A question of loyalties.
Living in the United Kingdom, it's somewhat frowned upon not to take some sort of an interest in football. Living in London and not supporting one of the city teams is seen as slightly aberrant, and is akin to being nestled in the library every night with a cup of tea and a stack of articles about post-colonial feminist theory and its effect on African pygmy tribes while everyone else is the member of a cool sorority or fraternity having toga parties and luaus. In short, it's shooting a bullet directly into the big toe of your social foot.
Not having grown up in the U.K. or having a family allegiance to base my decision on, I decided I would have to pick a local team to support. I quickly declared my loyalty for Chelsea, given that the borough of Chelsea is the most excusive part of the city and the real estate values are through the roof, even by extortionate London standards. Essentially, it's the exact geographical location of most of my aspirations. My Chelsea support was further cemented by some research in the gossip and society columns which revealed numerous mentions of the Chelsea players swilling champagne and having glamorous parties on yachts in the Mediterranean.
Shortly after making my decision, as I was proudly ready to wave the blue and white Chelsea flag, I began dating a local. The Boy made me a deal. He told me that if I could name one single player, past or present, on the Chelsea team he would accept my decision and, while we would become rivals during football season, I would have his respect and my real-estate-based support would be legitimized.
And that is how I became an Arsenal fan.
* * *
The early days.
Watching football (or “footie” as I've taken to calling it assuming that adopting colloquialisms will make me seem more credible) quickly won me over as a Saturday afternoon activity. It wasn't so much the actual watching of game, per se, but the acceptability of drinking during the day and spending more that 2 hours picking away at a single plate of food. At long last, I had discovered somewhere for me to eat at an excruciatingly slow pace without being hurried along by dining companions. Not only that, but the gin and tonics kept on flowing while I nibbled through my veggie burger. Eat like a bird and drink like a fish? You should seriously consider spending weekend afternoons watching footie at your local watering hole.
I actually quite enjoyed the games as well. I can't claim to have known exactly what was going on all the time, but the Boy patiently explained things like the Offside rule to me using an array of condiment jars and pepper pots he gathered from surrounding tables. I think I've got the gist of it now: basically, the mayo jar can't try to score a goal on the pepper pot when the ketchup is standing in front of him trying to intercept the lime slice.
If I don't fully understand the Offside rule, it's only because I was distracted mid-explanation when the Arsenal goalie hoofed the ball from the net well past the halfway point on the pitch. “You know what's really impressive?” I pondered, “how far they can kick the ball”. With wide eyes and his jaw slightly ajar, the Boy looked up from repositioning the lime slice to send a text to every male contact in his mobile phone directory.
During the hours spent in the pub watching various matches I've decided that there are some fundamental flaws within the game rules. Namely, that the only way to score any points is to actually get the ball fully into the net. It seems to require an awful lot of skill just to get the ball close to the net, and to get so close and leave with no points just seems disheartening. I've decided to award players half points whenever they hit one of the goal posts. They've still come damn close even if the ball didn't specifically go into the net. Not to mention the posts are quite narrow and hitting them with the ball must require a lot of skill, too. This has led to some pesky questions from those of the male persuasion, but seems to have largely taken off and is gaining popular acceptance. Periodically I'll get emails from the Boy's office with questions his colleagues have about technicalities such as what happens if the ball hits the post before going into the net. I roll my eyes and reply. Point and a half, obviously. One day I got an excited text from the Boy who was watching a match at home. “The ball just bounced off the top post, then the side post and then went in - 2 points!”
Of course the ball doesn't always make it into the net or hit a post: sometimes the pepper pot or the goalie gets in the way. During a more exciting moment in one game, the Arsenal goalie slid down and grabbed the ball a split second before it got any points (half or otherwise) for the rival team. My brain knew it was excited, but my mouth had some difficulty with the specifics. “Oh what a good…goal-stop!” I exclaimed. Even before I was corrected, I knew I had said something wrong. I was being gently patted on the head and the Boy was reaching for his mobile phone. That's never a good sign.
* * *
Stranger in a strange land.
This week I attended my first live game at Emirates Stadium in North London. I had seen the stadium once before while viewing a flat in the area. In fact, the flat was so close that you could see the stadium from the garden. I thought back to that day and the look on the Boy's face when I told him about the flat. He had the wide-eyed look of wonderment of a child who had just stumbled into Santa's workshop and found that all the elves had stepped out for a smoke break and that Santa had left the keys in the sleigh. I didn't get the flat, and I'm guessing a little part of the Boy's soul died that day. For someone who mocked me for supporting Chelsea based on the real estate, he certainly was excited about the Arsenal flat.
Emirates Stadium looks suspiciously similar to the site of the world Quidditch match in Harry Potter and the hoards of fans in their red and white striped Arsenal scarves only serve to exasperate the comparison. On the walk to the stadium, I found myself wishing I had a striped scarf to fit in. Having come straight from work in a tailored pencil dress, velvet blazer and four-inch heels, something didn't feel right. Fortunately, I had the foresight to bring a pair of ballet flats and in an act that involved reworking several minor laws of physics, I managed to stuff my heels into my small purse.
I had been quite confident about coming to the match. I had now watched a number of matches on television and could name some key players and knew which side to cheer for. Although, after hearing some of the borderline offensive cheers directed at opponents, I had settled upon my own non-denominational cheer consisting simply of the words “Yay Footie!”
As we joined the mob walking to the stadium, my confidence retreated into its shell like a socially anxious turtle with a stutter at a public speaking contest. It felt like we were marching to a battle or were part of an angry lynch mob. I clutched onto the Boy, terrified to be left to fend for myself. While I was glad I had switched into flat shoes and could thus keep pace with the crowd, I regretted not packing a flare gun in case I became isolated in the screaming crowd and needed the Boy to come locate me.
While my confidence may have virtually disappeared upon arrival at the stadium, my “Yay Footie!” cheer became all the more appropriate when we reached our seats and found most of the stadium on its feet cheering something about hating rivals, the Tottenham Hotspurs. Now, I'm all for a choreographed cheering and such at sporting events, but you would think if you're going to be referencing another team it would be the other team that is playing on that day. Call me crazy, but it didn't seem like changing the words from “Stand up if you hate Tottenham” to “Stand up if you hate Wigan” would require too much thought and organization amongst the spectators. Granted there is a minor syllabic discrepancy between “Tottenham” and ”Wigan” but seeing as it's generally pronounced “Tot'nam” I really think it would have worked fine. On the upside, I'm sure the Wigan players felt more welcomed. They may be getting ready to mercilessly beat the pants off us, they'd say in the change rooms and while warming up, but listen to the tongue-lashing they're giving to those Tottenham sods.
The first half of the game was exciting, although after all my lessons in pubs I half-expected to see team mayonnaise fighting off team ketchup and trying to kick the lime slice
past the pepper pot guarding the fork. At one point a player's shoe came off after getting tangled up during a dramatic play of some sort. I had to resist the urge to pull one of my heels out of my purse and wave it in the air as an offering to him. “I have an extra, in case of emergency!” I would have called out enthusiastically. I restrained myself, but nonetheless the game went on and it flew by in a flash and I found myself ready for more footie action when play ceased at halftime.
I will say that halftime was a bit anticlimactic, or one might also say “more tasteful” by North American standards. I would likely have been taken aback but the Boy and I had discussed it previously. I had been surprised to learn that there are no cheerleaders (I tentatively suggested that The Arsenettes would be a good name if they ever decide to get a cheerleading squad) although, girls in miniskirts don't really seem to be needed since men will already pay obscene amounts of cash to see the games.
While they don't have cheerleaders, I was relieved to hear there was at least a team mascot and the Boy informed me that he was, somewhat un-cleverly, called “Gunnersaurus”. The conversation that followed this took place in absolute seriousness without a hint of sarcasm and has given me cause to wonder just exactly how dimwitted people think I am. “You might see the Gunnersaurus at half time,” the Boy advised me, “He'll be wearing oversized black shoes, an Arsenal shirt,” he looked thoughtful, “and maybe a hat, yeah, I think he has a little hat --” At this point I had to intervene. “Won't he be wearing a giant dinosaur mascot costume? In fact, won't he be the only one on the field, or the stadium even, dressed as a dinosaur?” Honestly, why would you start with his shoes when describing him? In fact, why mention the shoes at all? Surely using the word “dinosaur” or the suffix “saurus” would have been sufficient information for me to identify him.
I did in fact see the Gunnersaurus during half time, and the Boy was kind enough to point him out to me. Not that it was necessary, of course. I would have spotted the oversized shoes and little hat on my own eventually.
Following halftime, there was a period of about ten minutes during which I cheered excitedly thinking we were almost getting another goal, before I realised that the teams switched sides during the break. Once I got myself reoriented, I settled back into enjoying the game, although my attention waned a bit and I found myself missing a few exciting moments when I was absent-mindedly gazing off into space letting my mind wander. I wondered if the players talked to each at all while on the pitch. Not full-fledged conversations about their feelings, but perhaps the odd uncomplimentary remark to a member of a rival team, or words of support to their teammates. The Boy suggested during lulls they may have been chatting about which pub to go to following the game, or checking out girls in the front rows of the audience. I sense he was mocking me, but still the ensuing dialogues I imagined between players made the slow moments in the game more interesting.
I found my confidence in my football knowledge and ability to follow the game further shaken midway through the second half of the game. The Boy caught onto the fact that I was behaving somewhat like an underachieving performing seal in that I would automatically start to clap when everyone around me began cheering and clapping. It had become so unconscious that I didn't realise I was doing it until he started to raise his hands in mock applause and I immediately followed suit, only to find myself the only person clapping. This made me feel like a bit of a fool, but the Boy attempted to make me feel better by excitedly screaming out “Oh, well done! Good goal-stop!” following a dramatic, what I now know is called a “save”.
In the end, we won the game three to nil. It was a nice clean game with no half points, and some really impressively far kicks of the ball. By “we”, I of course mean, Arsenal. By using “we” in that sentence one could well ascertain that after attending my first live game I have been initiated into the legions of fans. Perhaps, although the journey back to the underground may have been a more formative part of my transformation. Walking back to the rousing and hypnotic cheers of “Red Army!” had a definite impact on me. By the time I was back home I was certainly an Arsenal fan, a true Gunner. That or I was ready to run off to march for the Motherland in Communist Russia. But, it was certainly one of those two.
Thursday, 13 November 2008
Friday, 3 October 2008
slumber.
I think everyone has partaken in the odd evening of hypothetical conversation, usually after an evening of wine (or any other preferred stimulant). Camaraderie is running high and all parties feel inclined to talk and hypothesize about themselves while striving to glean as much information as possible about their companions. Questions abound regarding who would pen your biography, what you would read on a desert island, and where you would go during your last week to live. What your choice between two equally unlikely Faustian situations would be, and who from history would receive an invitation to your dinner party are discussed at length.
Of course, these evenings are never complete until you’ve discussed your smoldering homestead. If your house was burning down, and all pets and loved ones (as well as liked ones, moderately disliked ones, and people you feel a general indifference towards) are already safe, what would you rescue from the inferno? Apparently the answer is supposed to reveal something about your values and what is important to you. Or rather it would, if everyone didn’t automatically reach for their laptop on the grounds that, in addition to being the most expensive and easy to carry thing in the apartment, frankly, it just plain holds the most stuff on it. Of course when the “and not your laptop” clause is added to the situation the responses expand to include pre-digital photographs, jewellery (at least one person is virtually required to cite their grandmother’s engagement ring), and maybe if they’re honest, the stash of post-op codeine pills with the unrenewable prescription. On the whole, it’s going to be some family jewellery, a grandfather’s war medal or some other trinket already prominently displayed in the apartment or on their person. Basically, you learn absolutely nothing new about your companions; just a rehashing of their pride and joy which they already take every chance to highlight.
