposed to write about a ten paisa coin. That was my favorite coin. Light in the hand, its edges wavy, there was something almost flower-like about it. It's sad that most young Indian kids have probably never seen that old ten paisa coin, what with the one, five, and ten, even the twenty-five coins pretty much out of circulation.
While most other kids described what the coin looked like and what they could buy with it (a virultently red popsicle that stained your mouth, tongue, and lips vampire-red) I wrote about being a ten paisa coin. I started out new, bright and shiny and was given to a little girl who took it to the circus. But the coin fell out from a hole in her pocket and went for an adventure around the country with the circus. Eventually somehow, the little girl--now a teenager-- got it back as change when she bought something.
For some reason while rummaging through some Swiss francs to pay for parking I remembered my little essay as I rubbed my thumb against the edge of a coin. The intervening years fell away into nothingness. And just for a moment I was seven again, discovering the joy of creating my own worlds and realities.
I was seven and in second grade and we were supposed to write our first essay. Such a grown-up assignment. We were supposed to write about a ten paisa coin. That was my favorite coin. Light in the hand, its edges wavy, there was something almost flower-like about it. It's sad that most young Indian kids have probably never seen that old ten paisa coin, what with the one, five, and ten, even the twenty-five coins pretty much out of circulation.
While most other kids described what the coin looked like and what they could buy with it (a virultently red popsicle that stained your mouth, tongue, and lips vampire-red) I wrote about being a ten paisa coin. I started out new, bright and shiny and was given to a little girl who took it to the circus. But the coin fell out from a hole in her pocket and went for an adventure around the country with the circus. Eventually somehow, the little girl--now a teenager-- got it back as change when she bought something.
For some reason while rummaging through some Swiss francs to pay for parking I remembered my little essay as I rubbed my thumb against the edge of a coin. The intervening years fell away into nothingness. And just for a moment I was seven again, discovering the joy of creating my own worlds and realities.
Monday, March 10, 2008
..and consumption too
I find fevers to be the most literary illness. Perhaps because I get fevers so often and I have literary pretensions. A fever is the ultimate symptom of ennui. The hot brow, that strangely unconnected feeling with the world while at the same being hyperaware of the temperature fluctuations of my own body. Self-indulgent yes, but when I have a fever the world shrinks around my dimensions and nothing else lies beyond the boundary of my body. I am my own world and the world is me.
When I was a neurotic, too-imaginative teen I fell in love. With Shelley and with Keats though I had a slightly mad obsession for Lord Byron as well. But while Byron was dangerously sexy and sexual, I imagined both Shelley and Keats to be the ultimate romantic, passionate yet frail lovers of doomed affairs. Aaah! That Wild West Wind. Oh Ozymandias. An Ode to a Grecian Urn? I'm on board though I had no clue what a grecian urn was or why one would write an ode to it. But during that time I think I wrote an Ode to a Brown Teapot. Then I discovered that I could not write poetry. Could. Not. No talent in that direction at all.
My Shelley and Keats, dead at 26 joined my other dead crush Jim Morrison. We were kindred spirits all of us. And I believed I too would die at 26. And perhaps when the four of us got together some poetry would leach itself into me. And when I didn't pass away romatically at 26, that was almost a kind of a betrayal and an unvalidation of any writing aspirations. I was missing two ingredients of death at 26. I could do heavy drugs like Jim but that was so unnatural, so modern. The natural death of literary giants was to get consumption. Consumption that oh-so romantic disease where you just wasted away leaving just your passion and your fierce and lovely words hanging in the air like the cheshire cat's grin. Of course, I ignored their ignonimous love affairs, the slight unsavouriness that I can delight in now, but that to a child's eye would have smashed the clay feet of my idols.
And I dreamed of the shores of Lake Geneva where Byron, Keats and Shelley, wrote and talked and suffered bravely (well, at least the latter two did). In my mind they sat on long-armed chairs, slanted gently, almost lying down, swaddled in warm woollens as they gazed upon the silver of the water. And they spoke of poetry and verses floated thick in the air. And in my mind the lake was wreathed in mist, with the cold air from the mountain coming in to ruffle the hair that lay on Shelley's forehead. Aaah! Such dreams!
And now I am here, and the ghosts of my beloved three wander somewhere in the waves of the lake. Their words linger. And I hug my fever to myself. But damn! Where is my consumption. Perhaps wherever it is that my fierce love for the romantics went. Wherever it is that my tastes became more modern and less overwrought, where shades and emotions in between meant more than the over-done and the dramatic.
But still there is something in me that still thrills to the thought of finding Shelley, Keats and Byron somewhere in Switzerland. I plan to go look for Byron's house and to re-trace their steps. I mgiht not have consumption (thank god) but I can recapture my young loves.
