tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62731490995879084022024-03-19T08:59:00.753+00:00Enjoy the process....Life, News, Travel, Lifestyle, Films, Books, Food, Health, Music, Fashion...
You know, just, everyday things that we savour.Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-8652719510669473812010-04-09T19:10:00.003+01:002010-04-10T00:43:30.377+01:00A new chapter....Lately I have been fairly incommunicado. I have been enjoying a glorious time in Mexico City. Now, a new chapter is on the cusp of commencing. I am off to live in Los Angeles, Venice Beach, (to be more specific), with my boyfriend. I am, beyond happy, and more than in love. I remember asking my parents as a child how one knew one had found somebody who one wanted to spend the rest of one's life with. I hated the inevitable "you just do" answer. Now when people ask me in a panic, "but it has only been two months since you started dating! How do YOU KNOW!" I simply shake my head and smile, uttering those frustrating words..." I just do". And so it is that I embark upon a new adventure, a life together with the most wonderful man I have ever met. Yes, yes, I know how corny, you must think, yet being in love, truly in love is a phenomena I had never before truly felt. This new feeling, got me thinking. Does that mean that I had never been in love before? I had thought I had. Had I merely fooled myself all these years? These thoughts have perplexed me for several weeks, and finally I realized that yes, I had been in love before. Of course I have. I have enjoyed the company of the most wonderful boyfriend before, and the support and kindness that this wonderful ex-lover gave me. He not only made me who I am today, but he taught me so much about myself and life itself. Nevertheless, we were not, sadly enough, "meant to be". It wasn't written in the stars, as romantics, as myself, may say. Love, I have come to realize is so much more than finding someone you feel secure with, you need more than a partner who can provide all the basics. I finally comprehend what it means to love someone more than yourself (as my wise Grand ma would say). But, what does this deep infatuation and love mean? Will it last forever? Is there a honeymoon phase that will end? These cynical thoughts I admit do tease my mind, and yet I feel that every step together is different. Sure the initial excitement of being together, every hour, second of the day, may ware off, and a "normal" life may ensue. I feel, however, that thinking like this is rather sad. Awaiting the impending "normality" is rather boring to me. Maybe one can find a partner that is someone one will always be excited about seeing. A partner that you look over at until you die and still get butterflies in your tummy. And why not, I ask you? Why the hell not! Maybe I am far too idealistic, and so blindly in love that la vie est totalement en rose, but you know what? Screw it, I am enjoying every second, and firmly believe that this, doesn't happen to everyone. Therefore, my friends, I know how lucky I am, and honestly count my lucky stars for being as blessed as I am. Everyone always feels that they have to give their heighty opinion on your love affairs. All I can say is let yourself make you own decisions true to yourself. Sometimes with all the advice flying around you forget to listen to yourself, and you know far more than anybody else does! Keep it simple, and true. John Selden said, " Of all the action s of a man's life, his marriage does least concern other people: Yet of all the actions of our life. 'tis the most meddled with by other people". This was written in 1689, so let us assume that marriage encompasses the whole process prior to marriage (or without marriage for that matter). Advice can be welcomed when asked for, but don't let anybody burst your bubble. Enough said. I sure as hell won't.<br /><br />Until the next time,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-65003770598038419322010-01-11T17:30:00.007+00:002010-01-11T23:01:31.917+00:00Post Christmas thoughts and plans.Today, on the day of the Three Wise Men bearing gifts to the baby Jesus, much celebrated especially in Latin America, I received a present. In my shoe.<br />You see the tradition is, to leave your shoe by the door. Inside your shoe, the following day you find your present, from the Three Wise Men. Despite having grown up with a lovely Mexican father, I had never received a gift from these fella’s. It was a wonderful surprise! Especially as my Uncle and Aunt, (most generously) left me some money. Much much needed!<br /><br />What has this gal been doing these days? You may wonder. Well. A whirlwind of events have occurred. First, there was Christmas. In which the main events included drinking, eating, laughing, and opening presents. In that very order. I was not accustomed to starting the meal at 11pm. I admit, at first I was a bit hesitant about this idea. A meal at 11! Heavens! The nightmares that will ensue! The cure? Drinking ridiculous amounts of champagne, eating like a pig (eating pig…quite bizarre, so lets say like a rhinocerous. Although I doubt they eat pig. You get the jist..) and staying up until 6 in the morning. By then, all the food has been digested, aided by the laughs that were had at the dinner table. Before the delicious meal commenced, there were presents. Oh glorious presents! I was very moved to receive presents from absolutely all of my Uncle and Aunts friends, and lovely presents at that! Beautiful scarves, books, painting (from my Uncle, who is a truly wonderful artist!) and much much more. Everyone was merry as can be, and despite their not being a Christmas tree, the presents seemed very much at home tucked under a beautiful painting my uncle made of the Virgin Mary, a horse, cow, and Joseph. It is such a beautiful painting that I cried when I saw it. I am, I admit a sentimental person, but it truly is lovely. Here is a picture of it, which of course does not do it justice.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/S0tgwY3FUtI/AAAAAAAAAIU/SY6cQXo_2bk/s1600-h/Carlos+Pellicer+003.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 181px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/S0tgwY3FUtI/AAAAAAAAAIU/SY6cQXo_2bk/s320/Carlos+Pellicer+003.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425536560521368274" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />The meal on the 24th consisted of a scrumptious salmon, sort of peppered, with warm baguettes, then pork, wild rice, vegetables combined with jamon Serrano (win win situation there), and a tasty gravy. Desert? Pie, cake, cookies, chocolates, coffee. Ligero, as we say here, light. Combine all of this with gallons of champagne? Happy people. All, night, long!<br /><br />The next day, we all went to my Aunts, Aunts house. As in the Aunt of my Aunt (in case you didn’t get that). There we had sopa de habas (broad bean soup, delish!!) and then we ate bacalao, a traditional dish here, which consists of shredded dried cod in a wonderful tomato based sauce. This is accompanied by romeritos, which is a Mexican dish consisting of patties of dried shrimp, sprigs of a wild plant called Romerito, that resembles rosemary, and potatoes served in a mole sauce. In short, it’s pretty damn good. Then there is rice, not any rice mind you, this rice has been sort of spiced with tomatoes, onion, and all sorts of good things. Then there was a bowl of frijoles (hot refried beans), that you stuff into a bolio, an incredibly delicious Mexican bun, and then you stuff that, into your mouth. The whole concept of a moment on your lips, an eternity on your hips, goes...down...the drain. But wait! Dessert! Traditional Mexican cookies, ice cream, and cake. Then coffee. Then chocolates. Luckily the meal lasted about six hours. Gives you time to eat like mad, have a snooze, then eat some more.<br /><br />Hold on to your trousers friends, more eating and joviality ensues….The next day, that is the 27th, we, my Uncle, Aunt and cousin, ( only one as my other darling cousin was off to a teeny Island off the coast of Colombia, well Nicaragua actually called Providencia. How idyllic is that? ‘I am off to Providence, aka, Utopia’), woke up at a reasonable hour and journeyed to the lovely Tepoztlán for a delicious meal with another glorious branch of our family. Freshly made pasta and pesto, was eaten sitting under a beautiful arch composed of flowers and green lush branches, with a view of the Tepozteco, with its Temple resting peacefully on top. Surrounded by orange trees, chayote plants (an edible plant that belongs to the gourd family Cucurbitaceae along with melons, cucumbers and squash), Hens, Rodigan Ridgebacks, flowers blushing with pride, and a sun that saluted us holding up her blazing hand as if to say “Enjoy! Enjoy the fruits of my doing, and be content in all that life bears!” I know, a tad dramatic, but the scene must be set, and believe me my description does no justice to how exhilarated I felt, how ecstatic I was and how happy I was to be there, eating with my family.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/S0tj11yVKtI/AAAAAAAAAIk/IiQU07DGstE/s1600-h/chayote.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/S0tj11yVKtI/AAAAAAAAAIk/IiQU07DGstE/s320/chayote.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425539952720292562" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />Nevertheless, I miss my parents terribly. They are, however, always present, in my thoughts, in my prayers, and everything I see, I share with them. My eyes record what is before me, my senses, acute as can be attempt to memorize all I feel, taste, and smell, so that I may pass on these new discoveries to them, and to you, through this blog. I miss my brothers, my sister in Law’s, my nephews and nieces. I also miss my friends. You know who you are, and I miss you. Very much. I have decided, however, to stay in Mexico. It seems, (and fingers crossed now!) I may have an opportunity to dive into the world of production. Cinema production. This is a dream come true, and I am holding my breath. Let’s see what comes of this. It feels right. I don’t know where I am going, but as a wise man said, “No importa donde vas, sino de donde vienes”. It doesn’t matter where you are going, as long as you know where you are coming from. This rings so true right now. I stand ready, armed with all I have learnt from everybody in my life, and the beautiful beast life itself, with arms wide open to receive all the good and bad things that life deals you. However, unlike a game of poker, I don’t hold my cards too close to my heart, and feel no need to bluff. I am who I am, and I am so excited to live. To live the life I have imagined. Thoreau said: ‘Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined”. I know this because my mother gave me a card once, with this quote, in bold letters.<br /><br />I think of these words often, and am doing just so. “Onwards Excelsior!”, “Agarrense los pantalones!” …..