I suppose this might take on a new degree of credibility or interest if you have actually found yourself in this situation and knew all occupants of your building were safe and a handsome fireman had your laptop tucked under his arm, leaving your hands free to collect one souvenir from your home moments before a smoky hellish ball of flames engulfs it all. However, fire standards being what they are today, the majority of people are fortunate enough to make it through their lives without experiencing this. Nonetheless, either in reality or in the realm of the hypothetical, it still seems a fairly useless indicator of a person’s character.
I found myself pondering this the other week when I discovered myself in a remotely similar situation. Similar, but much more commonplace and much more conducive to self-exploration. Also, much less life-threatening with less heroism involved, although it’s best not to dwell on that as it makes me look petty and small. This catalyst for introspection seems to be an inevitable point in most relationships and it caught me off-guard last week.
Dinner is winding down. It’s getting late and the sad realization that it’s a weeknight has presented itself. In the past, this hasn’t posed too much of an inconvenience for me; I get up and shower, then the Boy showers while I dry and straighten my hair and get dressed. We both leave the house by 7:30 and everyone gets to work on time. Well, if you want to be specific about it, I get to work on time, he loiters in a café then presumably wanders the streets until it’s time for him to go to work, at which point he stills arrives before the rest of his office. As we sort out the tip and finish our wine, it happens. The dreaded question slips out of his mouth; can’t he stay in bed an extra hour after I’ve left? The flat door locks automatically when it’s shut. Only someone with mild paranoia with neuroses aplenty would have a problem with it after we’ve known each other this long, right? I open and close my mouth a few times. A sputtering noise may have unconsciously escaped, I can’t be sure. Deep inside my head a little man in a lab coat is yelling at his staff while beating a pointing stick against a formula-ridden chalk board and cursing an oversized hamster on the wheel to run faster and speed up the thought process. There must be some valid reason why he can’t stay that extra hour. The excuses ricochet off the walls of my skull and I grasp desperately for one with a shred of credibility. The bed is spring-loaded and automatically folds up into the wall at 7:35, and you might be hideously decapitated as a result. I need someone to escort me to the train station in case I lose my way. I treasure the extra minutes we have together as we walk out of the house together. I keep an ill-tempered cobra named Marcel in a basket in the closet and only I know the right song to play on my snake-charming pipe to pacify him. I look searchingly into his eyes and wonder if he’s dumb enough or drunk enough to believe any of these.
Apparently, sometimes honesty is the best policy. The hamster wipes his sweaty brow with his little paw and slows to a jog on the wheel. The man in the lab coat shrugs in defeat as my brain and mouth agree on a reply. “Of course that’s fine. But, no rummaging.” He laughs and kisses me on the forehead. “Seriously, I’ll know and I’ll be fucking pissed.” The smile fades from his face for a moment before I lightheartedly laugh and he joins in. “Seriously, though…I will harm you.”
* * *
Normally, when the alarm starts its hideous faux-cricket chirping at the crack of dawn I complain bitterly and ignore it for a few minutes before clumsily fumbling around and resetting it for later. Today I silence it after its first electronic chirp and am instantly wide awake. I gently stroke the Boy’s hair until he seems lulled back into a deep sleep. His lack of acknowledgment of my finger softly prodding between his vertebrae is encouraging. The clock tells me I have exactly ten minutes to perform my covert task before I start getting ready and the shower and various hair appliances inevitably compromise his slumber. Ten minutes to get the flat ready for any manner of potential rummaging.
When 7:28 arrives I’m dressed, made-up and perched on the edge of the bed in shoes and trenchcoat. He awakes sleepily as I say goodbye. “You’re sure it’s alright if I stay?” I kiss my finger and place it on the tip of his nose, “Of course, take all the time you need.” He slides deeper beneath the covers with a contented smile gracing his lips as I confidently stride out the door.
* * *
That’s it. Those precious Proustian minutes between sleep and wake. What are you so desperate to hide and keep revealed from prying eyes. What do you already keep hidden in your flat that you feel the need to hide even more deeply in case someone does a little investigative journalism in your absence? That’s what reveals most about you, not some trinket you display in a case, a frame, or on a delicate chain around your neck. In some ways, it’s even more pressing than the fire question. If you make the wrong choice in the hypothetical fire, all your rejected choices go up in flames and can’t return to haunt you. Here, your rejected choices risk public disclosure, the very thing you are most desperate to avoid.
So, what is it? What do you slide into an envelope and push to the centre of the space under the bed with a broom handle (before snapping the broom handle and making a mental note to buy a new one on the way home from work)? What do you stuff into your well-chosen oversized tote and take with you to the office that day? An assortment of pay stubs? A file with cut outs from bridal magazines, colour swatches and sketches of wedding dresses? Your most scandalous lingerie that you save for Mr. Little-Something-Something-On-The-Side? Your fat pants or skinny jeans? Very recent cards from ex-boyfriends whom you’ve sworn you were out of contact with? Invoices from your cosmetic surgeon? The latest, and already affectionately well read, Tiffany’s catalogue with post-it flags marking pages with your choice cuts of diamond engagement rings? Spare me knowing that you aspire to write a book, want to go back in time to ancient Egypt, and that your dream job is to be a screenwriter. I have no doubt that you do want to go to Australia before you die, invite Oscar Wilde to your dinner party, and interview Jesus while he hangs like a limp haddock on the cross. I want to know what you’re hiding in your apartment that you don’t want your date or anyone else to find.
As for me, I’ll never tell. However, I will say that when I returned that evening before I had a chance to look for hints of rummaging I found my wall clock lying on the floor with one hand slightly bent. As an apology later revealed, sometimes you also need to be concerned that someone will attempt to put a battery in your forever-motionless clock and it will inadvertently slide off the hook on the wall when the front door is closed. I thought had prepared the place for everything, but hadn’t anticipated that.
Of course, these evenings are never complete until you’ve discussed your smoldering homestead. If your house was burning down, and all pets and loved ones (as well as liked ones, moderately disliked ones, and people you feel a general indifference towards) are already safe, what would you rescue from the inferno? Apparently the answer is supposed to reveal something about your values and what is important to you. Or rather it would, if everyone didn’t automatically reach for their laptop on the grounds that, in addition to being the most expensive and easy to carry thing in the apartment, frankly, it just plain holds the most stuff on it. Of course when the “and not your laptop” clause is added to the situation the responses expand to include pre-digital photographs, jewellery (at least one person is virtually required to cite their grandmother’s engagement ring), and maybe if they’re honest, the stash of post-op codeine pills with the unrenewable prescription. On the whole, it’s going to be some family jewellery, a grandfather’s war medal or some other trinket already prominently displayed in the apartment or on their person. Basically, you learn absolutely nothing new about your companions; just a rehashing of their pride and joy which they already take every chance to highlight.
I suppose this might take on a new degree of credibility or interest if you have actually found yourself in this situation and knew all occupants of your building were safe and a handsome fireman had your laptop tucked under his arm, leaving your hands free to collect one souvenir from your home moments before a smoky hellish ball of flames engulfs it all. However, fire standards being what they are today, the majority of people are fortunate enough to make it through their lives without experiencing this. Nonetheless, either in reality or in the realm of the hypothetical, it still seems a fairly useless indicator of a person’s character.
I found myself pondering this the other week when I discovered myself in a remotely similar situation. Similar, but much more commonplace and much more conducive to self-exploration. Also, much less life-threatening with less heroism involved, although it’s best not to dwell on that as it makes me look petty and small. This catalyst for introspection seems to be an inevitable point in most relationships and it caught me off-guard last week.
Dinner is winding down. It’s getting late and the sad realization that it’s a weeknight has presented itself. In the past, this hasn’t posed too much of an inconvenience for me; I get up and shower, then the Boy showers while I dry and straighten my hair and get dressed. We both leave the house by 7:30 and everyone gets to work on time. Well, if you want to be specific about it, I get to work on time, he loiters in a café then presumably wanders the streets until it’s time for him to go to work, at which point he stills arrives before the rest of his office. As we sort out the tip and finish our wine, it happens. The dreaded question slips out of his mouth; can’t he stay in bed an extra hour after I’ve left? The flat door locks automatically when it’s shut. Only someone with mild paranoia with neuroses aplenty would have a problem with it after we’ve known each other this long, right? I open and close my mouth a few times. A sputtering noise may have unconsciously escaped, I can’t be sure. Deep inside my head a little man in a lab coat is yelling at his staff while beating a pointing stick against a formula-ridden chalk board and cursing an oversized hamster on the wheel to run faster and speed up the thought process. There must be some valid reason why he can’t stay that extra hour. The excuses ricochet off the walls of my skull and I grasp desperately for one with a shred of credibility. The bed is spring-loaded and automatically folds up into the wall at 7:35, and you might be hideously decapitated as a result. I need someone to escort me to the train station in case I lose my way. I treasure the extra minutes we have together as we walk out of the house together. I keep an ill-tempered cobra named Marcel in a basket in the closet and only I know the right song to play on my snake-charming pipe to pacify him. I look searchingly into his eyes and wonder if he’s dumb enough or drunk enough to believe any of these.
Apparently, sometimes honesty is the best policy. The hamster wipes his sweaty brow with his little paw and slows to a jog on the wheel. The man in the lab coat shrugs in defeat as my brain and mouth agree on a reply. “Of course that’s fine. But, no rummaging.” He laughs and kisses me on the forehead. “Seriously, I’ll know and I’ll be fucking pissed.” The smile fades from his face for a moment before I lightheartedly laugh and he joins in. “Seriously, though…I will harm you.”
* * *
Normally, when the alarm starts its hideous faux-cricket chirping at the crack of dawn I complain bitterly and ignore it for a few minutes before clumsily fumbling around and resetting it for later. Today I silence it after its first electronic chirp and am instantly wide awake. I gently stroke the Boy’s hair until he seems lulled back into a deep sleep. His lack of acknowledgment of my finger softly prodding between his vertebrae is encouraging. The clock tells me I have exactly ten minutes to perform my covert task before I start getting ready and the shower and various hair appliances inevitably compromise his slumber. Ten minutes to get the flat ready for any manner of potential rummaging.
When 7:28 arrives I’m dressed, made-up and perched on the edge of the bed in shoes and trenchcoat. He awakes sleepily as I say goodbye. “You’re sure it’s alright if I stay?” I kiss my finger and place it on the tip of his nose, “Of course, take all the time you need.” He slides deeper beneath the covers with a contented smile gracing his lips as I confidently stride out the door.
* * *
That’s it. Those precious Proustian minutes between sleep and wake. What are you so desperate to hide and keep revealed from prying eyes. What do you already keep hidden in your flat that you feel the need to hide even more deeply in case someone does a little investigative journalism in your absence? That’s what reveals most about you, not some trinket you display in a case, a frame, or on a delicate chain around your neck. In some ways, it’s even more pressing than the fire question. If you make the wrong choice in the hypothetical fire, all your rejected choices go up in flames and can’t return to haunt you. Here, your rejected choices risk public disclosure, the very thing you are most desperate to avoid.
So, what is it? What do you slide into an envelope and push to the centre of the space under the bed with a broom handle (before snapping the broom handle and making a mental note to buy a new one on the way home from work)? What do you stuff into your well-chosen oversized tote and take with you to the office that day? An assortment of pay stubs? A file with cut outs from bridal magazines, colour swatches and sketches of wedding dresses? Your most scandalous lingerie that you save for Mr. Little-Something-Something-On-The-Side? Your fat pants or skinny jeans? Very recent cards from ex-boyfriends whom you’ve sworn you were out of contact with? Invoices from your cosmetic surgeon? The latest, and already affectionately well read, Tiffany’s catalogue with post-it flags marking pages with your choice cuts of diamond engagement rings? Spare me knowing that you aspire to write a book, want to go back in time to ancient Egypt, and that your dream job is to be a screenwriter. I have no doubt that you do want to go to Australia before you die, invite Oscar Wilde to your dinner party, and interview Jesus while he hangs like a limp haddock on the cross. I want to know what you’re hiding in your apartment that you don’t want your date or anyone else to find.