When I was a neurotic, too-imaginative teen I fell in love. With Shelley and with Keats though I had a slightly mad obsession for Lord Byron as well. But while Byron was dangerously sexy and sexual, I imagined both Shelley and Keats to be the ultimate romantic, passionate yet frail lovers of doomed affairs. Aaah! That Wild West Wind. Oh Ozymandias. An Ode to a Grecian Urn? I'm on board though I had no clue what a grecian urn was or why one would write an ode to it. But during that time I think I wrote an Ode to a Brown Teapot. Then I discovered that I could not write poetry. Could. Not. No talent in that direction at all.
My Shelley and Keats, dead at 26 joined my other dead crush Jim Morrison. We were kindred spirits all of us. And I believed I too would die at 26. And perhaps when the four of us got together some poetry would leach itself into me. And when I didn't pass away romatically at 26, that was almost a kind of a betrayal and an unvalidation of any writing aspirations. I was missing two ingredients of death at 26. I could do heavy drugs like Jim but that was so unnatural, so modern. The natural death of literary giants was to get consumption. Consumption that oh-so romantic disease where you just wasted away leaving just your passion and your fierce and lovely words hanging in the air like the cheshire cat's grin. Of course, I ignored their ignonimous love affairs, the slight unsavouriness that I can delight in now, but that to a child's eye would have smashed the clay feet of my idols.
And I dreamed of the shores of Lake Geneva where Byron, Keats and Shelley, wrote and talked and suffered bravely (well, at least the latter two did). In my mind they sat on long-armed chairs, slanted gently, almost lying down, swaddled in warm woollens as they gazed upon the silver of the water. And they spoke of poetry and verses floated thick in the air. And in my mind the lake was wreathed in mist, with the cold air from the mountain coming in to ruffle the hair that lay on Shelley's forehead. Aaah! Such dreams!
And now I am here, and the ghosts of my beloved three wander somewhere in the waves of the lake. Their words linger. And I hug my fever to myself. But damn! Where is my consumption. Perhaps wherever it is that my fierce love for the romantics went. Wherever it is that my tastes became more modern and less overwrought, where shades and emotions in between meant more than the over-done and the dramatic.
But still there is something in me that still thrills to the thought of finding Shelley, Keats and Byron somewhere in Switzerland. I plan to go look for Byron's house and to re-trace their steps. I mgiht not have consumption (thank god) but I can recapture my young loves.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
A very short play...questions and ruminations on a beautiful day
Date and time: Last Sunday, around 3 PM
Location: Somewhere in Pacquis, lost and looking for the Rue de Alpes parking structure.
The scene: Trying to read a street name while Naina takes the opportunity to pee against a building. Lovely!
Old man with funny cap (Omfc): "something something madame?" (my best French translation. all I can tell is that it's a question)
Me (blank, hunted look on face): "Uh...uh...um...ne parlez-pa *damn is that it?* Francais."
Omfc: "You spik the English?"
Me: Yes (maybe he knows where the damn parking is)
Omfc: *gestures to Naina*..."don't you want a..nother chien?"
Me: "Another dog?"
Omfc:" Yes, dog, dog. You want another dog?"
Me: "Uhmmmm....non monsieur, merci...but no thanks."
Omfc: "Ok..ok...I am love you." *he blows a kiss*
I have two questions:
(1) What the heck did he mean? Did he want to give me another dog? why? Did he want to breed Naina? Weird!
(2) Why do crazy old men like me? I mean, really...they do. Do I give off a ratty shawl-collar sweater infested with butterscotch candies vibe? A few years ago a venerable Afghan gentleman in Chicago talked to us on the street and then insisted on kissing my cheek (till then he was kind of sweet), which he did in a slightly creepy way...more neck than cheek ya know?
Anyway I found the place I had parked my car helped by two fluent English speakers...Filipina prostitutes. I figured they live in the area...if anyone knows where the parking structure is they would. They did, they pointed it out, were friendly and really nice and when I got my car and passed by them, I waved and called out thank you.
I had spent the Sunday afternoon parking my car and then walking around the lake. The weather was amazingly gorgeous and everyone but everyone was out and about. Dogs, babies, young lovers, old lovers, families...and me...and Naina, of course. I felt almost like a Genevoise, relaxing at the lake on a beautiful day, when the water sparkles, and the sky a blinding blue studded with meringue-like clouds. Aaaah!
Location: Somewhere in Pacquis, lost and looking for the Rue de Alpes parking structure.
The scene: Trying to read a street name while Naina takes the opportunity to pee against a building. Lovely!