<br /><br />Hasta pronto amigos! I will keep you posted on adventures, and news.<br /><br />All my love,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-49020288721703083172009-12-14T23:51:00.002+00:002009-12-16T13:19:06.842+00:00Mexican cantinas<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link style="font-family: arial;" rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CJenny%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link style="font-family: arial;" rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CJenny%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link style="font-family: arial;" rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CJenny%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if 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mso-header-margin:35.4pt; mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">It's all very well going to bar, a pub, a restaurant, but have you ever frequented a Mexican cantina? You know with the swingy doors, with the stench of urine emanating from the toilet doors that swivel shut as characters emerge from the latrine? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">A few days ago, I visited several cantinas, and can assure you that it is an experience I will never forget, and enjoyed thoroughly. The centre of México City, close to the zócalo (which is where the Cathedral and el Palacio Nacional, and ofcourse a giant Mexican flag, and now during Christmas an ice skating rink!) , is home to several of said cantinas. In the past, visiting the centre at night was ill advised, however, after a recent project to encourage tourists and Mexicans alike to visit the centre which included installing cctv, and street lamps, the centre is a far safer area to visit. I am a scaredy cat, and can assure you that the centre is not only relatively safe (just don't flaunt your Rolex, and use some common sense), but absolutely beautiful. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">The cantinas, the old ones, still have ficheras. They are women who sit at a table, and the men, can buy a ficha, a sort of poker chip, which they can then give to the lady and request a dance. Just a dance. This is not some form of prostitute, just someone to accompany you on the dance floor. It is truly charming to watch. After several tequilas, and beers, I danced the night away, merry as a mouse. It was glorious. The waitresses, with their tight jeans, slightly too tight for my taste, and pasty makeup, added to the charm. I believe that such tight jeans create what is called a camel toe...forming the outline of the women's "private parts", leaving nothing to the imagination. It was all out of a Cantinflas movie, and made me feel as if I had taken a big ole' step back in time.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">I was invited to dance by some older men, who were slightly inebriated, and due to my shyness I said no thank you. When they kept asking, I was told to simply say that my boyfriend would get jealous. It worked like a charm! Great tip for Latin American countries! </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span lang="EN-GB">The cantinas serve chicharrones (fried pig skin/fat) and complimentary peanuts on plates. </span><span style="">Add some </span><span lang="EN-GB">chile</span><span style=""> to the pig and peanuts, and you have a tasty snack to energize you for some serious dancing. </span><span lang="EN-GB">Salsa, rancheras, cumbias....and don't be shy! I hope you may experience this one day. I sure am in love with cantinas, and am returning as soon as I can.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="" lang="ES-MX">Viva </span><span lang="EN-GB">México</span><span style="" lang="ES-MX">! Y viva la cantina Mexicana...Donde se llora, </span><span lang="EN-GB">ríe</span><span style="" lang="ES-MX">, grita, baila, con una </span><span lang="EN-GB">combinación</span><span style="" lang="ES-MX"> de amargura y dulzura. En donde los amigos se reencuentran, en donde los enemigos se perdonan, y donde el tequila y la cerveza brindan por lo bueno y lo malo, por la vida que a veces no vale nada y por los que </span><span lang="EN-GB">extrañamos</span><span style="" lang="ES-MX"> con todo nuestro </span><span lang="EN-GB">corazón</span><span style="" lang="ES-MX">.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-77883315995079994382009-12-04T06:06:00.002+00:002009-12-04T06:07:15.590+00:00E-mail nightmare...Have you ever sent a million applications and become completely brain dead suddenly? Well friends it happened to me. Today. Not for the first time, but it happened. In a Royal manner. I was sending an e-mail to a friend of my cousin in Mexico City who works for one of the largest magazine companies in the country. The email was: j(followed by the surname) and for some reason I assumed that their first name was Julián. Why? I do NOT KNOW! I wrote the email to Julian. I sent it. Then I freaked out, realizing that I am a nincompoop. Why Julián?? WHY! I googled this person and realized that not only is their name NOT Julian, but it is not even a man, it is a woman, by the name of Jazmín. Now Julián could have been a José, and I may have been forgiven, but no...no no no. It had to be Jazmín, quite different from Julián. In a panic I wrote another e-mail, begging forgiveness, and wishing this Jazmín a Merry Christmas. I then even added a smiley face. Oh boy. Did I make it worse? Perhaps. Hopefully Jazmín has a great sense of humour. If it was me, I probably wouldn’t give someone an internship based on the poor research skills I just exhibited. How upsetting! Oh well...what can I do now? Wait and see I suppose. I admit that this has made me laugh whilst bang my head against the wall. I imagine that many people have stories like this, perhaps not quite as silly, perhaps more. <br /><br />Anyways that is my latest observation on life, that I am a fool, and e-mailing can be lethal.<br /><br />Nighty night,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-63657467645686899032009-12-03T05:33:00.002+00:002009-12-03T05:50:45.915+00:00Champagne....Yes please!After a lovely Argentinean meaty lunch, or what in effect is dinner here in Mexico, I was invited by a very lovely young wine maker to a champagne tasting event. Now, it is not every day that such an invitation comes my way, so I enthusiastically agreed to come along. The location? The Intercontinental Presidente Hotel in Mexico City. Time? Eight. It actually started at around nine, as we Mexicans like to say an hour, whilst actually meaning an hour later. <br /><br />I arrived with my father’s best friend, and his nephew (who was the wine maker and whose family owns a winery in Ensenada). I was not expecting the event to be as formal as it was, and upon entering a private room and seeing that we were to sit at a conference table, each placemat surrounded by glasses, I couldn’t help but giggle. (As did my father’s friend). At first the conversation revolved around wines, and of course champagne. Everyone was putting their two cents forward. Gestures were made, hands poised to underline the high level of exquisite wine they had just tasted God knows where, murmurs of agreement bounding about the room. The scene reminded me of something one would see in a Woody Allen. One of the gentleman present may or may not have had Botox injected into, his entire face, one lady had a fur coat so big she seemed to be drowning in it, another man was reminiscent of the slithering Mr. Collins from Pride and Prejudice. There you go, the evening was complete with a hodge podge of characters, each one encompassing some form of social stereotype, each one seemingly snobby.<br /><br />I was, however, pleasantly surprised to find that the wise saying of "don't judge a book by its cover" was indeed very true (in this case) and as we imbibed our champagne, everyone at the table, loosened up, and eventually truly let go. The descriptions of the champagnes from their colour, amount of bubbles, smell, finally to its glorious taste were a plenty, and although hesitant to voice my opinion at first, I soon acquired what they call "Dutch courage" and voiced my views as I slurped away eagerly. <br /><br />What on earth did you drink? You may wonder. Here is the list:<br />1) Ruinary Blanc de Blancs <br />2) Taittinger Prelude Grand Cru Brut <br />3) Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque 2000, Cuvee de Prestige<br />4) Louis Roederer Cristal 2002, Civee de Prestige<br />5) Laurent-Perrier Grand Siecle, Cuvee de Prestige<br />6) Laurent-Perrier Rose Brut<br /><br />My favourite? Number five, unfortunately it costs 3,680 pesos, about $286 big bucks. At the end of the tasting, we all had to say which we preferred, and most importantly why. As each person eloquently described their most and least favourites, my heart started to beat rapidly. I admit, I was nervous. What on earth was I to say? At a loss, I said what I felt, and avoided any attempt to pontificate upon the liquids before me. I stood up, smiled, and cheerfully admitted that the most expensive champagne was my favourite. Why? Because it incorporated everything I wished for in champagne, it was fresh, a beautiful shimmering gold colour, and its bubbles raced to the top of the glass, the champagne swilled in my mouth and tantalized every taste bud, and it made me smile! I also added that due to the price, I probably could never afford it on a regular basis, so I also liked number one, (a more realistic choice price wise). I got a giggle from the others present, and felt an incredible sense of happiness when I sat down. Probably from the champagne but also from the thrill of having just spoken my mind ( I wasn't as detailed as I was here) and from seeing how unpretentious everyone really was. All these people were doing was sharing an appreciation for a beverage, and their respect for all the work that went into creating such a drink. I love that they found it ridiculous that some were so expensive, and we all agreed that of course what you like is personal, and as each palate is so distinct, putting a price on what is the "best" is very difficult. <br /><br />[Nevertheless, I must add a note here. In a country with such a high level of poverty, there is something incredibly wrong about ssipping champagne whilst people are starving outside. Undoubtedly this happens all over the world. This argument could be applied to how wrong it is that we are privileged to eat three meals a day (some more!) whilst other in the same country, or in other countries starve to death. Awareness of what you have, and appreciation of ones situation in life is pivotal, we all know that, hopefully it can encourage us to be more generous towards those who aren't quite as lucky...I have always found that being in a country in which their are fierce contrasts between rich and poor, makes me more aware, exposed to how unfair the world is, and challenges me continuosly. You can't turn the little children begging for money off whilst you wait for the green light, as you can the television. You can't turn the page on the slums you pass everyday. It is there, very present, a reminder of how much work has to be done, and how important it is to participate in bringing about change....Nuff said.]