As for me, I’ll never tell. However, I will say that when I returned that evening before I had a chance to look for hints of rummaging I found my wall clock lying on the floor with one hand slightly bent. As an apology later revealed, sometimes you also need to be concerned that someone will attempt to put a battery in your forever-motionless clock and it will inadvertently slide off the hook on the wall when the front door is closed. I thought had prepared the place for everything, but hadn’t anticipated that.
Friday, 25 July 2008
coconut.
Sunday.
I meet the redhead in the baggage claim hall of the Malaga Airport. We’re both rather bedraggled after sleepless nights spent in our respective airports before boarding obscenely early flights out of the U.K. for the Costa Del Sol. We make our way through a sea of tourists. Families who all appear to be vacationing on the ‘half a dozen snotty-nosed pox-ridden children or more’ discount plan, and London financier boys looking suspiciously fastidious despite their softly crumpled Lacoste leisure wear and dragging golf bags the size of 2-seater Peugeots behind them.
The journey from the airport to the hotel runs like clockwork. We master both the metro system and pleasantries with the Spanish cab driver. Our dignity appears to be regained in the area of foreign transit after a setback resulting from several embarrassing gaffes in the labyrinthine metro system of Brussels a few months back. Of course, we dejectedly note, we only get these things right when we don’t have witnesses. Inevitably, elevator signs are mistaken for washrooms and accidental ventures into dodgy ends of cities before being rescued from potential muggers by sweet old French women only occur when an audience is present to shake it’s head in disbelief. Nonetheless, this does little to tarnish the glory of our masterful travel skills exhibited here. Take that, Magellan! I’ll see you one circumnavigation of the globe and raise you one seamless trip from the Malaga Airport to the cutest little boutique hotel you’ll find nestled in the pseudo-red light district of the city centre.
Naturally after a sleepless night and upon entering a climate fifteen degrees hotter than what you’re used to, there’s only one sensible thing to do at the hottest point of the day. We put our smashing idea into action and hike up the slick, blazing hot marble tiles to the Castillo Gibralfaro atop the local mountain, clad in flip flops and sundresses. We marvel at the views of the city centre, the bull ring, and the sea before dragging our exhausted, slightly parched and slightly crispy bodies back to the hotel.
We sprawl out in our hotel room trying to find an English television channel featuring anything other than an irate newscaster banging his fists on the desk and demanding David Remnick’s crucifixion for the Obama New Yorker cover while we toast our highly successful first day of vacation. Sure we’ve had some minor travel mishaps in the past –suitcases stuck in the underground gates, trains accidentally exited in the middle of the countryside, overweight luggage prompting fistfuls of clothes being heaped in garbage bins, pill popping cab drivers, sobbing conversations with British Airways attendants while waving battered shoes in the air for dramatic effect – but that’s in the past. Those days of young travelling naivety are behind us, replaced by pure relaxation.
Monday.
Glad we got off to a good start yesterday. This is the only full day we’re in Malaga before we venture out to the villa in the countryside. There’s so much gorgeous city to take in, it’s going to be a full day, starting of course with the Picasso Gallery which is a quick and easy walk from the hotel.
***
Fuck. After some time spent locating the gallery (I’m sorry, but that four story Picasso mural hanging across the building really is not a clear enough indicator of the entrance) we find that the gallery is closed on Mondays. Not a problem as we’ve got plenty of other stuff on the agenda. Onto the cathedral.
Not only does it score high marks for being easier to locate than the gallery, but the cathedral is genuinely lovely. Sandstone and imposing, although the redhead notes that it could be improved by the addition of a few gargoyles. There are some great views of the façade from the courtyard and we stop for a photo session. Oh look, a charming Spanish peasant is offering us carnations. Better wave her and the flowers away. Ningunos gracias. Alright, she’s insisting we keep the flowers in exchange for a few pennies. We rummage for any coins we can find in our possession. Oh god, she’s ranting rather loudly now. Either it’s some sort of blessing or she’s speaking in tongues. Dammit, why isn’t this is the phrase book? She’s pulling on the redhead’s purse. And now, she’s repeatedly stabbing my clavicle with a flower stem. This is all very bizarre: perhaps it’s a religious custom, or how they welcome visitors into the church. Well, the peasant is now yelling into the redhead’s purse and attempting to shove flowers down the top of my dress while ranting louder than ever. I think we’ve seen enough of the cathedral and it’s about time for a beverage.
***
Fuck. Upon opening my wallet to pay for my beverage I find that the peasant has absconded with a good sized roll of bills. I’ve just been robbed in a church by a praying woman wielding flowers. Apparently God does exist, and he’s giving me the finger.
A brief search of the grounds reveals that the peasant has conveniently vanished into thin air or, quite possibly, the local Hilton. We walk towards the port in an attempt to salvage the rest of the day when the redhead has her first encounter with a local: an elderly man yelling excitedly at her while he alternates between flapping his arms wildly and pointing at her bare legs. “Ay dios mio! Muy blanco! Muy blanco!” Or, as some flipping through our phrase books reveals, “Oh my God, very white! Very White!”
We walk our very poor, very pale selves back to the hotel and bask in the prospect of heading out to the villa in the morning. The city is beautiful, but maybe we’ll fare better on its outskirts.
Tuesday morning.
As it turns out, the villa is not so much on the city outskirts as it is a two and half hour drive through the mountains away from the city. This small detail comes as a surprise to us and our charming host who has joined us for the journey to the countryside.
The villa is a classic red stucco affair, conveniently placed between the mountains, the golf course and the beach. That’s really all the geography I need for this holiday. I notice how eerily silent it is as I survey the pool over the top of my sunglasses from the back veranda. The redhead is scurrying around the house with her open laptop, trailing cables on the terra cotta tiles, feverishly trying to find an internet connection. Apparently there’s no phone, internet or other communication with the outside world. I’m not quite sure how we are going to occupy our time. This will be an interesting week. I predict the redhead will catch wild pigeons and attempt to persuade them to carry messages back to civilization. We’re not really accustomed to venturing away from communication technologies or out of the comforts of the city, and I’m still labouring under the impression that using a coffee maker in one’s own kitchen instead of walking to the café makes one something of a pioneer. Our host seems confused at our slight discomfort in the silence and isolation. Apparently she’s eased right into this atmosphere of so-called relaxation. It shall be an interesting week.
Tuesday afternoon.
I’m getting into the spirit of island living. I realize we’re not actually on an island, but I’m on holiday and by a pool where it’s hot and sunny – in lieu of any maps being present, I shall think of it as an island lifestyle. Apparently being in flip flops and a sundress is quite substantially better than pinstripes and heels. I’m even enjoying the sun, albeit from the shade of a hat so large that I had to upgrade my luggage size to accommodate it. (In attempt to be helpful, the redhead suggested I take advantage of the airline’s luggage offer for skis and other “specialized and oversized sporting equipment” to check in the hat. Convenient as it may have been, I refused to have my hat classified as “oversized equipment”. That might have given the impression of being high maintenance.) Nonetheless, the shade is welcome in the heat, although one might think the frostiness between the redhead and our host would cool things down a bit.
No doubt that will all be over by tomorrow.
Wednesday.
My worries about filling up the days without work or technology have been put to rest. I’ve found a rigorous island schedule to fill my days.
1.) Sun until hot. Pool until wet. Sun until dry and hot. Shade until cooled off. Repeat.
2.) Reading. In the pool. In the sun. In the shade.
The great thing about all this swimming is that you don’t need to shower in the morning! There’s no point in getting dressed either, it’s all bathing suits and big floppy hats. Why doesn’t everyone live like this all the time?
Glad I’m keeping my schedule full as it avoids being in between the others. The redhead and the host haven’t spoken at all and are occupying opposite sides of the villa. I’m choosing to believe this is the kind of comfortable silence between old friends who’ve graduated beyond verbal communication. They’ll be chattering away in no time. I can’t worry about this now, I’m too busy with my island schedule.
Wednesday evening.
I’ve just discovered a hammock on the porch. Perhaps this is God’s apology for giving me the finger via his peasant thief. I’ve been taking naps in the hammock punctuated by breaks of consciousness to peer over my toes at the mountains. This may be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m thinking about getting rid of my bed at home and replacing it with a hammock. For practical reasons I’ll invest in a guest hammock to keep rolled up in the closet that I’ll pull out when I have company.
Thursday morning.
Skipped down to breakfast in a bathing suit and wrap to find the redhead eating green olives in the breakfast room. She looks at me funny which, as she tells me later, is attributed to her observing me mixing various tropical juices in a glass. After eliminating the possibility that I’m making Pina Colodas at breakfast, she is mystified by my drinking fruit juice as she’s never seen it happen. Then again, I point out, I’ve also never voluntarily stopped showering and bothering to get dressed. Upon this admission, she cracks the first smile I’ve seen since we arrived at the villa and suggests I get a coconut to break in half and use as a cup for my tropical beverages.
Thursday afternoon.
After hours of silence, host and redhead have begun to exchange pleasantries on the porch while I observe from the hammock. A gentle breeze prompts a worrying creaking noise to be emitted by the hook securing the hammock to the wall. “If you fall out of that hammock I will never stop laughing at you,” remarks the redhead, not looking up from reshuffling her cards for her game of solitaire.
Thursday evening.
We await the arrival of our charming host’s family to the villa from the beachside bar over sangria. Although still tenuous, the relations between the host and the redhead seem to be improving. We wander back to the villa to the front hall bursting with luggage and people popping out of every corner. The island silence is gone.
Introductions are largely omitted, but one girl is kind enough to ask, while literally looking down her nose at us from her perch on the veranda railing, “So, like, who are you, and what are you doing here?” I’m imagining the pleasing slapping sound my sandal-clad foot would make while a well-aimed kick unseats her from the veranda and relocates her into the pool below. I marvel at her ability to intone each and every sentence in exact opposition to the correct manner. Her flaws exhibit a precision and consistency that is aspired to by many an elite Swiss watch maker. I gather, through her largely incoherent ramblings, that she’s summering in Italy while completing the fifth year of her four year degree at a university prized as much for its mediocrity among students as for the variety of excellent shellfish restaurants in close proximity to the campus.
Three times over the next few hours during faux pleasantries I’m asked about my career. Each time the question “How did you manage to get a job?” is the main focal point, causing me some confusion. “They don’t apply for jobs or make resumes. They just get jobs from their families,” the redhead explains in the deserted kitchen as the hoards prepare to head out for dinner while I try to coax a little more coconut rum into my glass of pineapple juice in an effort to dull my growing sense of annoyance at these intruders to my island paradise.
Thursday dinner.
Stories of boarding school shenanigans and the mocking of the day students at said boarding schools are ricocheting off the walls during dinner and I begin to envy the waiters who don’t speak a word of English. How pleasant the happy chatter of gibberish must sound to them.
Little Miss Summering in Italy omits periodic gems of brilliance including, “Like, do you, like, think the, like, waiter could like teach me Spanish in, like, ten minutes?” I’m convinced the violent lilting of her speech is making me seasick. I toy with my salad fork while thinking back to first year neuro-anatomy lessons and trying to recall the location of my cerebellum while thinking how much more pleasurable it would be to insert my fork there than endure another moment of this Sartrean hell.