Old man with funny cap (Omfc): "something something madame?" (my best French translation. all I can tell is that it's a question)
Me (blank, hunted look on face): "Uh...uh...um...ne parlez-pa *damn is that it?* Francais."
Omfc: "You spik the English?"
Me: Yes (maybe he knows where the damn parking is)
Omfc: *gestures to Naina*..."don't you want a..nother chien?"
Me: "Another dog?"
Omfc:" Yes, dog, dog. You want another dog?"
Me: "Uhmmmm....non monsieur, merci...but no thanks."
Omfc: "Ok..ok...I am love you." *he blows a kiss*
I have two questions:
(1) What the heck did he mean? Did he want to give me another dog? why? Did he want to breed Naina? Weird!
(2) Why do crazy old men like me? I mean, really...they do. Do I give off a ratty shawl-collar sweater infested with butterscotch candies vibe? A few years ago a venerable Afghan gentleman in Chicago talked to us on the street and then insisted on kissing my cheek (till then he was kind of sweet), which he did in a slightly creepy way...more neck than cheek ya know?
Anyway I found the place I had parked my car helped by two fluent English speakers...Filipina prostitutes. I figured they live in the area...if anyone knows where the parking structure is they would. They did, they pointed it out, were friendly and really nice and when I got my car and passed by them, I waved and called out thank you.
I had spent the Sunday afternoon parking my car and then walking around the lake. The weather was amazingly gorgeous and everyone but everyone was out and about. Dogs, babies, young lovers, old lovers, families...and me...and Naina, of course. I felt almost like a Genevoise, relaxing at the lake on a beautiful day, when the water sparkles, and the sky a blinding blue studded with meringue-like clouds. Aaaah!
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Pick up in Cornavin...Almost...Not Quite
So, not only have I been feeling the weight each of my 41 years lately I've also been counting wrinkles and grainy skin and horrors...three stubborn white hairs that seem to be paving the way towards an Indira Gandhi hairstyle. Yikes! Add to that the fact that I feel like I should be walking around with a gunny sack around myself anyway...maybe with eyeholes cut out. If I didn't have a philosophical disagreement with burqas I'd wear one to hide myself. But I digress *puts the violin away* even though self-pity is terribly addictive.
So Saturday evening I decided to meet B at the main train station Cornavin, and was walking around in the underground shopping place. All the shops were closed and I was trying to find the restroom. As I ducked into the space between the escalators and a shop I heard someone say "excuse me" in a french accent. I stood aside to let me pass.
Nice looking guy, early 50's maybe (oh for the days when early 50's was ancient to me. *slaps herself for self-pity infraction*), brown leather jacket and interesting salt n' pepper hair.
Instead of passing by, he stopped.
"Hello."
"Hi," I said trying to see past him to figure out if the restroom door to see if it was open.
"I want ask you if maybe you take some drinks with me."
I am not sure my open-mouthed surprised look is too attractive, still he persisted.
"Thank you but no..." I mumbled.
"Maybe another time? I give you my card?"
"No thanks, really." (I refused to trot out the sati savitri response (at least to me) of, I am married, Hai Allah, mujhe cchero nahin. I just don't want to be picked up outside a restroom for god's sake..by anyone)
"Where you from? Beautiful hair. Very pretty."
"Thanks, but I've got to run...to meet my husband."
He stepped back spreading his hands in that oh-so French way. Then he shrugged.
"Bye," he called after me.
B met me outside Starbucks. It was fucking cold and I was wearing cute shoes with no socks since I was coming from the conference.
"Hey, good thing you're on time. I could've been knocking back drinks with some interesting Frenchman, as he whispered cool French things to me," I said.
Yeah sure I would. Apart from my married status, and darn it! I love the guy, if I was ever to be picked up it would have to be in a cooler place. Of course, B would bust a gut laughing if I recounted the entire weird conversation.
What *is* the hit rate of that poor guy trying to pick up women in the underground metro shopping of Cornavin? Maybe he's having drinks with some other woman as we speak...err...as I write this.
So Saturday evening I decided to meet B at the main train station Cornavin, and was walking around in the underground shopping place. All the shops were closed and I was trying to find the restroom. As I ducked into the space between the escalators and a shop I heard someone say "excuse me" in a french accent. I stood aside to let me pass.
Nice looking guy, early 50's maybe (oh for the days when early 50's was ancient to me. *slaps herself for self-pity infraction*), brown leather jacket and interesting salt n' pepper hair.
Instead of passing by, he stopped.
"Hello."
"Hi," I said trying to see past him to figure out if the restroom door to see if it was open.
"I want ask you if maybe you take some drinks with me."
I am not sure my open-mouthed surprised look is too attractive, still he persisted.
"Thank you but no..." I mumbled.