<br /><br />We all agreed that number three, the Belle Epoque was off; however, the sommelier was a tad bit proud and didn't concede this obvious fact until the end. Oh well. I suppose some sommelier's take it very personally. The fact is, that it is not the sommelier's fault if a bottle is bad. It is the process that makes a bottle off, the bottling, the care, the winery's "fault". As with all nature and organic products, some go bad. C'est la vie. The sommelier on our champagne night, sadly, became defensive, and unnecessarily insistent on how the champagne was fine. To each their own...To each their own...<br /><br />After this glorious tasting we ate at a very fancy restaurant called Le pied du Couchon. Wowza! We had our own room, and glass doors that opened by pressing a green button (it was reminiscent of doors in a star trek or wars film). The delicacy of this place was a fried pigs hoof. At one in the morning I just could not stomach this (nor at any other time of day really..) so I had a soup. A delicious soup. <br />After many hours of talking, finally, at four in the morning I was driven home through an empty Mexico. Mexico City is never empty, except for in the early hours, and a journey that would normally take half an hour, took only fifteen minutes. <br /><br />Home at last....into bed. Time to dream of champagne and pigs...Botox...and just how bizarre an evening I just had. <br /><br />Love,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-5424129268726388202009-11-20T00:10:00.005+00:002009-11-20T06:16:30.160+00:00Air: ports and planes...<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link style="font-family: times new roman;" rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CJenny%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link style="font-family: times new roman;" rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CJenny%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link style="font-family: times new roman;" rel="colorSchemeMapping" 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style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p>After now flying for what seems like a millions hours, and in reality is a whopping fourteen, I am finally in beautiful Mexico City! Leaving Oslo at seven in the morning, however, meant awaking at the early hours, beyond early really, at four am. But as I<i style=""> </i>sit here, on my grandmother’s sofa, listening to her play the piano, I cannot help but feel that I am seven inches away from heaven. You see, my grandmother, aged ninety four, is in incredibly good health (knock on wood). Yes, her memory has started to go, but she does her exercises every morning, eats very VERY healthily, and most importantly, has tequila. Every day. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">On the plane ride over, I sat in the luxury seats that I was graced with by BA, and felt every inch of my being tickle with excitement. I had intended to write about people at airports, but whilst at Heathrow I was so tired I couldn’t really focus on what was going on around me, (although, there was a very rude man who saw me through the security check. Poor fella’ I actually felt bad for him, because he bossed people around as if he was some sort of God, when he obviously had an inferiority complex. I smiled at him politely, and cursed him viciously under my breath (of course!) Flying with BA has always been so lovely. Especially when crossing the ‘pond’. Everyone is so polite. I was lucky enough to change my seat for one where I was the only one in the row. Heavenly. I do find it very amusing that the meal they served was a curry. I mean, how impractical?! The whole plane stank of curry! Now, I am not a great curry eater, due to my very sensitive disposition, but alas, I ate it. Every last piece of curry powdered chicken and dry rice. And then, oh yes, I ate desert too! I slept like a baby, and then watched some Julie Julia, a wonderful film, which made me hungry for something other than a curry. The sandwich that was served later on (coronation chicken….a theme?) was not satisfactory, but it was eaten. I felt that since money was spent on the ticket, I MUST eat the meal! Ridiculous, I know, nevertheless, how I felt. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">When I finally arrived in Mexico, after flying for twelve hours from London, I was, as you can imagine, ‘pooped’. I had managed, however, to sleep on the plane so I wasn’t <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> tired. There is something soothing about sleeping in a plane, don’t you think? Especially if you have space to stretch your legs! I love waking up, and peeping out of my sleepy eyes, and seeing the clouds below, all white and poufy. I used to believe that planes flew above heaven when I was little, and would try and spot my grandparents. I have never told anybody this, so there you go. Wouldn’t it be nice if that was the case? That planes flew over heaven, and those you knew (lucky enough to be in heaven), would wave at you from afar, munching on bagels smeared in Philadelphia cheese, and eating ice cream. What I do not find soothing in a plane is going to the bathroom. Yes, you heard me, number two. The plane shakes and you feel that your last moment on earth (well in the air) is going to be sitting on an airplane toilet seat taking a shit (pardon my French). If the plane were to drop, would all the ‘matter’ in the toilet bowl fly up into your face? </span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">What if you lose your balance and have to steady yourself by accidentally placing your hands in the bowl?!</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Oh the horror!</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">These are the distressing thoughts that I ponder as I sit there, wishing I could go, and so of course I don’t.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">When I was little I used to fear flushing the airplane toilet, because, let’s be honest, it sounds like a violent cookie monster is singing out of tune! Whilst eating what you have just gotten rid of! Horrific! For a child this can be traumatizing! In fact, it still scares me, and I never fail to jump a little when the horrendous flush bellows out of the jaws of the toilet throne. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I stepped off the plane, and for the first time in my life, I did not feel the altitude. Usually I feel it, I feel like I am about to faint! But not yesterday, I literally skipped off the plane, ready to commence what I know will be an important part of my life. I got my suitcases relatively quickly, despite being approached by a guy who was very nice to talk to. Very nice, until he asked for my email, or number. You know what? Why. Why did he have to go there! I was very clear that I was not interested, and he had to destroy our brief encounter by asking for my contact details! I am too emabressed to say no, so I gave him my email, knowing that I can always delete and block him. But, what does one do in those situatins I ask you? Just say no? But why? He was not a creepy man, he was just nice, and to be honest I am flattered that he was interested in me. Despite not being hansom, or especially interesting, it is flattering</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">that someone finds you appealing isn’t it? One day I won’t be approached anymore, and people may even run away from me, weeping and screaming. So, I suppose I enjoy it whilst I can, no?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Anyways, I got through customs easily, and there was my uncle waiting for me with arms wide open! Off we drove home, and had a lovely ‘cena’ (evening meal) with my grandmother and cousins, simply divine! I awoke today with a broad smile on my face, and I feel at home. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I haven’t been out and about yet in the city, although I did walk with my grandma to the supermarket today to buy papaya. The weather is warm, everyone told me it would be cold, but as I am used to coming in the summer, the rainy season, I am used to the awful humid cold, now it is dry, and I love it! On the way to the supermarket we passed the fruit markets, and I waved at the ladies selling fruit. I love how gentle they are. How they know my grandma, how their plump little bodies fit carefully under the hand woven aprons, how they are missing a few teeth, and how they smile with their eyes. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I am off to eat tacos tonight. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">All my love,</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Aynanita</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-43100829467081778332009-11-10T14:27:00.003+00:002009-11-12T23:29:46.518+00:00Hasta luego....Well, for all of you who are kind enough to read my blog, perhaps you wonder why I have not been writing as often as I was lately. You see, I have been enjoying my last week in London. What what? You say? Ah, well, I am off to Mexico City for a couple of months. My blog, therefore, shall now be peppered with updates of my travels, useful insight for those of you considering jumping the pond and discovering the wonders of one of my favourite countries, Mexico.<br /><br />I have not spent Christmas and New Years abroad in many years, so this should be an unusual and splendid experience. What do people eat for Christmas in Mexico? Do they have trees? What are the traditions? Mince pies? Nope. Ginger bread houses, nope again. Piñatas, posadas, yes yes yes! These <i>Posadas </i>consist of a re-enactment of when St. Joseph and the Virgin Mary were seeking somewhere to rest their weary heads. Families arrange neighbourhood Posada's to be held at their home, starting on the 16th of December and finishing on the 24th on Christmas eve, or Noche Buena.<i> </i>I remember participating in these in Oslo, where I grew up, organized by the Mexican community. Of course, my favourite part was the<i> </i>piñata after the marching around and singing. I also remember being dressed as an angel, in a white night gown. Not only did it itch, but it hindered me in grabbing several sweets when the piñata finally broke open. I did, however, feel very pretty and delicate (when I look at the pictures, however, I wince as I looked rather chubby, an angelic chubby cherub really).