From another corner of the table I hear a few members of the party harkening back to their glorious high school days. The glory days before you reach university age and admissions rest on more than the clearing of a cheque. (Not surprisingly, the bulk of stories here end after the high school diploma when the name dropping becomes significantly less prestigious.) While discussing the distinguishing factors between various boarding schools the words, “It’s all Asians and Jews, but sometimes they’ll throw in a Caucasian to mix things up” reach my ears preceding a shrill giggle.
“First bus back to the city tomorrow,” says the redhead. I’m unsure if it’s a question or a statement of fact. Either way, I wish she’d said tonight.
Friday.
We hurriedly pack our belongings to escape from our fallen paradise. The redhead’s arms are dotted with swollen bug bites after a night spent sleeping on a sofa practically on the veranda. Bidding a farewell to our charming host we head for the door dragging our luggage and big floppy hats. “Don’t forget the coconut rum,” I’m reminded. Is it too late? Can I make it back to the kitchen for it without running into anyone? I can already hear people stirring in the rooms upstairs. I scurry back and stuff the chilled bottle into my purse. The bottle neck sticks up about 4 inches over the top. We’re like the marines: we don’t leave anyone behind.
And this is how we bid our hasty goodbye to the villa and my island life. We may have been shuffling down a dusty Spanish road through a golf course, but to me, we’re being airlifted out a lush Vietnamese jungle. My one hand clings desperately onto the undercarriage of the helicopter, while the other trails at my side clutching the bottle of coconut rum.
Friday afternoon.
The bus pulls into Malaga after a pleasant drive through the mountains. Most of the journey is spent shaking our heads bewilderedly and jotting down some of the more outrageous quotations into notebooks. Upon arrival, I pull the redhead’s suitcase of the luggage storage under the bus. Mine is no where to be seen. The bus is getting ready to leave and I look away to try and get the driver’s attention. When I look back I appear to be alone. I realize that the redhead has climbed into the storage area in search of my bag. This has got to be a terrible idea. The only Spanish I’ve mastered involves variations of “Thank you” and “Good night”, neither of which is an especially good substitute for, “Please stop driving away as you have prematurely closed the luggage doors and my friend is still inside looking for my bag.”
A few more minutes of rummaging and she emerges with my bag. I’m relieved it’s been found but more relieved she didn’t get stuck in the airless metal compartment. I tell her that I appreciate her selfless effort. “Are you kidding?” she’s asks, incredulous, “You already had your cash stolen, if your bag was gone, there’s no way I was coming out.” Apparently she would rather risk asphyxiation hiding inside a vehicle headed towards an unknown destination than face the inevitable hysteria involved in the reaction to another robbery. Smart girl.
Friday night – Saturday night.
Back ensconced in the city. I’ve returned to showering and putting on real clothes, although the flip flops remain. I’m only drinking tropical juice in nightly cocktail form. Slowly, island living is being bled from my veins.
The Picasso gallery is now open, and is spectacular. We spend two glorious days exploring the city, eating paella and not being robbed blind in the streets. Most of Saturday is spent lying on the beach, eating mango popsicles and getting up every 20 minutes to rotate our lounge chairs into the every-moving shade of our cabana hut. Perfection.
Sunday.
I’m shocked when a black London city cab pulls up in response to concierge’s call. I wonder if they’re planning to drive me home. There’s no way I’m picking up the tab on that taxi metre.
Inside the cab I find adverts boasting ‘real London cabs and service on location in Spain’. Back in real clothes, complete with closed toe shoes, tucked inside the dark taxi I almost feel at home already. This is how I leave the Costa Del Sol, with a black cab as a hearse carrying the lifeless form of my island living alter ego back to the airport.
I meet the redhead in the baggage claim hall of the Malaga Airport. We’re both rather bedraggled after sleepless nights spent in our respective airports before boarding obscenely early flights out of the U.K. for the Costa Del Sol. We make our way through a sea of tourists. Families who all appear to be vacationing on the ‘half a dozen snotty-nosed pox-ridden children or more’ discount plan, and London financier boys looking suspiciously fastidious despite their softly crumpled Lacoste leisure wear and dragging golf bags the size of 2-seater Peugeots behind them.
The journey from the airport to the hotel runs like clockwork. We master both the metro system and pleasantries with the Spanish cab driver. Our dignity appears to be regained in the area of foreign transit after a setback resulting from several embarrassing gaffes in the labyrinthine metro system of Brussels a few months back. Of course, we dejectedly note, we only get these things right when we don’t have witnesses. Inevitably, elevator signs are mistaken for washrooms and accidental ventures into dodgy ends of cities before being rescued from potential muggers by sweet old French women only occur when an audience is present to shake it’s head in disbelief. Nonetheless, this does little to tarnish the glory of our masterful travel skills exhibited here. Take that, Magellan! I’ll see you one circumnavigation of the globe and raise you one seamless trip from the Malaga Airport to the cutest little boutique hotel you’ll find nestled in the pseudo-red light district of the city centre.
Naturally after a sleepless night and upon entering a climate fifteen degrees hotter than what you’re used to, there’s only one sensible thing to do at the hottest point of the day. We put our smashing idea into action and hike up the slick, blazing hot marble tiles to the Castillo Gibralfaro atop the local mountain, clad in flip flops and sundresses. We marvel at the views of the city centre, the bull ring, and the sea before dragging our exhausted, slightly parched and slightly crispy bodies back to the hotel.
We sprawl out in our hotel room trying to find an English television channel featuring anything other than an irate newscaster banging his fists on the desk and demanding David Remnick’s crucifixion for the Obama New Yorker cover while we toast our highly successful first day of vacation. Sure we’ve had some minor travel mishaps in the past –suitcases stuck in the underground gates, trains accidentally exited in the middle of the countryside, overweight luggage prompting fistfuls of clothes being heaped in garbage bins, pill popping cab drivers, sobbing conversations with British Airways attendants while waving battered shoes in the air for dramatic effect – but that’s in the past. Those days of young travelling naivety are behind us, replaced by pure relaxation.
Monday.
Glad we got off to a good start yesterday. This is the only full day we’re in Malaga before we venture out to the villa in the countryside. There’s so much gorgeous city to take in, it’s going to be a full day, starting of course with the Picasso Gallery which is a quick and easy walk from the hotel.
***
Fuck. After some time spent locating the gallery (I’m sorry, but that four story Picasso mural hanging across the building really is not a clear enough indicator of the entrance) we find that the gallery is closed on Mondays. Not a problem as we’ve got plenty of other stuff on the agenda. Onto the cathedral.
Not only does it score high marks for being easier to locate than the gallery, but the cathedral is genuinely lovely. Sandstone and imposing, although the redhead notes that it could be improved by the addition of a few gargoyles. There are some great views of the façade from the courtyard and we stop for a photo session. Oh look, a charming Spanish peasant is offering us carnations. Better wave her and the flowers away. Ningunos gracias. Alright, she’s insisting we keep the flowers in exchange for a few pennies. We rummage for any coins we can find in our possession. Oh god, she’s ranting rather loudly now. Either it’s some sort of blessing or she’s speaking in tongues. Dammit, why isn’t this is the phrase book? She’s pulling on the redhead’s purse. And now, she’s repeatedly stabbing my clavicle with a flower stem. This is all very bizarre: perhaps it’s a religious custom, or how they welcome visitors into the church. Well, the peasant is now yelling into the redhead’s purse and attempting to shove flowers down the top of my dress while ranting louder than ever. I think we’ve seen enough of the cathedral and it’s about time for a beverage.
***
Fuck. Upon opening my wallet to pay for my beverage I find that the peasant has absconded with a good sized roll of bills. I’ve just been robbed in a church by a praying woman wielding flowers. Apparently God does exist, and he’s giving me the finger.
A brief search of the grounds reveals that the peasant has conveniently vanished into thin air or, quite possibly, the local Hilton. We walk towards the port in an attempt to salvage the rest of the day when the redhead has her first encounter with a local: an elderly man yelling excitedly at her while he alternates between flapping his arms wildly and pointing at her bare legs. “Ay dios mio! Muy blanco! Muy blanco!” Or, as some flipping through our phrase books reveals, “Oh my God, very white! Very White!”
We walk our very poor, very pale selves back to the hotel and bask in the prospect of heading out to the villa in the morning. The city is beautiful, but maybe we’ll fare better on its outskirts.
Tuesday morning.
As it turns out, the villa is not so much on the city outskirts as it is a two and half hour drive through the mountains away from the city. This small detail comes as a surprise to us and our charming host who has joined us for the journey to the countryside.
The villa is a classic red stucco affair, conveniently placed between the mountains, the golf course and the beach. That’s really all the geography I need for this holiday. I notice how eerily silent it is as I survey the pool over the top of my sunglasses from the back veranda. The redhead is scurrying around the house with her open laptop, trailing cables on the terra cotta tiles, feverishly trying to find an internet connection. Apparently there’s no phone, internet or other communication with the outside world. I’m not quite sure how we are going to occupy our time. This will be an interesting week. I predict the redhead will catch wild pigeons and attempt to persuade them to carry messages back to civilization. We’re not really accustomed to venturing away from communication technologies or out of the comforts of the city, and I’m still labouring under the impression that using a coffee maker in one’s own kitchen instead of walking to the café makes one something of a pioneer. Our host seems confused at our slight discomfort in the silence and isolation. Apparently she’s eased right into this atmosphere of so-called relaxation. It shall be an interesting week.
Tuesday afternoon.
I’m getting into the spirit of island living. I realize we’re not actually on an island, but I’m on holiday and by a pool where it’s hot and sunny – in lieu of any maps being present, I shall think of it as an island lifestyle. Apparently being in flip flops and a sundress is quite substantially better than pinstripes and heels. I’m even enjoying the sun, albeit from the shade of a hat so large that I had to upgrade my luggage size to accommodate it. (In attempt to be helpful, the redhead suggested I take advantage of the airline’s luggage offer for skis and other “specialized and oversized sporting equipment” to check in the hat. Convenient as it may have been, I refused to have my hat classified as “oversized equipment”. That might have given the impression of being high maintenance.) Nonetheless, the shade is welcome in the heat, although one might think the frostiness between the redhead and our host would cool things down a bit.
No doubt that will all be over by tomorrow.
Wednesday.
My worries about filling up the days without work or technology have been put to rest. I’ve found a rigorous island schedule to fill my days.
1.) Sun until hot. Pool until wet. Sun until dry and hot. Shade until cooled off. Repeat.
2.) Reading. In the pool. In the sun. In the shade.
The great thing about all this swimming is that you don’t need to shower in the morning! There’s no point in getting dressed either, it’s all bathing suits and big floppy hats. Why doesn’t everyone live like this all the time?
Glad I’m keeping my schedule full as it avoids being in between the others. The redhead and the host haven’t spoken at all and are occupying opposite sides of the villa. I’m choosing to believe this is the kind of comfortable silence between old friends who’ve graduated beyond verbal communication. They’ll be chattering away in no time. I can’t worry about this now, I’m too busy with my island schedule.
Wednesday evening.
I’ve just discovered a hammock on the porch. Perhaps this is God’s apology for giving me the finger via his peasant thief. I’ve been taking naps in the hammock punctuated by breaks of consciousness to peer over my toes at the mountains. This may be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m thinking about getting rid of my bed at home and replacing it with a hammock. For practical reasons I’ll invest in a guest hammock to keep rolled up in the closet that I’ll pull out when I have company.
Thursday morning.
Skipped down to breakfast in a bathing suit and wrap to find the redhead eating green olives in the breakfast room. She looks at me funny which, as she tells me later, is attributed to her observing me mixing various tropical juices in a glass. After eliminating the possibility that I’m making Pina Colodas at breakfast, she is mystified by my drinking fruit juice as she’s never seen it happen. Then again, I point out, I’ve also never voluntarily stopped showering and bothering to get dressed. Upon this admission, she cracks the first smile I’ve seen since we arrived at the villa and suggests I get a coconut to break in half and use as a cup for my tropical beverages.