"Maybe another time? I give you my card?"
"No thanks, really." (I refused to trot out the sati savitri response (at least to me) of, I am married, Hai Allah, mujhe cchero nahin. I just don't want to be picked up outside a restroom for god's sake..by anyone)
"Where you from? Beautiful hair. Very pretty."
"Thanks, but I've got to run...to meet my husband."
He stepped back spreading his hands in that oh-so French way. Then he shrugged.
"Bye," he called after me.
B met me outside Starbucks. It was fucking cold and I was wearing cute shoes with no socks since I was coming from the conference.
"Hey, good thing you're on time. I could've been knocking back drinks with some interesting Frenchman, as he whispered cool French things to me," I said.
Yeah sure I would. Apart from my married status, and darn it! I love the guy, if I was ever to be picked up it would have to be in a cooler place. Of course, B would bust a gut laughing if I recounted the entire weird conversation.
What *is* the hit rate of that poor guy trying to pick up women in the underground metro shopping of Cornavin? Maybe he's having drinks with some other woman as we speak...err...as I write this.
Two Days in Bellevue
This past weekend I decided to kick myself in the ass and took myself to the writers conference in Bellevue, about 10 minutes away from Geneva. Bellevue is right on the lake and it's a beautiful little town.
I have, however, a love-hate relationship with writer's conferences. Or maybe it's a like-hate relationship. Whatever! At one level the romantic in me thrills to the idea of like-minded people--thinkers, writers, those who love words coming together and discussing and growing together, forging literary bonds. Especially in Switzerland where Byron, Shelley (both the Shelleys), and Keats and others got together and talked and discussed and wrote.
Then there is the hate. A group of people geting together to show off their skill with words, to judge others, and to outdo each other in pretentiousness. This is not just writing but where so and so got an MFA, and where they've been published, and where they went to school. And oh yes, having a cool British accent really helps too.
There were a lot of cool British accents at this one but I also found this one of the more useful conferences I've been to (I've been to two actually, so I have no great base of comparision). Or maybe it's because in breaks I sat where the smokers did, shivering in the February cold, watching the rain-washed blue sky and the stark relief of the Mont Blanc flanked by the bristly silhouettes of the Jura. There are worse places :-). So not a total washout, even according to my own little cynical heart.
I have, however, a love-hate relationship with writer's conferences. Or maybe it's a like-hate relationship. Whatever! At one level the romantic in me thrills to the idea of like-minded people--thinkers, writers, those who love words coming together and discussing and growing together, forging literary bonds. Especially in Switzerland where Byron, Shelley (both the Shelleys), and Keats and others got together and talked and discussed and wrote.
Then there is the hate. A group of people geting together to show off their skill with words, to judge others, and to outdo each other in pretentiousness. This is not just writing but where so and so got an MFA, and where they've been published, and where they went to school. And oh yes, having a cool British accent really helps too.
There were a lot of cool British accents at this one but I also found this one of the more useful conferences I've been to (I've been to two actually, so I have no great base of comparision). Or maybe it's because in breaks I sat where the smokers did, shivering in the February cold, watching the rain-washed blue sky and the stark relief of the Mont Blanc flanked by the bristly silhouettes of the Jura. There are worse places :-). So not a total washout, even according to my own little cynical heart.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Village People
I always feel like I live in Geneva, even though we live in a village, from where the French border is a 10 minute walk and from where Mont Blanc looms tall on clear days. And we cannot see the lake.
So yesterday, I had to drop off the car at the dealership (some computer bug sends me alarming messages like hydraulic suspension failure, 4-wheel drive failure, etc.) so i was waiting at the bus stop.
And this older gentleman wanted to know if he could get to Jussy on the the 31 bus. He was from Bangladesh, accompanying his wife on a UN trip, and while she was at work he was being a tourist. Someone told him that he should take this bus to see the countryside.
Okay, so there is a donkey and some goats at one end of our village, cows that graze almost under my window and pigs somewhere close by....I had never come to terms wiht the the fact I live in the countryside, part of the rural side. I am a village person.
Weird
So yesterday, I had to drop off the car at the dealership (some computer bug sends me alarming messages like hydraulic suspension failure, 4-wheel drive failure, etc.) so i was waiting at the bus stop.
And this older gentleman wanted to know if he could get to Jussy on the the 31 bus. He was from Bangladesh, accompanying his wife on a UN trip, and while she was at work he was being a tourist. Someone told him that he should take this bus to see the countryside.
Okay, so there is a donkey and some goats at one end of our village, cows that graze almost under my window and pigs somewhere close by....I had never come to terms wiht the the fact I live in the countryside, part of the rural side. I am a village person.
Weird
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