<br /><br />And so I leave London, and prepare for a new chapter in my travels. Please keep reading the blog. It shall commence on the 19th of November. Until then, enjoy London's Christmas festivities that have already started! Such as the beautiful ice skating rink outside of the Natural History Museum. Harrod's and Fortnum and Mason's Christmas lights, the tree coming from Oslo for Trafalgar Square, the amusement park and skating rink being set up in Hyde Park (I saw them setting it up, it will be fun!) The mince pies that are on offer at Marks and Spencer's (two boxes of six, for two pounds!! TWELVE for two pounds!) Make yummy treats, and enjoy some hot toddy, mulled wine, some cava amongst friends to celebrate the fast approaching New Year. Keep looking on www.vouchercodes.co.uk, they are promising amazing new deals. Indulge in work parties, and the general merriment that is brewing. Oh, and check timeout London to see when the lord Mayor's fireworks will be on! They are amazing!!<br /><br />In pure English manner, I say "ta ta for now", until I greet you all again with a "Hola compadritos!" from a land far far away..<br /><br />Warm kisses and hugs,<br /><br />Love,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-3011745847057183332009-11-06T01:43:00.005+00:002009-11-06T12:47:41.173+00:00Beautiful? Bah Humbug.<div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart. ~Kahlil Gibran</span><br /></div><br />What is beauty? When is another individual someone you consider beautiful? In today's society in which<span style="font-weight: bold;"> beauty</span> is often equated to tight abs and a pert buttock, we immediately relate the word beauty to external <span style="font-weight: bold;">physica</span>l qualities. Perhaps it is an immediate response that is generated by virtue of our intrinsic need to categorize, and compulsive urge to judge based on what we see. "Ah, she has blond hair, fits beautifully into her tight jeans, and I can see the luscious curves on her body clutching delicately to her blouse which erotically hugs her breasts" [of course this is what all men think] Or, " ooooh look at how <span style="font-weight: bold;">broad</span> his back is and strong his arms are, with his <span style="font-weight: bold;">stunning</span> million dollar smile, and ay! I can see the outline of his toned body beneath his seemingly effortless outfit, and ah yes, he must be very well endowed..." [of course, all women think along these lines]. I know, I know, I am being facetious, and sarcastic, and I dare say I am not very good at it. My point is, these stereotypes of "beauty" flabbergast me at times, and I find myself adhering to what magazines, television, movies etc dictate as worthy of falling under the definition of beautiful more and more. It is true that when we see an attractive person, a sort of ingrained<span style="font-weight: bold;"> biological stimuli</span> runs through our body, and we are whole heartily moved towards that person. Right? I am. I see an attractive man, woman, child, person of any age, shape or colour, and I find myself wishing that I could strike up a conversation with them. I say any age, shape or colour, and I realize that some of you will roll your eyes in <span style="font-weight: bold;">disbelief</span>. But, here is where the subjective view of beauty comes in. You see, beauty for me, does not lie solely in what a person looks like, but the feel I get from that person. Yes, I <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> dare to say it, <span style="font-weight: bold;">beauty</span> for me depends on the <span style="font-weight: bold;">"vibe'</span> that emanates from another being. Say what you will about certain <span style="font-weight: bold;">energies</span> flowing from people, but you cannot deny that for some inexplicable reasons you are drawn to certain people. Call it energy, aura, whatever, but there is <span style="font-weight: bold;">something</span> there, some chemical crazy thing happens and as though another persons soul lassos you in towards them, you are <span style="font-weight: bold;">affected</span> by that person. The complexities of our attractions to others grow apparent when we start to communicate with the person who grabbed our attention. It is then that the external is weighted against the internal (as it were). Lets be honest, despite feeling an attraction to some hansom fella', (or stunning gal), if he (or she) is an arrogant ass hopefully you won't pursue things too far. Obviously there are those times where you just think "oh to <span style="font-weight: bold;">hell</span> with it, this being is so beautiful, I just want to have some fun..." We all know, however, that that fun doesn't last forever, and a pretty face quickly loses it's <span style="font-weight: bold;">shine</span> if it isn't combined with a pretty personality. As I get older, I realize and appreciate how complex all our personalities are. Human beings are so damn complicated. Every one of us bears insecurities. Some of us are more skilled at hiding them, others don't find the need to and wear their hearts on their sleeves. We all have our <span style="font-weight: bold;">story</span>, we all have been shaped and moulded over time. That is just the way it is. Things happen to us over time, these things, events, moments, mould and shape our characters - quite inevitable really, as inevitable as growth, and time moving forward. Self involvement, and a certain level of <span style="font-weight: bold;">selfishness</span> is also quite inevitable in human beings. It isn't a bad thing. Hey, we all care about ourselves. You just cannot be fully selfless. I firmly believe that saying you are totally self less is quite tricky. Even the act of being self less makes you feel<span style="font-weight: bold;"> good</span>, so aren't you then sort of catering to your own needs as well as those who benefit from your generosity of spirit, beacuse you are making yourself feel good, and <span style="font-weight: bold;">therefore</span> tending to your own needs - thus not being fully self less? Not that that is a bad thing at all! Go forth and be self less but don't assume that you are a martyr is all I am saying. I feel that this discussion could get a bit circular, almost like a <span style="font-weight: bold;">dog</span> trying to bite it's own tale. So let me move on...my diatribe is getting long today.<br /><br />I suppose I have, rather clumsily, attempted to vent my frustrations today. Sort of throw these queries and confusions out into the void. Perhaps what has made me vent is a realization of how important it is to be <span style="font-weight: bold;">true </span>to one self. For me, beauty lies in just that. Knowing who you are, loving yourself, and surrounding yourself with people you love. Appreciating <span style="font-weight: bold;">family</span> and friends, enjoying the solidarity that exists between human beings, enjoying this planet really. I sound like I have been smoking cannabis, I assure you I haven't, and I don't mean to end this entry on a <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Make love not war"</span> sort of tone, but essentially that is what I feel today, and hope to <span style="font-weight: bold;">feel </span>always. Where is the beauty in cynicism, sarcasm, and manipulative tones? Where is the beauty in false statements, in lies, deceit, and fake characters? Beauty is that which lasts, our looks will wither, but the mark we have left on others is <span style="font-weight: bold;">eternal</span>. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, sure, but by jimbo, we all know that beauty truly comes from somewhere in the <span style="font-weight: bold;">depths</span> of our souls, from our mosaic of mannerisms and unique traits. Beauty is an intangible phenomena. It doesn't come from literally our insides. I am not saying, "oh you are beautiful, I can imagine your beautiful <span style="font-weight: bold;">pancreas</span>..how lovely". No no, beauty is quite <span style="font-weight: bold;">mysterious</span> really. You can't really truly see it, you feel it. True beauty that is. It is strange that Kahlil says that beauty comes from our most important organ pumping blood around our body, keeping us alive - but lets not be so scientific - beauty<span style="font-weight: bold;"> does </span>come from the heart. Or maybe I am wrong. Maybe beauty lies in our ability to find value, find mystery in what we see - <span style="font-weight: bold;">Henry Miller</span> said "<span class="title"></span>The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself." Does that sound better? Who knows. Aren't they essentially saying the same thing? I am sure Miller and Kahlil would agree with one another. [Yet again I feel like the dog chasing my own tail, circular arguments flailing about.... ]<br /><br />Lets leave it open... I suppose that is the point of beauty, you can't <span style="font-weight: bold;">define</span> it. I can't write what it is, I can feel it, I know you can <span style="font-weight: bold;">feel</span> it, so lets just feel...<br /><br />Have a wonderful weekend dear ones who are kind enough to subject themselves to my often long winded monologues. I appreciate the encouragement and support I have received <span style="font-weight: bold;">tremendously</span>.<br /><br />All my <span style="font-weight: bold;">love</span>,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-42705392109190347872009-11-04T11:47:00.005+00:002009-11-05T13:41:36.320+00:00Lights, Camera, Action! and a warm hug...Last night I watched Colin Firth turn on the lights on Regent's Street. Before, Mr. Firth turned up, the London gospel choir, Daniel <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Merriweather</span>, and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Noisettes</span> performed. Daniel was beyond amazing! It was freezing, and his voice was incredible, I am a fan. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Noisettes</span> were also great, although I don't know if she was singing or not. The Gospel choir, well it goes without saying, brilliant! The Lord Mayor also made a short appearance, looking sightly uncomfortable. He did, however, mention that he was off to Oslo soon to get the tree that Norway gives to the U.K. and I beamed with pride. I remember when I was little, about seven, and a group of us were selected to play the recorder whilst they sawed the beastly tree down. We played, as beautifully as one can play this hideous instrument, although I managed to mess up at one point, (on live television) and my music teacher then not only pinched me, but called me a "stupid cow". I think I stopped blowing the silly thing then and there, and have never touched one since.