Thursday afternoon.
After hours of silence, host and redhead have begun to exchange pleasantries on the porch while I observe from the hammock. A gentle breeze prompts a worrying creaking noise to be emitted by the hook securing the hammock to the wall. “If you fall out of that hammock I will never stop laughing at you,” remarks the redhead, not looking up from reshuffling her cards for her game of solitaire.
Thursday evening.
We await the arrival of our charming host’s family to the villa from the beachside bar over sangria. Although still tenuous, the relations between the host and the redhead seem to be improving. We wander back to the villa to the front hall bursting with luggage and people popping out of every corner. The island silence is gone.
Introductions are largely omitted, but one girl is kind enough to ask, while literally looking down her nose at us from her perch on the veranda railing, “So, like, who are you, and what are you doing here?” I’m imagining the pleasing slapping sound my sandal-clad foot would make while a well-aimed kick unseats her from the veranda and relocates her into the pool below. I marvel at her ability to intone each and every sentence in exact opposition to the correct manner. Her flaws exhibit a precision and consistency that is aspired to by many an elite Swiss watch maker. I gather, through her largely incoherent ramblings, that she’s summering in Italy while completing the fifth year of her four year degree at a university prized as much for its mediocrity among students as for the variety of excellent shellfish restaurants in close proximity to the campus.
Three times over the next few hours during faux pleasantries I’m asked about my career. Each time the question “How did you manage to get a job?” is the main focal point, causing me some confusion. “They don’t apply for jobs or make resumes. They just get jobs from their families,” the redhead explains in the deserted kitchen as the hoards prepare to head out for dinner while I try to coax a little more coconut rum into my glass of pineapple juice in an effort to dull my growing sense of annoyance at these intruders to my island paradise.
Thursday dinner.
Stories of boarding school shenanigans and the mocking of the day students at said boarding schools are ricocheting off the walls during dinner and I begin to envy the waiters who don’t speak a word of English. How pleasant the happy chatter of gibberish must sound to them.
Little Miss Summering in Italy omits periodic gems of brilliance including, “Like, do you, like, think the, like, waiter could like teach me Spanish in, like, ten minutes?” I’m convinced the violent lilting of her speech is making me seasick. I toy with my salad fork while thinking back to first year neuro-anatomy lessons and trying to recall the location of my cerebellum while thinking how much more pleasurable it would be to insert my fork there than endure another moment of this Sartrean hell.
From another corner of the table I hear a few members of the party harkening back to their glorious high school days. The glory days before you reach university age and admissions rest on more than the clearing of a cheque. (Not surprisingly, the bulk of stories here end after the high school diploma when the name dropping becomes significantly less prestigious.) While discussing the distinguishing factors between various boarding schools the words, “It’s all Asians and Jews, but sometimes they’ll throw in a Caucasian to mix things up” reach my ears preceding a shrill giggle.
“First bus back to the city tomorrow,” says the redhead. I’m unsure if it’s a question or a statement of fact. Either way, I wish she’d said tonight.
Friday.
We hurriedly pack our belongings to escape from our fallen paradise. The redhead’s arms are dotted with swollen bug bites after a night spent sleeping on a sofa practically on the veranda. Bidding a farewell to our charming host we head for the door dragging our luggage and big floppy hats. “Don’t forget the coconut rum,” I’m reminded. Is it too late? Can I make it back to the kitchen for it without running into anyone? I can already hear people stirring in the rooms upstairs. I scurry back and stuff the chilled bottle into my purse. The bottle neck sticks up about 4 inches over the top. We’re like the marines: we don’t leave anyone behind.
And this is how we bid our hasty goodbye to the villa and my island life. We may have been shuffling down a dusty Spanish road through a golf course, but to me, we’re being airlifted out a lush Vietnamese jungle. My one hand clings desperately onto the undercarriage of the helicopter, while the other trails at my side clutching the bottle of coconut rum.
Friday afternoon.
The bus pulls into Malaga after a pleasant drive through the mountains. Most of the journey is spent shaking our heads bewilderedly and jotting down some of the more outrageous quotations into notebooks. Upon arrival, I pull the redhead’s suitcase of the luggage storage under the bus. Mine is no where to be seen. The bus is getting ready to leave and I look away to try and get the driver’s attention. When I look back I appear to be alone. I realize that the redhead has climbed into the storage area in search of my bag. This has got to be a terrible idea. The only Spanish I’ve mastered involves variations of “Thank you” and “Good night”, neither of which is an especially good substitute for, “Please stop driving away as you have prematurely closed the luggage doors and my friend is still inside looking for my bag.”
A few more minutes of rummaging and she emerges with my bag. I’m relieved it’s been found but more relieved she didn’t get stuck in the airless metal compartment. I tell her that I appreciate her selfless effort. “Are you kidding?” she’s asks, incredulous, “You already had your cash stolen, if your bag was gone, there’s no way I was coming out.” Apparently she would rather risk asphyxiation hiding inside a vehicle headed towards an unknown destination than face the inevitable hysteria involved in the reaction to another robbery. Smart girl.
Friday night – Saturday night.
Back ensconced in the city. I’ve returned to showering and putting on real clothes, although the flip flops remain. I’m only drinking tropical juice in nightly cocktail form. Slowly, island living is being bled from my veins.
The Picasso gallery is now open, and is spectacular. We spend two glorious days exploring the city, eating paella and not being robbed blind in the streets. Most of Saturday is spent lying on the beach, eating mango popsicles and getting up every 20 minutes to rotate our lounge chairs into the every-moving shade of our cabana hut. Perfection.
Sunday.
I’m shocked when a black London city cab pulls up in response to concierge’s call. I wonder if they’re planning to drive me home. There’s no way I’m picking up the tab on that taxi metre.
Inside the cab I find adverts boasting ‘real London cabs and service on location in Spain’. Back in real clothes, complete with closed toe shoes, tucked inside the dark taxi I almost feel at home already. This is how I leave the Costa Del Sol, with a black cab as a hearse carrying the lifeless form of my island living alter ego back to the airport.
Sunday, 8 June 2008
snub.
Dear London,
We need to talk. Last night you had me in bed by 11:30pm. Now, I don’t know what kind of thoughts are running through your debauchery-ridden mind, but before I start getting some sort of horrid, reprehensible reputation, I need to set the record straight. You really should know that I’m just not that kind of girl.
11:30pm on a Saturday and I’m back in for the night. Hair in a ponytail, dressed in my silk sheep-print pajamas, propped up against a pile of merlot pillows, reading through my emails and sipping tea. Of course, just to ensure that I get the full effect of you and your pal the universe giving me the finger, I seem to have email upon email of ‘wish you were’ messages touting shopping, patios, swimming, cocktails, and the like, accompanied by a series of text messages popping up throughout the night, with the kind of progressive misspellings and incohereny indicative of a wild night at the Blue Bamboo.
I know you’re commonly known as an “insider’s city,” but really, darling, it’s been almost eight months. Aren’t you ready to let me in yet? This tea sipping, correspondence on weekends just won’t do anymore. I have no interest in hearing the mocking and pitying drawls of, “it’s so nice to have those weekends sometimes”. Yes, it is admittedly very nice sometimes, and those times are more commonly grouped together and referred to as “retirement”.
A recent chat with a friend who doesn’t live in the U.K., but periodically passes through on business cemented how much you’re shunning me, London. “So what are we going to do when I’m in town?” says the friend. A slight wave of panic washes over me. “Shopping?” I tentatively suggest, as his penchant for Hermes ties flashes through my mind. Friend proceeds to excitedly rattle off his list of preferred Bond Street and Mayfair boutiques and I listen thoughtfully. “Maybe you should be showing me around” I meekly suggest. This seems to be well received, and the next thing I know I’m being recommended the hot new Japanese steakhouse in town. Although I don’t eat meat, I’m assured the chef will be willing to whip up something for me. At this point I’m hanging my head in shame. Shouldn’t I be making these suggestions instead of frantically trying to jot all this down onto a post-it note with chocolate brown eyeliner?
A few weeks ago, an acquaintance passing through town en route to Europe tells me about her friends who have just moved to my corner of the city. They can't join us for Pad Thai in Portabello Road because they’re dining at Nobu in Canary Wharf. I self-consciously rub my forehead, where I’m sure the slight tingling can be attributed to the words “social pariah” which have been imprinted there with a cattle branding iron.
Since arriving, I seem to have become destined to be your pathetic tag-along. The girl whose social life has all the sparkle and lustre of the gently-battered lace ballet flats she steps into for schlepping around the city when it seems wasteful to bother with pretty shoes. After all, if a four inch black patent Steve Madden heel clicks on the cobblestones and no one’s around, does it make a sound?
London, my darling, I’m more than a little disheartened by you constantly pulling the velvet rope closed in front of me and leaving me out in the cold. Rather, I would be, if I were close enough to the velvet rope to be able to see it. Although, I’m sure one of my out of town friends could inform me of its precise location.
Disheartened as I am, I’m not quite ready to give up on you yet. However, if I’m not too busy and preoccupied with a rigorous social agenda to be penning you an entirely different letter in the coming months, and our troubles with intimacy haven’t dissipated, I fear we may be destined to part ways.
Let me in, or I’m getting the hell out.
Sincerely,
Snubbed, disgruntled, and in bed drinking tea.
We need to talk. Last night you had me in bed by 11:30pm. Now, I don’t know what kind of thoughts are running through your debauchery-ridden mind, but before I start getting some sort of horrid, reprehensible reputation, I need to set the record straight. You really should know that I’m just not that kind of girl.
11:30pm on a Saturday and I’m back in for the night. Hair in a ponytail, dressed in my silk sheep-print pajamas, propped up against a pile of merlot pillows, reading through my emails and sipping tea. Of course, just to ensure that I get the full effect of you and your pal the universe giving me the finger, I seem to have email upon email of ‘wish you were’ messages touting shopping, patios, swimming, cocktails, and the like, accompanied by a series of text messages popping up throughout the night, with the kind of progressive misspellings and incohereny indicative of a wild night at the Blue Bamboo.
I know you’re commonly known as an “insider’s city,” but really, darling, it’s been almost eight months. Aren’t you ready to let me in yet? This tea sipping, correspondence on weekends just won’t do anymore. I have no interest in hearing the mocking and pitying drawls of, “it’s so nice to have those weekends sometimes”. Yes, it is admittedly very nice sometimes, and those times are more commonly grouped together and referred to as “retirement”.
A recent chat with a friend who doesn’t live in the U.K., but periodically passes through on business cemented how much you’re shunning me, London. “So what are we going to do when I’m in town?” says the friend. A slight wave of panic washes over me. “Shopping?” I tentatively suggest, as his penchant for Hermes ties flashes through my mind. Friend proceeds to excitedly rattle off his list of preferred Bond Street and Mayfair boutiques and I listen thoughtfully. “Maybe you should be showing me around” I meekly suggest. This seems to be well received, and the next thing I know I’m being recommended the hot new Japanese steakhouse in town. Although I don’t eat meat, I’m assured the chef will be willing to whip up something for me. At this point I’m hanging my head in shame. Shouldn’t I be making these suggestions instead of frantically trying to jot all this down onto a post-it note with chocolate brown eyeliner?
A few weeks ago, an acquaintance passing through town en route to Europe tells me about her friends who have just moved to my corner of the city. They can't join us for Pad Thai in Portabello Road because they’re dining at Nobu in Canary Wharf. I self-consciously rub my forehead, where I’m sure the slight tingling can be attributed to the words “social pariah” which have been imprinted there with a cattle branding iron.