<br /><br />I admit, that today I am a little worse for wear. After such <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Christmassy</span> festivities, I decided that sharing several bottles of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">cava</span> with my friends was the right way forward. I don't regret it, my body is a little bit upset with me. Alas, is there anything better than sipping champagne, well <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">cava</span> really, and laughing with friends? No. The problem is, that my friends in the US aren't here. My other friend in Melbourne isn't here. Why can't my closest buddies ALL be here, with me, living just around the corner, just a phone call away? This has been my dilemma for as long as I can remember. Having gone to an International School, has meant my friends are scattered all over the place. Great. I can visit them, but I don't want to. I want them here now. This Blog is dedicated to all my friends all over the world. You have made me a wiser, more aware person. You have taught me tolerance, understanding, and an ingrained understanding of how awful and unacceptable any form of discrimination or <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">racism</span> is. I know that International school kids can feel a sense of solidarity towards one another. It is, perhaps a form of secret understanding of how we have shared with so many children from all over, of every colour, of every religion, I hope we can all spread the love we feel for meeting new people, and learning about new cultures, welcoming everything new as interesting, and beautiful. I send you all a warm hug. A warm kiss. And another warm hug.<br /><br />Love,<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Aynanita</span>Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-70966781644306985912009-10-30T13:45:00.005+00:002009-10-30T15:58:09.263+00:00Mid-life crisis, already? The mid-20's dilemmas...It has come to my attention that the mid-twenties hold a plethora of difficult choices, unnerving decisions, and pressures that affect the mid-twenties generation.<br /><br />In an age in which the R word is thrown around almost enthusiastically, it is often difficult to retain a positive outlook on the future. Those who find themselves in their mid-twenties are in fact a very special generation. Why? The post World War Two generation grew up with the fairly simplistic view that if you went to University you would "succeed". Alternatively if you worked hard, success would be had. It was a time of change, a new beginning following the atrocities that occurred during the Second World War. Our generation, however, faces a different reality. Despite going to the best of Universities, despite graduating with the best possible grades, the reality is that because of stiff competition, acquiring a job is far less straight forward than we were told growing up.<br /><br />The world is connected via the Internet, employers can seek out candidates from all over the world, and so having an incredible level of experience, and an impressive CV is just not enough. The reality that we face in our mid-twenties can be discouraging, and lead us into a state of crisis. Our illusions of what was to happen when we "grew up" are shattered, and it can hit hard to realize that all the loans, time, and effort that has been placed into acquiring good grades, carrying out the right extra-curricular activities, seem to pale in comparison to what others have managed all over the Globe.<br /><br />At times, it may be very isolating to find yourself in a situation in which your preconceptions of what you would be doing at this age, are not fulfilled. Many choose to handle their despair alone, ashamed to talk about it, under the false idea that others are managing just fine. After conversing with many in their mid-twenties, I find that there is a shared sense of disillusionment among us . That said, there is also a shared sense of dedication, direction, and clarity that comes with realizing that times are tough. New ideas are flourishing, and the opportunities are sprouting up like no other in our developing world.<br /><br />I think, however, that it is important that the competitive job market is talked about. That the overly simplistic concept of "go to University and you will get a good job", should be questioned, and indeed criticised. This paradigm is outdated, and imposed by previous generations holding on to what has become an archaic notion. Yes, University can contribute to developing us as young individuals, exposing us to independent work, novel ways of thinking, and ease us into the "real" world. But, I cannot help but wonder how the safe environment provided at University truly does equip you with the knowledge and weapons needed to fight the battles we face on a daily basis? Sure you learn a lot about yourself, develop long lasting friendships, and even those who hate studying learn how to buckle down when they have to. When we pay so much money to attend an institution, I cannot help but query why they do not have a class, obligatory for all, in which you are exposed to the basics, how to write a CV, which jobs are out there, inspiring as opposed to frightening us about what is to come. I know that career centres are available, but to be honest, not many go, and when you do, you are given fifteen minutes to talk about what you want to do. What if you don't know? I remember going once to the one in Durham University, wearing my heart on my sleeve. I listed all the possible career paths I would love to do, and expressed my confusion. The answer I got? Go away, think more about it, and come back for another consultation in two weeks time. Okay, but the point was I was confused, and needed to talk about it, with someone who could provide advice, not tell me to go think about it more. That is what I had already been doing, and frankly had been going in circles in my head! I went back, still confused and was sent to several career fairs. As I studied Law, I approached several firms, all of which were big names, attractive as their salaries were enormous, but none of them inspired me. I went to talks at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Marriot</span>, in which law firms would provide tons of free drinks, luring our young minds in by getting us tipsy, then selling themselves by showing us their incredible gym's on site, with swimming pools, great firm outings and trips. No details were given of the long hours required, from 7 to 11 many times. Nobody talked about how the big firms work you into the ground. We all knew. Some of the trainees would open up, and that was when <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">the</span> truth was spilled. It felt like a story out of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Roald</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Dahl</span> book, the lawyers, rubbing their greasy hands together, staring at us through beady eyes would sell themselves to us, hoping we would hand over our souls and become their slaves. I am <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">exaggerating</span> of course, but in all honesty, that is how it felt. Admitting that I did not know if I wanted to be a lawyer was often met by a "but you study law. Why on earth would you want to be anything else but a lawyer? You will earn so much!" It made me <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">embarrassed</span> frankly, and feel slightly unappreciative, so I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">kept</span> my mouth shut. How silly of me. Now I can think of plenty of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">questions</span> I should have asked, and know and believe, "no question is ever a bad question".<br /><br />We work so hard to create platforms for improved global communication, Improved International relations, a better world in short, but I think, and firmly believe that the resources available for young graduates are inadequate, and need updating.<br /><br />For all those who feel alone in their struggle, know that you are not. This time is a tremendously exciting part of our lives. It is where we discover our interests, and dare to embark upon paths that we had never imagined were even there. Perhaps if we shed the pressures that society places on us, facing our life, our time on this earth without fear of being judged, we would be a far more happy and productive group of youngsters? My grandma used to say, "onwards and upwards, excelsior!"<br /><br />Onwards! Without pressures of how much we should be earning, whether we should be settling down or not, whether we should know what we are going to do with the "rest of our lives". Life is brittle, and changes quickly. You cannot plan out your whole life. Take change by the hand and run. In short, enjoy the bloody process.<br /><br />Have a great weekend, and enjoy Halloween! For all those in London, maybe I see you at the Clapham Grand on Saturday! Free entry before 11 if you wear a costume!<br /><br />Besitos,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-49525804581056419902009-10-29T00:08:00.005+00:002009-10-29T13:34:16.944+00:00Christmas, already?It is merely the end of October, and Christmas lights are up, shops have started selling Christmas decorations, Christmas comes earlier and earlier every year! But I don't complain. Today I had my first true <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Christmassy</span> sensation. Where? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Fortnum</span> and Mason. Ah, good old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Fortnum</span> and Mason. As you step onto the red carpeting, and find yourself in a wonderland of chocolates, cakes, jams, all sorts of delicatessens, you cannot help but feel that Christmas has come. The Christmas tree ornaments, table settings, stockings make me long for the time that I can decorate my own home, just the way I want. Having said that, I am quite the Christmas dictator when it comes to decorations. My poor parents are urged to "leave me alone" whilst I, in a Greta <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Garbo'esque</span> manner insist that I must decorate the tree, all my myself. You see, I am convinced that I do it best. I admit, that it may seem slightly arrogant, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">brattish</span>, yet, what can I say? I don't think I do much well, but decorate a tree? By Jo, I am the best.<br /><br />Every country, every culture, every family has their own way of celebrating this festive occasion. There are those who cannot handle the stress of spending two to three days with their family, eating so much that their trouser buttons burst. For those who enjoy Christmas, the buying of the tree, the decorating, the baking of cookies, the cooking of meals on top of meals, it is a bloody wonderful time of year. For me, the best part is buying people presents. As a little girl I used to save all the money I was given throughout the year in my little piggy bank. Towards mid-November my father would take my to the bank where they would bash the poor piggy open, and remove my millions of coins. I was, very good at saving. A clever little girl I was, because I would pocket any change I could. When I was sent to the supermarket, with money, I would keep the change. When I would take the shopping cart back, I would keep the ten kroner that you have to put in the slot in the carriage to use it ( this is how we use shopping carts in Oslo, you slot in ten kroner, then when you put the carriage back in it's proper place, you get your ten kroner back. We are very civilized you see). There are so many ways I would save money, sneakily saving, my mother would always say I'd make an incredible banker. So, when the piggy was opened, I would have a fair amount of money to buy presents with. Then I would have a shopping day with my mother to buy presents for my father and sisters in law, and shopping day with my father buying presents for my brothers. With each of my parents I would have lunch at my favourite place, devouring a delicious pizza (both times). I love packaging the presents beautifully, adding perhaps a chocolate on top of the present as an extra treat. A lot of thought goes into what to buy people for Christmas. I always try and think of something special, and something practical. I look forward to the day I can afford buying bigger and better gifts. I know I know, it is the thought that counts, but I admit, I wish I could give my father a car, or my mother a new kitchen and long holiday in Manhattan. Ha! Wouldn't that be swell! The more the merrier has always been my motto. Now that my brothers have children, the bottom of the Christmas tree gets so full it makes us all feel like we are in the best of a Disney film, and the children's eyes pop out of their head when they see all the packages, it is wonderful.<br /><br />In fact when it comes to Christmas I insist that everything must be big. Starting with the tree. My parents and I go together to pick it out together every year. I always insist on the biggest, fullest, grandest tree. My father prefers a more modest tree, as does my mother, and I must always convince them that the tree I want is not too big, and that if it is, we can snip the top a little. No problem! I haven't picked a bad tree as of yet.<br /><br />My father always makes a "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">nacimiento</span>", a crib. He clears off his large wooden desk in the living room, and covers it in paper, taping each piece together ever so carefully. He then puts down fine stones, sort of light gravel. Then moss and different little cacti and plants which he buys when we get the tree. Amongst this he places some pine tree branches which give off the sweetest and freshest of scents. Then out come the figures. Now these figures have been passed down by his uncle. His uncle, my great uncle, was a poet. He would every year make the largest, most intricate crib in his garage. He would even make a sky with stars. All the neighbours and friends, and even strangers would come to see this beautiful <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">nacimiento</span>. It was quite famous actually. Very famous. I am proud to say that the tradition has been continued in no other place but Norway, where my parents now reside. The figures we have now are ancient, and some of the sheep have loose legs, some of the figures have trouble standing, but they look absolutely marvellous, and inspire many "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">oooohs</span>!" and "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ahhhhhs</span>!" from family and friends, as they admire our nacimiento which includes a gorilla, always standing proudly amongst the cacti.<br /><br />In Norway, there is the tradition of dancing around the Christmas tree singing Christmas songs. I thought this was what everyone did. It wasn't until I came to England that I realized that not everybody does this. It is a shame. Holding hands with loved ones, and singing together is a beautiful part of Christmas. Why is this tradition not more widely acknowledged? We also have "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">nisser</span>". These are little elves, who help <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Julenissen</span> (Santa Claus). The most common "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">nisse</span>" is the <span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" >"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Fjøsnisse</span>"</span> who is short and bearded and lived in a barn. They have red hats, and are <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">quite</span> naughty playing tricks on people, in fact you better give them lots of porridge or else the tricks don't stop! The "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Julenisse</span>" (Santa Claus) tends to visit homes, so he is less shy than Santa Claus, and doesn't come down the chimney but tends to come before or after dinner bearing gifts. In my household we didn't see Santa. He would come down the chimney. Once, my parents put a mini-crib in the chimney. I was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">appalled</span>. How on earth was Santa going to deal with this? I worried all night. We put his cookies by the veranda door, and I left him a note explaining that my parents had lost their mind, and please may he forgive us. In the morning, I jolted out of bed (as one does on Christmas day) and ran downstairs. Sure enough the crib was completely destroyed. Shoe prints everywhere! I looked at my parents with the best "I told you so" face I could muster. Ha! Santa had written me a long letter back, detailing my behaviour of the year. My father would write these letters, and of course I came to believe that Santa Claus was watching at all times. Once I remember feeling as though he could see me in class at school, and so I would smile angelically at random moments in case he was tuning in to see me. My parents were clever ones, and threatened that Santa was watching when I would have tantrums, "he is watching you Jenny!" my mother would warn. I will remember this tactic for my own children. I would get presents on the 24<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">th</span>, our Christmas, and then on the 25<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">th</span> in the morning I would run down the stairs in the morning to see what Santa had left me. It was heaven. I never wanted to stop believing in Santa. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Why</span>? i got so many presents! When my mother let slip and asked me to find the coloured pencils she had given me, to which I responded, "Santa <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">brought</span> them to me". I knew something was up, but for many years I insisted I still believed. In fact I still do, but he has stopped visiting me. Must be the recession.<br /><br />The Norwegian <span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Fjøsnisse</span></span>, despite looking very similar to Santa (his high profile relative) with his white beard, doesn't toil away in a polar workshop, but works on his farm, ensuring that the animals have enough food and heat, in short acting as the barns caretaker. He is grumpy, and porridge cheers him up. The stories of the <span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" ><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Fjøsnisse</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">pre</span>-date Christianity, yet knowledge of his exact ways is rather vague. It is advisable to be generous and kind to the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Nisse</span>, leaving him lots of porridge, they are known to dabble in magic, even a miracle or two.<br /><p>You may find city <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Santa's</span>, boat <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Santa's</span>, blue <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Santa's</span>, all of which are very happy to be left porridge. Pop it out in a big bowl on your doorstep, you'll make a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Nisse</span> very happy.<br /></p>Norway also has advent calenders as a tradition. Advent calenders, such as the tradition of Christmas trees, derives from German tradition. This 19<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">th</span> century(or earlier) custom of an Advent calender derives from the German <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Lutherans</span> and is known as a "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">julekalender</span>". It counts down the 24 days to Christmas. Many families make them, out of felt for example with little pockets for each day, in which a tiny present is placed. I admit I grew up with an American style calender, cardboard, and with a chocolate behind each window.<br /><br />We make basket hearts, that look like this:<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SujsGyEp3zI/AAAAAAAAAIM/d_PjhdzlwQ0/s1600-h/heart.gif"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 184px; height: 193px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SujsGyEp3zI/AAAAAAAAAIM/d_PjhdzlwQ0/s320/heart.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397823754668203826" border="0" /></a><br /></div><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" ></span> <p>We make "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">pepperkake</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">hus</span>", ginger bread houses....Ginger bread hearts that we hang in the windows. We decorate oranges with cloves, and one of my favourite things is on the 24<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">th</span>, before or after church everyone puts a light on the graves of those that no longer can be with them. At night, for the post dinner and present walk, families return to the cemeteries to find a peaceful and beautiful sea of candles flickering in the darkness, conjuring back warm and intimate memories.</p><p>On that note, I am off to bed, buzzing with warm feelings, and excited about what is to come.</p><p>Love,</p><p>Aynanita<br /></p>Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-72131986270020289942009-10-28T01:25:00.000+00:002009-10-28T01:27:35.405+00:00Language"Why can't the English learn to speak?" These wonderful words were uttered from Rex Harrison's mouth in My Fair Lady. As I listen to him complain in his eloquent, articulate, voice, spitting out the words in a gently yet staccato fashion, I wonder what he would think of my use of the English Language?<br /><br />I must confess that growing up <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">tri</span>-lingual, although it sounds very impressive, has meant that I strive to find the right, or better yet correct word, in English, Spanish, and Norwegian. I speak a combination of all three, and at times find it much easier to speak one of the three. Admittedly, at times I find it hard speaking <span style="font-style: italic;">any</span> of the three and am totally lost for words, turning to mime or <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">guttural</span> sounds. I find that my moods decide what language I think in and speak in, (or shout in). For example, if I am angry, Spanish fits exquisitely. Norwegian is a tremendously useful secret language, and English, well, it goes without saying, it is quite useful.