Since arriving, I seem to have become destined to be your pathetic tag-along. The girl whose social life has all the sparkle and lustre of the gently-battered lace ballet flats she steps into for schlepping around the city when it seems wasteful to bother with pretty shoes. After all, if a four inch black patent Steve Madden heel clicks on the cobblestones and no one’s around, does it make a sound?
London, my darling, I’m more than a little disheartened by you constantly pulling the velvet rope closed in front of me and leaving me out in the cold. Rather, I would be, if I were close enough to the velvet rope to be able to see it. Although, I’m sure one of my out of town friends could inform me of its precise location.
Disheartened as I am, I’m not quite ready to give up on you yet. However, if I’m not too busy and preoccupied with a rigorous social agenda to be penning you an entirely different letter in the coming months, and our troubles with intimacy haven’t dissipated, I fear we may be destined to part ways.
Let me in, or I’m getting the hell out.
Sincerely,
Snubbed, disgruntled, and in bed drinking tea.
Monday, 2 June 2008
flux.
A conversation prompted by some sudden life-changing news of an acquaintance led a friend and I to pause and reflect our current situations in life in relation to where we thought we’d be at this age. I’d forgotten about my plans and expectations until badgered unwittingly into reflection. About five years, I thought I pretty much knew how things would end up.
---
With my undergraduate diploma still tucked under my arm, I bid a fond farewell to my university friends, with hugs for all punctuated by one or two tasteful tears. There’s inexplicably no luggage, or furniture to move: ah yes, it’s been seen to, sent ahead. Carrying only my purse, framed diploma, and congratulatory bouquet of flowers I step aboard the train and wave farewell to my beaming parents.
One year later.
I’m living in a small one-bedroom flat in Montreal, just on the edge of the old part of the city. It’s in old brick building adorned with black wrought iron balconies and fire escapes zig-zagging over the exterior. I live with my cat, Mia, and the terrier I adopted upon moving to the city. He is somewhat pretentiously named after a famous novelist. The apartment is small and unassuming, but sleek. Dark wood floors throughout, and lilac walls in the bedroom offset by gauzy white curtains and an antique vanity. The living room houses two crisp off-white linen armchairs and a cherry wood writing desk facing out the balcony window looking over the cobbled streets below. The kitchen looks mostly unused apart from the mail and some magazines on the table and an unnecessarily elaborate espresso machine on the counter. The cat and dog’s stainless steel food bowls are neatly arranged against one wall.
I’m finishing off my Masters and moving into full time employment. Basically, I’m transitioning my university placement as an arts magazine journalist into my livelihood. I do most of my work – writing and researching – from my laptop around the city. My pretentiously-named dog often accompanies me around the cobbled-streets of Old Montreal and basks in the sun at my feet while I work on the tiny round tables of various café patios. In the winter, we move indoors and he wears a little red knit sweater. I like to work out of the house and in the city, especially in the old quarter, because it gives me a chance to work on my French with the locals.
There’s a boy. We don’t live together, but we plan to in a few years. We met during our undergrad and planned to move here to be together. In a few years, we plan on buying a town house in the city and live on the top floor while converting the rest into a few apartments for an investment. On weekend mornings we go for long winding walks through the cobbled streets of old Montreal with the pretentious terrier. We spend time perusing organic produce and tiny jars of artichokes and pesto at the market. As we leave the market he holds a paper bag of hand-labelled condiments, fruit, and fresh leafy basil poking out the top. I clasp the terrier’s lead in one hand, his hand in the other. At night we go to galleries, the theatre, and smoky jazz lounges.
My friends start receiving degrees and promotions, they get engaged, get married, and have baby showers. Everything follows a smooth progression, and I arrive at each graduation, engagement party, wedding, and baby shower with bright eyes, a big smile, and a beautifully wrapped giftbox the size of a compact car. The events take place, but only exist as ceremonies, gifts and champagne toasts. This is life; we’ve arrived. Barring the organic progression through the checklist of life accomplishments, everything is stable and safe nothing is uncertain or in flux.
---
I watch a rarely-seen tear slide down my father’s cheek and hear my mother choke back tears as she pushes a card into my hands. My laptop has just disappeared down the conveyor belt into an xray machine and I stand in my stocking feet, holding my butter-soft Nine West boots in my hand. The guard taps his magnetic wand into the gloved palm of his hand. Hot tears I didn’t know were in me, well up in my eyes as I feel my dad’s arms trembling when he wraps them around me. It’s awfully far away, my mother says. I can’t look back over my shoulder as I walk though the metallic arch and collect my bags. As the plane takes off, I look down at Pearson Airport disappearing beneath us, and Toronto twinkling gold around her and think of how many times the descent into Pearson has meant coming home. The hot tears are creeping back again, their unfamiliarity stinging the corners of my eyes.
I’m awakened in the morning by a stewardess’ hand on my shoulder as she shakes me gently. We’re landing. Groggily I pull myself into an upright position. Classy way to start my adult life, I think, as I recall waking to a jolt of turbulence a few hours ago and upon remembering that I was in a metal tube hovering above nothing but ocean, reaching for what was apparently one too many sleeping pills. I hope I wasn’t drooling on myself when she woke me.
I drag myself and my three suitcases from the airport into the middle of the city getting them stuck in the turnstiles at various underground stations. Puffy-eyed, groggy, and trying to rinse the pills and in-flight wine out of my system with bottles of water, I’ve arrived. Here I am, London. About a month and a half away from being broke, with no place to live and a second interview for an unpaid internship next week. The future’s looking rosy.
Seven months later.
I’m living in a studio flat the approximate size of a shoe in the northwest quarter of the city. My street is lined with charming stone townhouses although the one housing my flat is the definitely the least enviable. Fortunately there are some well-placed trees and hedges obscuring it. Inside, a funky metal clock adorns one of the lilac walls. It’s sat at a quarter to two so long that a thin layer of dust coats the hands. When I sleep on the right side of the bed, I’m careful not to bump my head on the kitchen counter when getting up in the morning. The flat is too small for a cat, a terrier, and most certainly for a pretentious name assigned to either. My window overlooks an overgrown backyard which, when covered in ivy in the summer, looks almost quaint. The window panes quiver when the trains from the London underground pass by, on the above-ground stretch of track a short distance away. The kitchenette looks mostly unused apart from a simple kettle and a stout blue and white teapot.
I spend, what seems to be, most waking hours at my office just outside the city, or on a train to or from the office. I work for a prominent publishing house, in the marketing department. The internship there turned into a permanent position after seven days. It comes with perks – some nice travel to Europe here and there – but on a daily basis it seems to offer more in the way of stress and a long commute. The office is open-concept: bright and sunny, complete with a gym, massage suite, library, restaurant, café, and rooftop terrace. I spend spare moments at my desk contemplating this self-contained bubble and longing for some reason to run out the front doors and feel the well-worn pavement beneath my feet and the sun upon my hair. The smokers get their fix atop the building surrounded by potted ferns and bistro-style tables. The building has been designed so not even they and their carcinogens have a reason to leave the perfectly-constructed bubble.
There’s a boy. We see each other several times a week. We commute in exactly opposite directions. Everything seems to revolve around train schedules, commuter routes, and engineering-related delays. Things are kept fun and uncomplicated. We go to the theatre, the cinema, and on weekend mornings to the breakfast place with the best scrambled eggs in the city. We eat crepes and drink wine in Nice. I watch him play the Blackjack tables in Monte Carlo and he watches me kick off my sandals and step into the sea at Cannes.
I miss my friends from home terribly and worry that they’ve forgotten about me since I’ve moved away. I miss the student social life and having a full social calendar. I often think about the half-completed and ultimately discarded grad school and journalism school application forms. I articulate this and other anxieties to my fellow ex-patriot: the only person I know in the country from home. Although she lives hours away, we talk at least twice a day and I feel like she’s always close by. She listens to my regrets and uncertainties and helps keep me sane. In turn, I listen to her tears and sadness about a broken heart, family issues, and post-graduation angst. My friends are all succeeding in remarkable ways, but their successes are scattered amongst less celebratory events. Everything seems complicated and ever-changing. Heartbreak, health scares, infidelity, birth control slips, dating and career stresses are just as prevalent as promotions, graduations, engagements, and world travels. Events are marked by consequences and repercussions, not just gift cards, toasts, and flowers. It’s too easy to be the happy bringer of gifts in times of triumphs. It’s the times in between where the offerings of advice, words of comfort, and reservation of judgment mean something more.
Apparently there’s no arrival, as such. The stasis we assumed marked adulthood doesn’t exist. The only consistence seems to be the constant state of flux. It’s a little frightening, but comforting at the same time because if we had already arrived, we’d have nowhere left to go.
---
With my undergraduate diploma still tucked under my arm, I bid a fond farewell to my university friends, with hugs for all punctuated by one or two tasteful tears. There’s inexplicably no luggage, or furniture to move: ah yes, it’s been seen to, sent ahead. Carrying only my purse, framed diploma, and congratulatory bouquet of flowers I step aboard the train and wave farewell to my beaming parents.
One year later.
I’m living in a small one-bedroom flat in Montreal, just on the edge of the old part of the city. It’s in old brick building adorned with black wrought iron balconies and fire escapes zig-zagging over the exterior. I live with my cat, Mia, and the terrier I adopted upon moving to the city. He is somewhat pretentiously named after a famous novelist. The apartment is small and unassuming, but sleek. Dark wood floors throughout, and lilac walls in the bedroom offset by gauzy white curtains and an antique vanity. The living room houses two crisp off-white linen armchairs and a cherry wood writing desk facing out the balcony window looking over the cobbled streets below. The kitchen looks mostly unused apart from the mail and some magazines on the table and an unnecessarily elaborate espresso machine on the counter. The cat and dog’s stainless steel food bowls are neatly arranged against one wall.
I’m finishing off my Masters and moving into full time employment. Basically, I’m transitioning my university placement as an arts magazine journalist into my livelihood. I do most of my work – writing and researching – from my laptop around the city. My pretentiously-named dog often accompanies me around the cobbled-streets of Old Montreal and basks in the sun at my feet while I work on the tiny round tables of various café patios. In the winter, we move indoors and he wears a little red knit sweater. I like to work out of the house and in the city, especially in the old quarter, because it gives me a chance to work on my French with the locals.
There’s a boy. We don’t live together, but we plan to in a few years. We met during our undergrad and planned to move here to be together. In a few years, we plan on buying a town house in the city and live on the top floor while converting the rest into a few apartments for an investment. On weekend mornings we go for long winding walks through the cobbled streets of old Montreal with the pretentious terrier. We spend time perusing organic produce and tiny jars of artichokes and pesto at the market. As we leave the market he holds a paper bag of hand-labelled condiments, fruit, and fresh leafy basil poking out the top. I clasp the terrier’s lead in one hand, his hand in the other. At night we go to galleries, the theatre, and smoky jazz lounges.
My friends start receiving degrees and promotions, they get engaged, get married, and have baby showers. Everything follows a smooth progression, and I arrive at each graduation, engagement party, wedding, and baby shower with bright eyes, a big smile, and a beautifully wrapped giftbox the size of a compact car. The events take place, but only exist as ceremonies, gifts and champagne toasts. This is life; we’ve arrived. Barring the organic progression through the checklist of life accomplishments, everything is stable and safe nothing is uncertain or in flux.
---
I watch a rarely-seen tear slide down my father’s cheek and hear my mother choke back tears as she pushes a card into my hands. My laptop has just disappeared down the conveyor belt into an xray machine and I stand in my stocking feet, holding my butter-soft Nine West boots in my hand. The guard taps his magnetic wand into the gloved palm of his hand. Hot tears I didn’t know were in me, well up in my eyes as I feel my dad’s arms trembling when he wraps them around me. It’s awfully far away, my mother says. I can’t look back over my shoulder as I walk though the metallic arch and collect my bags. As the plane takes off, I look down at Pearson Airport disappearing beneath us, and Toronto twinkling gold around her and think of how many times the descent into Pearson has meant coming home. The hot tears are creeping back again, their unfamiliarity stinging the corners of my eyes.