<br /><br />My ability to speak many languages has opened up a whole new world for me. I can read literature, watch films, hear music in their original languages. So much is lost in translation, and I am a lucky gal in this aspect. French, Italian and Portuguese are easier for me to understand (<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">especially</span> the first two). I am fascinated by language. I am so intrigued by how one changes slightly when one speaks a different language. Perhaps one doesn't change as such, but when I speak Spanish I love the sound of it so much, that I adopt a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">different</span> manner about myself. I feel as if parts of my personality flourish <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">depending</span> on what language I am speaking. I wonder if other people feel this. I imagine they do.<br /><br />I really do firmly believe <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">that</span> it is incredibly important to learn several languages. It is proven to aid in the prevention of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Alzheimer</span>, and be good for the ole' brain. Apart from the obvious biological perks language gives you, it opens your eyes, and mind (quite <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">literally</span>) to new ideas, perspectives, theories, which are pivotal to enjoying and savouring this life we only,(as far as we know) get to enjoy once! I find it a damn shame that languages are slowly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">disappearing</span>. With well over six thousand existing, many slowly wither away and eventually die as the world becomes more and more uniform.<br /><br />Traditions, specific knowledge is passed down the generation <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">because</span> language permits us to communicate them to our wee ones. Language, well language is a wondrous vehicle linking communities together. The other day on the bus, my favourite place to be as you all know by now, I sat behind two <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Filipino</span> ladies talking Filipino, on my right were a Pakistani couple, speaking Urdu, behind two Nigerian girlfriends....I sat back, closed my eyes, and enjoyed hearing these <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">people</span> laughing, talking, and wished I could understand and speak with them in their own languages. Yet, I couldn't help but relish how beautiful it was to be surrounded by the sounds of these <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">languages</span>, each having existed for I don't know how many years, used by goodness knows how many people, shared in moments of happiness, and sorrow. I then used my body language, and just smiled, in blissful happiness. I suppose I would tell Rex Harrison that what we speak is not just a result of the words that emanate from our lips, but the movements we make, the gestures we throw about, the eyes we smile, frown even cry with, the touch we make on another person's, well soul really.<br /><br />And with the language left in my head, I bid you all farewell, till the next time I blog my friends.<br /><br />Love,<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Aynanita</span>Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-82743548890863404332009-10-26T18:29:00.002+00:002009-10-27T10:38:00.544+00:00The night I saw Change...<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" 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mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">Change sure did happen at the Garrick this Friday evening at 7:30 exactly. Managing to transform himself by changing outfit before you could even bat an eye lid, Arturo Brachetti, really did wow the audience with his 100 changes in 100 minutes! It seemed like a thousand. Have you ever seen a man hold up a sheet, transform into the Queen of England, then hold the sheet up again, and bam!- He’s a soldier, then <span style=""> </span>a priest, then Chiquita banana?<span style=""> </span>I doubt you have. I have. I can tell you it is pretty impressive. Arturo Brachetti, is an Italian quick-change artist, he has been in the Guinness Book of Records 2006 and 2007, and is described as the fastest quick change artist in the world. Pretty impressive hugh? Well, he is worth seeing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I must warn you though that Mr. Brachetti’s show requires you to totally unwind, let go, allow yourself to be charmed by his tremendously zealous stage presence, unashamedly frank slapstick humour, and theatricality. I admit, I did wince a bit at first when he came on stage, beaming from ear to ear, saying “I am Arturo Brachetti! Yes! It rhymes with Spaghetti!” Oh boy, I thought, this could be painful. It was not. I let go, and was charmed, and amazed, like a little child at the circus. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I really did not know that much about the art of transformation. The day after I saw the show I felt as if I hadn’t totally understood and appreciated the show as much as I should have. After doing my research, I think I may go again, in order to truly appreciate the many references made to Fregoli, and Fellini (I know the latter, but Fregoli?) From what I can gather, Leopoldo Fregoli was the greatest quick-change artist of his day. (His day being late 19<sup>th</sup> century to early 20<sup>th </sup>century). To be honest, it was so overwhelming to see so many changes that I think it takes the brain a few hours to digest it all. It was, now that I remember not until the next morning that I woke up and truly said, WOW! What a show I saw last night! </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I read that he was described as Versace on hyper speed. That my friends is at times an understatement. The show goes from Arturo talking to his younger self in his apartment, then joining his younger self in the television, entering a parallel universe, reminiscing about old times, jumping back and forth in time, he enchants with shadow puppets making barking dogs, cats, rabbits, elephants, swans, <span style=""> </span>deer, crocodiles, it is incredible! He impersonates so many characters I couldn’t dream of remembering how many there were! At one point he becomes 27 different characters, just by using a hat, he goes from Prince Charles to a Vatican Saint, all with is lone pliable chapeau. Then he goes through the Hollywood movies, and there ladies and gentleman you have to brace yourself! Arturo transforms into James Bond, Julie Andrews, King Kong, Scarlett O'Hara, in two costumes (including the famous green velvet drapery gown), Darth Vader, Gene Kelly, Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart, Jaws, Esther Williams swimming in mid-air, etc. There is a sincere homage to Fellini, as Arturo portrays Fellini’s actors from the great Director’s illustrious body of work. How many costumes does he have? 350. Imagine that?!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It is not easy to transport the audience into the surreal world that Arturo conjures up through his use of comedy, music, magic, video in a unique collage of acting, story-telling, caricature, stunts ….I take my hat off to Arturo Brachetti. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Want to go see the show? Here is a link telling you where it is and selling tickets!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/Change.%20Change%20sure%20did%20happen%20at%20the%20Garrick%20this%20Friday%20evening%20at%207:30%20exactly.%20Managing%20to%20transform%20himself%20by%20changing%20outfit%20before%20you%20could%20even%20bat%20an%20eye%20lid,%20Arturo%20Brachetti,%20really%20did%20wow%20the%20audience%20with%20his%20100%20changes%20in%20100%20minutes%21%20It%20seemed%20like%20a%20thousand.%20Have%20you%20ever%20seen%20a%20man%20hold%20up%20a%20sheet,%20transform%20into%20the%20Queen%20of%20England,%20then%20hold%20the%20sheet%20up%20again,%20and%20bam,%20he%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%99s%20a%20soldier,%20then%20%20a%20priest,%20then%20Chiquita%20banana?%20%20I%20doubt%20you%20have.%20I%20have.%20I%20can%20tell%20you%20it%20is%20pretty%20impressive.%20Arturo%20Brachetti,%20is%20an%20Italian%20quick-change%20artist,%20he%20has%20been%20in%20the%20Guinness%20Book%20of%20Records%202006%20and%202007,%20and%20is%20described%20as%20the%20fastest%20quick%20change%20artist%20in%20the%20world.%20Pretty%20impressive%20hugh?%20Well%20he%20is%20worth%20seeing.%20I%20must%20warn%20you%20though%20that%20Mr.%20Brachetti%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%99s%20show%20requires%20you%20to%20totally%20unwind,%20let%20go,%20allow%20yourself%20to%20be%20charmed%20by%20his%20tremendously%20zealous%20stage%20presence,%20unashamedly%20frank%20slapstick%20humour,%20and%20theatricality.%20I%20admit,%20I%20did%20wince%20a%20bit%20at%20first%20when%20he%20came%20on%20stage,%20beaming%20from%20ear%20to%20ear,%20saying%20%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CI%20am%20Arturo%20Brachetti%21%20Yes%21%20It%20rhymes%20with%20Spaghetti%21%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D%20Oh%20boy,%20I%20thought,%20this%20could%20be%20painful.%20It%20was%20not.%20I%20let%20go,%20and%20was%20charmed,%20and%20amazed,%20like%20a%20little%20child%20at%20the%20circus.%20%20I%20really%20did%20not%20know%20that%20much%20about%20the%20art%20of%20transformation.%20The%20day%20after%20I%20saw%20the%20show%20I%20felt%20as%20if%20I%20hadn%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%99t%20totally%20understood%20and%20appreciated%20the%20show%20as%20much%20as%20I%20should%20have.%20After%20doing%20my%20research,%20I%20think%20I%20may%20go%20again,%20in%20order%20to%20truly%20appreciate%20the%20many%20references%20made%20to%20Fregoli,%20and%20Fellini%20%28I%20know%20the%20latter,%20but%20Fregoli?%29%20From%20what%20I%20can%20gather,%20Leopoldo%20Fregoli%20was%20the%20greatest%20quick-change%20artist%20of%20his%20day.%20%28His%20day%20being%20late%2019th%20century%20to%20early%2020th%20century%29.%20To%20be%20honest,%20it%20was%20so%20overwhelming%20to%20see%20so%20many%20changes%20that%20I%20think%20it%20takes%20the%20brain%20a%20few%20hours%20to%20digest%20it%20all.%20It%20was,%20now%20that%20I%20remember%20not%20until%20the%20next%20morning%20that%20I%20woke%20up%20and%20truly%20said,%20WOW%21%20What%20a%20show%20I%20saw%20last%20night%21%20%20I%20read%20that%20he%20was%20described%20as%20Versace%20on%20hyper%20speed.%20That%20my%20friends%20is%20at%20times%20an%20understatement.