I’m awakened in the morning by a stewardess’ hand on my shoulder as she shakes me gently. We’re landing. Groggily I pull myself into an upright position. Classy way to start my adult life, I think, as I recall waking to a jolt of turbulence a few hours ago and upon remembering that I was in a metal tube hovering above nothing but ocean, reaching for what was apparently one too many sleeping pills. I hope I wasn’t drooling on myself when she woke me.
I drag myself and my three suitcases from the airport into the middle of the city getting them stuck in the turnstiles at various underground stations. Puffy-eyed, groggy, and trying to rinse the pills and in-flight wine out of my system with bottles of water, I’ve arrived. Here I am, London. About a month and a half away from being broke, with no place to live and a second interview for an unpaid internship next week. The future’s looking rosy.
Seven months later.
I’m living in a studio flat the approximate size of a shoe in the northwest quarter of the city. My street is lined with charming stone townhouses although the one housing my flat is the definitely the least enviable. Fortunately there are some well-placed trees and hedges obscuring it. Inside, a funky metal clock adorns one of the lilac walls. It’s sat at a quarter to two so long that a thin layer of dust coats the hands. When I sleep on the right side of the bed, I’m careful not to bump my head on the kitchen counter when getting up in the morning. The flat is too small for a cat, a terrier, and most certainly for a pretentious name assigned to either. My window overlooks an overgrown backyard which, when covered in ivy in the summer, looks almost quaint. The window panes quiver when the trains from the London underground pass by, on the above-ground stretch of track a short distance away. The kitchenette looks mostly unused apart from a simple kettle and a stout blue and white teapot.
I spend, what seems to be, most waking hours at my office just outside the city, or on a train to or from the office. I work for a prominent publishing house, in the marketing department. The internship there turned into a permanent position after seven days. It comes with perks – some nice travel to Europe here and there – but on a daily basis it seems to offer more in the way of stress and a long commute. The office is open-concept: bright and sunny, complete with a gym, massage suite, library, restaurant, café, and rooftop terrace. I spend spare moments at my desk contemplating this self-contained bubble and longing for some reason to run out the front doors and feel the well-worn pavement beneath my feet and the sun upon my hair. The smokers get their fix atop the building surrounded by potted ferns and bistro-style tables. The building has been designed so not even they and their carcinogens have a reason to leave the perfectly-constructed bubble.
There’s a boy. We see each other several times a week. We commute in exactly opposite directions. Everything seems to revolve around train schedules, commuter routes, and engineering-related delays. Things are kept fun and uncomplicated. We go to the theatre, the cinema, and on weekend mornings to the breakfast place with the best scrambled eggs in the city. We eat crepes and drink wine in Nice. I watch him play the Blackjack tables in Monte Carlo and he watches me kick off my sandals and step into the sea at Cannes.
I miss my friends from home terribly and worry that they’ve forgotten about me since I’ve moved away. I miss the student social life and having a full social calendar. I often think about the half-completed and ultimately discarded grad school and journalism school application forms. I articulate this and other anxieties to my fellow ex-patriot: the only person I know in the country from home. Although she lives hours away, we talk at least twice a day and I feel like she’s always close by. She listens to my regrets and uncertainties and helps keep me sane. In turn, I listen to her tears and sadness about a broken heart, family issues, and post-graduation angst. My friends are all succeeding in remarkable ways, but their successes are scattered amongst less celebratory events. Everything seems complicated and ever-changing. Heartbreak, health scares, infidelity, birth control slips, dating and career stresses are just as prevalent as promotions, graduations, engagements, and world travels. Events are marked by consequences and repercussions, not just gift cards, toasts, and flowers. It’s too easy to be the happy bringer of gifts in times of triumphs. It’s the times in between where the offerings of advice, words of comfort, and reservation of judgment mean something more.
Apparently there’s no arrival, as such. The stasis we assumed marked adulthood doesn’t exist. The only consistence seems to be the constant state of flux. It’s a little frightening, but comforting at the same time because if we had already arrived, we’d have nowhere left to go.
Sunday, 25 May 2008
food. part II.
If the food and food service-related woes one was subjected to were limited to the time and selections of food being available (see part I), I feel that we, as a society, would be doing alright. Sadly, it only seems to worsen from there. On the upside, it does give me considerably more things to gripe and whine about, but on the downside, it just seems to indicate that we’re that much further from achieving societal perfection. Today’s rambling series of complaints isn’t directed and the owners of eateries, but the consumers and the seemingly endless barrage of food-related faux pas to issue forth from their masticating mouths.
The range of faux pas is assuredly limitless, but as is often a deciding factor here, laziness dictates that there are two main groups of faux pas. First, unforgivable ignorance and stupidity regarding the actual content of the food. Second, things to avoid saying to offend your dining companions.
Once again, I’d like to reiterate that I certainly don’t consider myself a food-snob, or a gourmand. A snob in general, well sure. Sadly, my culinary prowess are non-existent enough that the words “food snob” have not yet found their way onto my curriculum vitae. Perhaps, someday. Until then, there are always the heinous faux pas of others to give my confidence a little stroking. (In all honesty, some of these aren’t even so much dining faux pas as simple, “when you’re honestly that dense and can’t keep your remarks confined to an internal monologue, you might want to consider not leaving the house without wearing a ball gag.”)
Before I moved to London, I spent a few months working as a temporary secretary in a rather questionable office. It was hell, to put it mildly. I’ve experienced migraines more pleasurable than some of the days spent answering phones and filing papers in that office. Doesn’t sound too bad, does it? It was. Suffice to say, it was not an isolated occasion when I was asked by a colleague to page her “right away when her baby daddy called”. Somehow, and I say that with no small degree of surprise, the office had performed quite well over the previous fiscal year and the corporate executives were treating all the staff to a dinner out at a nice local steakhouse. After much whining about the choice of a steakhouse, and the required advanced ordering from a prix fixe menu, it was decided that all the employees who liked beef would order the rib eye steak option from the menu, and those who preferred chicken would order the filet mignon.
Fortunately, I had quit and had moved to other side of the ocean before the dinner actually took place. I am sad, though, that I never got to see how the filet mignon was received by the poultry lovers. Although, from an entire staff who seemed to spend every waking moment of their days chain smoking some sort of low grade tobacco that smelled suspiciously like repurposed tires, my guess is that their tastebuds were sufficiently dulled to subtle nuances such as that apparent when eating a cow or a chicken.
Pure ignorance always has a bit of charm to it, in the sense that it’s pretty self-detrimental and only the speaker suffers any sort of cringing discomfort. The social blunders at the dining table directed outwardly always seem a little bit more regrettable. Even worse is when they happen to hit an innocent bystander or third party who’s been dragged along against her will. One of the marks of a brilliant friend is that they put up with these abuses, not only from their friends, but from the people their friends happen to be involved with and introduce them to. Unfortunately, the latter of the following two incidents occurred to one of my best friends while she was still smarting from the former.
We were pleasantly ensconced into the corner table of a little Italian bistro. As Italian restaurants go, this went beyond being Italian in name only. Every staff member in the place was Italian to the point of only speaking a few very halting phrases in English. A very charming little place, despite her and I feeling quite useless and leaving our male companions to communicate with the wait staff. I have never, and probably will never again, feel more like a Mafia princess then during that dinner. I should mention that my friend had spent the previous days making considerable allowances for a number of regrettably embarrassing incidences and flaws of character of one of our fellow diners, in no small part to appease me. As fate would have it, he had chosen to don an unfortunate pair of cargo pants (complete with dangling zipper pulls on the pockets) that evening. While through the rose-coloured lenses of love, that may not seem like a grievous offence, I’ll now admit that it was a fashion misstep akin to tripping over an untied shoelace on the edge of deep gorge.
Our food is served, in the form of pretty sizeable pizzas. While they initially appear quite large, it’s worth mentioning that they are paper-thin and each costing as much as a decent handbag. Being known for my bird-like tendencies to pick my way through food, it’s no surprise that I eat about a third of mine and pass the remainder off to a seemingly bottomless pit that is masquerading as one of the men at our table. My friend, being much more financially conscious than I, eats her whole plate. Not a big deal, considering it is paper thin, as well as obscenely overpriced. At this point, cargo pants turns to her and upon seeing her clean plate announces to the table, “Wow! I’ve never seen a girl eat an entire pizza before!” He turns to the other people at the table continuing to chatter excitedly about how big the pizza was. She turns to me and gives me a look that would not only melt lead, but bring it comfortably to a temperature that would enable you to dip little pieces of fruit into it and call it fondue.
I interpreted the look to say to me, “if you can’t be attracted to guys who aren’t jackasses, than I’m making you join a convent”. Later in the night she told me that it was directed at him and actually more along the lines of, “Well, I’ve never seen a XX year old man wearing pants with decorative zippers on them before”.
Sadly, our encounters with pizza and those of the male persuasion were not to end there. One night, a few months ago, we found ourselves out in Camden, and I found myself shaking in my little red shoes at the prospect of introducing her to The Boy. The night had not exactly gotten off to a stellar start. The Boy, had made some well-meaning but not necessarily equally well-chosen introductory remarks pertaining to her nose ring and the contents of her blog. By the time the night was drawing to a close, I had graduated from shaking in my little red shoes to wondering if I could fit somewhat comfortably under one of the bar’s little red velvet sofas to hide indefinitely.
Heading back to the tube, we happened upon a little pizza and hot dog vendor. I was about to break into a little dance complete with jazz hands to celebrate something being open after dark, so she and I grabbed pizza slices, and he (being the flagrant Anti-Cheese-ite that he is) opted for a hot dog. We wander into the tube, and in my usual fashion I continue to tear small pieces off the crust and pick away at my pizza working my way towards the tip. At this point, The Boy surveys us: me picking away at my crust, and her holding onto my arm with one arm, her purse with the other. “Damn, you ate that pizza fast!,” he exclaims, “Were you starving? She’s barely started and yours is totally gone!” I can’t quite fathom how he was expecting that commentary to be received, but I’m guessing it was a far cry from how it actually panned out. (Logically, one would think he would have connected the dots and realized since he was also done eating and knowing that I’m an exceptionally slow eater, that she was just eating at normal human speed). Alas, from that point, all pretences of polite mingling were quite far away, left behind in Camden, perhaps. I’ll never forget the look of terror in The Boy’s eyes as he sensed something was amiss. I’m sure I’ve seen deer illuminated in the headlights of speeding transport trucks who look more optimistic of a positive outcome.
Suffice to say, I’ve got some more work to do getting those two to warm up to each other. I’m thinking over drinks, rather than food this time. One more misdirected commentary on her eating from a boy I’ve introduced her to, and she’s going to stick an apple in my month and I’ll find myself slowly spinning around over hot coals in the middle of a luau.
The range of faux pas is assuredly limitless, but as is often a deciding factor here, laziness dictates that there are two main groups of faux pas. First, unforgivable ignorance and stupidity regarding the actual content of the food. Second, things to avoid saying to offend your dining companions.
Once again, I’d like to reiterate that I certainly don’t consider myself a food-snob, or a gourmand. A snob in general, well sure. Sadly, my culinary prowess are non-existent enough that the words “food snob” have not yet found their way onto my curriculum vitae. Perhaps, someday. Until then, there are always the heinous faux pas of others to give my confidence a little stroking. (In all honesty, some of these aren’t even so much dining faux pas as simple, “when you’re honestly that dense and can’t keep your remarks confined to an internal monologue, you might want to consider not leaving the house without wearing a ball gag.”)
Before I moved to London, I spent a few months working as a temporary secretary in a rather questionable office. It was hell, to put it mildly. I’ve experienced migraines more pleasurable than some of the days spent answering phones and filing papers in that office. Doesn’t sound too bad, does it? It was. Suffice to say, it was not an isolated occasion when I was asked by a colleague to page her “right away when her baby daddy called”. Somehow, and I say that with no small degree of surprise, the office had performed quite well over the previous fiscal year and the corporate executives were treating all the staff to a dinner out at a nice local steakhouse. After much whining about the choice of a steakhouse, and the required advanced ordering from a prix fixe menu, it was decided that all the employees who liked beef would order the rib eye steak option from the menu, and those who preferred chicken would order the filet mignon.
Fortunately, I had quit and had moved to other side of the ocean before the dinner actually took place. I am sad, though, that I never got to see how the filet mignon was received by the poultry lovers. Although, from an entire staff who seemed to spend every waking moment of their days chain smoking some sort of low grade tobacco that smelled suspiciously like repurposed tires, my guess is that their tastebuds were sufficiently dulled to subtle nuances such as that apparent when eating a cow or a chicken.
Pure ignorance always has a bit of charm to it, in the sense that it’s pretty self-detrimental and only the speaker suffers any sort of cringing discomfort. The social blunders at the dining table directed outwardly always seem a little bit more regrettable. Even worse is when they happen to hit an innocent bystander or third party who’s been dragged along against her will. One of the marks of a brilliant friend is that they put up with these abuses, not only from their friends, but from the people their friends happen to be involved with and introduce them to. Unfortunately, the latter of the following two incidents occurred to one of my best friends while she was still smarting from the former.
We were pleasantly ensconced into the corner table of a little Italian bistro. As Italian restaurants go, this went beyond being Italian in name only. Every staff member in the place was Italian to the point of only speaking a few very halting phrases in English. A very charming little place, despite her and I feeling quite useless and leaving our male companions to communicate with the wait staff. I have never, and probably will never again, feel more like a Mafia princess then during that dinner. I should mention that my friend had spent the previous days making considerable allowances for a number of regrettably embarrassing incidences and flaws of character of one of our fellow diners, in no small part to appease me. As fate would have it, he had chosen to don an unfortunate pair of cargo pants (complete with dangling zipper pulls on the pockets) that evening. While through the rose-coloured lenses of love, that may not seem like a grievous offence, I’ll now admit that it was a fashion misstep akin to tripping over an untied shoelace on the edge of deep gorge.
Our food is served, in the form of pretty sizeable pizzas. While they initially appear quite large, it’s worth mentioning that they are paper-thin and each costing as much as a decent handbag. Being known for my bird-like tendencies to pick my way through food, it’s no surprise that I eat about a third of mine and pass the remainder off to a seemingly bottomless pit that is masquerading as one of the men at our table. My friend, being much more financially conscious than I, eats her whole plate. Not a big deal, considering it is paper thin, as well as obscenely overpriced. At this point, cargo pants turns to her and upon seeing her clean plate announces to the table, “Wow! I’ve never seen a girl eat an entire pizza before!” He turns to the other people at the table continuing to chatter excitedly about how big the pizza was. She turns to me and gives me a look that would not only melt lead, but bring it comfortably to a temperature that would enable you to dip little pieces of fruit into it and call it fondue.
I interpreted the look to say to me, “if you can’t be attracted to guys who aren’t jackasses, than I’m making you join a convent”. Later in the night she told me that it was directed at him and actually more along the lines of, “Well, I’ve never seen a XX year old man wearing pants with decorative zippers on them before”.
Sadly, our encounters with pizza and those of the male persuasion were not to end there. One night, a few months ago, we found ourselves out in Camden, and I found myself shaking in my little red shoes at the prospect of introducing her to The Boy. The night had not exactly gotten off to a stellar start. The Boy, had made some well-meaning but not necessarily equally well-chosen introductory remarks pertaining to her nose ring and the contents of her blog. By the time the night was drawing to a close, I had graduated from shaking in my little red shoes to wondering if I could fit somewhat comfortably under one of the bar’s little red velvet sofas to hide indefinitely.
Heading back to the tube, we happened upon a little pizza and hot dog vendor. I was about to break into a little dance complete with jazz hands to celebrate something being open after dark, so she and I grabbed pizza slices, and he (being the flagrant Anti-Cheese-ite that he is) opted for a hot dog. We wander into the tube, and in my usual fashion I continue to tear small pieces off the crust and pick away at my pizza working my way towards the tip. At this point, The Boy surveys us: me picking away at my crust, and her holding onto my arm with one arm, her purse with the other. “Damn, you ate that pizza fast!,” he exclaims, “Were you starving? She’s barely started and yours is totally gone!” I can’t quite fathom how he was expecting that commentary to be received, but I’m guessing it was a far cry from how it actually panned out. (Logically, one would think he would have connected the dots and realized since he was also done eating and knowing that I’m an exceptionally slow eater, that she was just eating at normal human speed). Alas, from that point, all pretences of polite mingling were quite far away, left behind in Camden, perhaps. I’ll never forget the look of terror in The Boy’s eyes as he sensed something was amiss. I’m sure I’ve seen deer illuminated in the headlights of speeding transport trucks who look more optimistic of a positive outcome.
Suffice to say, I’ve got some more work to do getting those two to warm up to each other. I’m thinking over drinks, rather than food this time. One more misdirected commentary on her eating from a boy I’ve introduced her to, and she’s going to stick an apple in my month and I’ll find myself slowly spinning around over hot coals in the middle of a luau.
Friday, 23 May 2008
birthday.
Often times, restaurants will serve diners a little something following a dish to cleanse their palettes before the next course commences. The French lean towards vodka drizzled sorbet, while the Japanese prefer razor-thin slices of ginger. I wouldn’t presume to be so gauche as to launch into part 2 of Food without a little palette cleanser, strawberry blondie style. A simple, and horribly understated birthday note.
---
We’re an unlikely pair, her and I. Had we met a few years earlier than we did (midway through university) we would have most certainly hated each other. We once took a hypothetical journey into our childhoods to imagine ourselves together as kids. The girl in pink and pearls and the girl with the pink hair and studded wristbands. She said maybe we would have been on the same baseball team. I said I didn’t play sports that involved teams or balls. I probably would have just gotten hit in the face with the bat, I said. No, she said, you probably would have gotten hit in the face by me.
Fortunately, the high school meeting and probable stuffing in the locker of one party was avoided. We became friends through the horrid unoriginality of academic group projects assigned alphabetically by surname. Saying we “became friends” suggests something more linear and organic than what actually happened. One snowy midwinter afternoon she opened her door to a knock and found one of her alphabetically assigned group members-cum-acquaintances standing on her doormat, an hour early. ‘Hi’, she said. ‘I’ve fallen out of love. Should I break up with my boyfriend today?’ I replied.
Two years later the boys have changed, we’ve both fallen, (often crashing into flaming heaps of wreckage) in and out of love, we’re no longer alphabetically assigned to each other, and yet somehow I can’t remember how things were without her.
She’s miraculously always there when I need someone to pick my head out of the toilet and relocate it to a bed. When traveling together, she’ll take my suitcases down from my shelf because I can’t reach them, sneak a beret into my bag for photo ops in Paris, and stand in one of the most glamorous train stations in the world running a lint brush over my clothes and holding a mirror while I readjust the part in my hair. She puts up with my romantic drama and the seemingly chronic bouts of foot-in-mouthisms hurled at her by the various men in my life. She listens to my confessions, celebrates my triumphs, and overlooks even the most grievous of my mistakes. When I get lost or lose my wallet in a foreign country she’ll book me hotels and train tickets over the phone. She’ll travel hundreds of miles to a city she hates to visit, knowing she’ll have to sleep in a tiny bed in a (seemingly impossibly) even tinier flat with a kitchen that she has to stock herself if she wants to eat. She’s met my flights, helped me moved, and walked me home when I’m unable to stand.
Never asking anything in return, her flaws are being too patient, too forgiving, too modest, and most unforgivably, too far away. Hearing her talk about herself, I don’t think she’s met the girl I, and everyone else, want so badly to introduce her to: the stunning, charming, savvy, sweet girl with the red hair. The lively girl who’s always up for striking a pose in a graffiti-filled alley or atop an oversized stone daschund. The girl who’s always there to wipe away your tears and make you laugh at the ridiculousness of your problems. The girl who cares more about people she’s just met than herself. The girl who falls in love hard and suffers enormously as a result. The girl whose sharp tongue and cunning witticisms deserve a much larger audience. The girl with chiseled cheekbones, porcelain skin and arched eyebrows enough to make any self-respecting film noire heroine slink abashedly into the smoky shadows.
The girl who deserves a birthday better than anyone can give her.
Here’s looking at you, kid.
---
We’re an unlikely pair, her and I. Had we met a few years earlier than we did (midway through university) we would have most certainly hated each other. We once took a hypothetical journey into our childhoods to imagine ourselves together as kids. The girl in pink and pearls and the girl with the pink hair and studded wristbands. She said maybe we would have been on the same baseball team. I said I didn’t play sports that involved teams or balls. I probably would have just gotten hit in the face with the bat, I said. No, she said, you probably would have gotten hit in the face by me.
Fortunately, the high school meeting and probable stuffing in the locker of one party was avoided. We became friends through the horrid unoriginality of academic group projects assigned alphabetically by surname. Saying we “became friends” suggests something more linear and organic than what actually happened. One snowy midwinter afternoon she opened her door to a knock and found one of her alphabetically assigned group members-cum-acquaintances standing on her doormat, an hour early. ‘Hi’, she said. ‘I’ve fallen out of love. Should I break up with my boyfriend today?’ I replied.
Two years later the boys have changed, we’ve both fallen, (often crashing into flaming heaps of wreckage) in and out of love, we’re no longer alphabetically assigned to each other, and yet somehow I can’t remember how things were without her.
She’s miraculously always there when I need someone to pick my head out of the toilet and relocate it to a bed. When traveling together, she’ll take my suitcases down from my shelf because I can’t reach them, sneak a beret into my bag for photo ops in Paris, and stand in one of the most glamorous train stations in the world running a lint brush over my clothes and holding a mirror while I readjust the part in my hair. She puts up with my romantic drama and the seemingly chronic bouts of foot-in-mouthisms hurled at her by the various men in my life. She listens to my confessions, celebrates my triumphs, and overlooks even the most grievous of my mistakes. When I get lost or lose my wallet in a foreign country she’ll book me hotels and train tickets over the phone. She’ll travel hundreds of miles to a city she hates to visit, knowing she’ll have to sleep in a tiny bed in a (seemingly impossibly) even tinier flat with a kitchen that she has to stock herself if she wants to eat. She’s met my flights, helped me moved, and walked me home when I’m unable to stand.
Never asking anything in return, her flaws are being too patient, too forgiving, too modest, and most unforgivably, too far away. Hearing her talk about herself, I don’t think she’s met the girl I, and everyone else, want so badly to introduce her to: the stunning, charming, savvy, sweet girl with the red hair. The lively girl who’s always up for striking a pose in a graffiti-filled alley or atop an oversized stone daschund. The girl who’s always there to wipe away your tears and make you laugh at the ridiculousness of your problems. The girl who cares more about people she’s just met than herself. The girl who falls in love hard and suffers enormously as a result. The girl whose sharp tongue and cunning witticisms deserve a much larger audience. The girl with chiseled cheekbones, porcelain skin and arched eyebrows enough to make any self-respecting film noire heroine slink abashedly into the smoky shadows.
The girl who deserves a birthday better than anyone can give her.
Here’s looking at you, kid.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