%20The%20show%20goes%20from%20Arturo%20talking%20to%20his%20younger%20self%20in%20his%20apartment,%20then%20joining%20his%20younger%20self%20in%20the%20television,%20entering%20a%20parallel%20universe,%20reminiscing%20about%20old%20times,%20jumping%20back%20and%20forth%20in%20time,%20he%20enchants%20with%20shadow%20puppets%20making%20barking%20dogs,%20cats,%20rabbits,%20elephants,%20swans,%20%20deer,%20crocodiles,%20it%20is%20incredible%21%20He%20impersonates%20so%20many%20characters%20I%20couldn%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%99t%20dream%20of%20remembering%20how%20many%20there%20were%21%20At%20one%20point%20he%20becomes%2027%20different%20characters,%20just%20by%20using%20a%20hat,%20he%20goes%20from%20Prince%20Charles%20to%20a%20Vatican%20Saint,%20all%20with%20is%20lone%20pliable%20chapeau.%20Then%20he%20goes%20through%20the%20Hollywood%20movies,%20and%20there%20ladies%20and%20gentleman%20you%20have%20to%20brace%20yourself%21%20Arturo%20transforms%20into%20James%20Bond,%20Julie%20Andrews,%20King%20Kong,%20Scarlett%20O%27Hara,%20in%20two%20costumes%20%28including%20the%20famous%20green%20velvet%20drapery%20gown%29,%20Darth%20Vader,%20Gene%20Kelly,%20Ingrid%20Bergman%20and%20Humphrey%20Bogart,%20Jaws,%20Esther%20Williams%20swimming%20in%20mid-air,%20etc.%20There%20is%20a%20sincere%20homage%20to%20Fellini,%20as%20Arturo%20portrays%20Fellini%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%99s%20actors%20from%20the%20great%20Director%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%99s%20illustrious%20body%20of%20work.%20How%20many%20costumes%20does%20he%20have?%20350.%20Imagine%20that?%21%20It%20is%20not%20easy%20to%20transport%20the%20audience%20into%20the%20surreal%20world%20that%20Arturo%20conjures%20up%20through%20his%20collage%20of%20comedy,%20music,%20magic,%20video%20in%20a%20unique%20collage%20of%20acting,%20story-telling,%20caricature,%20stunts%20%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%A6.I%20take%20my%20hat%20off%20to%20Arturo%20Brachetti.%20%20Want%20to%20go%20see%20the%20show?%20Here%20is%20a%20link%20telling%20you%20where%20it%20is%20and%20selling%20tickets%21%20http://www.officiallondontheatre.co.uk/london_shows/show/item107175/Arturo-Brachetti---Change/%20Ciao%21%20%20Aynanita">http://www.officiallondontheatre.co.uk/london_shows/show/item107175/Arturo-Brachetti---Change/</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ciao!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Aynanita</p> Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-14575049964000456032009-10-26T11:33:00.013+00:002009-10-26T13:30:28.285+00:00My love affair with Mexico City....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWh1yultNI/AAAAAAAAAHc/fq5V85IsMhw/s1600-h/xochimilco.jpeg"></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">..........Mexico Lindo y Querido.........<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWdys1EsfI/AAAAAAAAAGc/hAkm9QlzwCo/s1600-h/frida-kahlo-viva-la-vida-2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 147px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWdys1EsfI/AAAAAAAAAGc/hAkm9QlzwCo/s320/frida-kahlo-viva-la-vida-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396893222826193394" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWdyVeuN4I/AAAAAAAAAGU/6T00BQGjAxs/s1600-h/diego.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 147px; height: 149px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWdyVeuN4I/AAAAAAAAAGU/6T00BQGjAxs/s320/diego.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396893216558430082" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />Mexico. A country full of contrasts, so brutal, so gentle, exploding with colours and tantalizing tastes. Mexico City, makes me feel alive, makes me aware of my pulse, beating faster and faster like the beat of a drum as my eyes interpret the views of magnificent gardens, proud trees, heavenly flowers, mind blowing foods, children working streets selling chewing gum and cigarettes, clowns performing when your car stops at a red light, mothers carrying their babies on their back begging for food. The contrasts inject me with a sense of awareness, there is no escape. You cannot turn off the people around you as you switch off the television. You cannot turn the page on what you face, everyday in this incredible city.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWdzEthfQI/AAAAAAAAAGs/riB61bW0VyA/s1600-h/mex1.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 103px; height: 79px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWdzEthfQI/AAAAAAAAAGs/riB61bW0VyA/s320/mex1.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396893229236976898" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWiXen7O-I/AAAAAAAAAH0/Suj1PJ35hrU/s1600-h/mex2.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 143px; height: 80px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWiXen7O-I/AAAAAAAAAH0/Suj1PJ35hrU/s320/mex2.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396898252714621922" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWigEEAKiI/AAAAAAAAAIE/0rFibfKuEmY/s1600-h/mex+at+night.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 80px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWigEEAKiI/AAAAAAAAAIE/0rFibfKuEmY/s320/mex+at+night.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396898400203450914" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />Arriving into this glorious city is the best part of all. Your plane should arrive at night, for it is then that the city glistens. Mexico City lies below you like a black sheet, covered in diamonds, sparkling excitedly in the night. The plane glides gently over this magical place for over twenty minutes. That is how enormous this city is. As a little girl I would be in awe at the sheer enormity of what lay beneath me. I loved seeing the little cars in the streets, the lights covering the ground for as far as my little eyes could see. This is when I would start to get butterflies in my tummy. I still do.<br /><br />When you step off the plane you feel the altitude immediately. Mexico City lies about 2,240 metres above sea level, and the altitude genuinely makes you feel a bit dizzy at first. You step off the plane, and the carpeting seems to pull you towards it. After a few deep breathes, you are perfectly fine. The deep breaths let you take in the new smells around you. I love how my sense slowly familiarize themselves to the smells, sights, feel of the City, and I very quickly feel at home in one of my favourite places in the world.<br /><br />After arriving in Mexico City, I love that after you have collected your luggage, just before you go out and are welcomed by warm embraces from family, you have to press a button. Yes, a button. Above this mysterious button is a light, similar to a stop light. You press the button and if you get the green light, you can pass. If you, however, get the red light, you have to open your suitcases. It is a harmless check. They just gently plump your clothes and check for drugs. We always carry several smoked salmons. In fact once, the salmon was on top of all my mothers clothes. The woman checking the bag didn't even bat an eye lid, and totally ignored this delicious fish. Perhaps she didn't know what it was?<br /><br />There is a cake shop right outside of the airport that we have passed for as long as I can remember. The cakes are enormous. Several tiers high. When I see it, I know I am in Mexico City. I don't know why it takes a cake shop to show me this, but it brings it all home to me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWgcnF-8xI/AAAAAAAAAHM/cRrhRi6PzxA/s1600-h/ideal+pasteleria.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 328px; height: 212px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWgcnF-8xI/AAAAAAAAAHM/cRrhRi6PzxA/s320/ideal+pasteleria.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396896141864268562" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />I love tacos al pastor. A kind of slow roasted pork on a spit with pineapple juice slowly inching its way over the scrumptious crispy meat, coated in a mild chili marinade. Every bite is heavenly. When I was little I believe I ate about twenty tacos on my birthday. My Uncle never forgets that after the meal, when we got home, I announced that I would not be washing my hands. Ever. Why? Because I loved the smell of tacos on my fingers, and wanted to be able to savour the smell forever.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWd8RRCC7I/AAAAAAAAAHE/_EpunxpiUCs/s1600-h/tacos+al+pastor.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 171px; height: 128px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWd8RRCC7I/AAAAAAAAAHE/_EpunxpiUCs/s320/tacos+al+pastor.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396893387225959346" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWdyzaQz4I/AAAAAAAAAGk/v7bdaBzrz_U/s1600-h/guacamole.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 166px; height: 129px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWdyzaQz4I/AAAAAAAAAGk/v7bdaBzrz_U/s320/guacamole.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396893224592789378" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />My godparents own a ranch, which is where I learnt to play Roulette and Poker. My first game was when I was about 5. To this day all the children of the family learn. Regardless of age, you can sit and play, but you have to listen to the older ones. Ironically we all pray to God, or as my God mother says, "Santa Rita, Santa Rita, escucha esta alma que te grita!" (Saint Rita, Saint Rita, listen to this soul that calls to you!)<br /><br />Mexico for me is too many things to write about. I would have to write a book about it. Mexico makes me think of:<br /><br />markets, bartering with the marchantas, listening to my Grandmother play the piano, going to tientas, eating the delicious food at tientas, listening to people tell jokes, eating guzanos de maguey (worms) , drinking soda from plastic bags with a straw sticking out the top, eating popcorn drenched in chile at the cinema, sitting in traffic and watching people go by, mariachis on my birthday, visiting the Virgen de Guadalupe and being so moved by those who approach her on their knees, having come from all over the country, watching films by Pedro Infante (Escuela de Vagabundos) and Cantinflas, eating Mexican sweets, having papaya with lime and orange juice in the morning, eating freshly made tortillas with butter and salt at my Godparent's house, eating mango's de manila like a lollipop, eating aguacates with my Grandmother...........<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWh2NnAl8I/AAAAAAAAAHk/MLRna8jNQL8/s1600-h/mariachis.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 116px; height: 116px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWh2NnAl8I/AAAAAAAAAHk/MLRna8jNQL8/s320/mariachis.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396897681211692994" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWgcuo4H4I/AAAAAAAAAHU/MtRsDKkoNPY/s1600-h/virgin.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 72px; height: 117px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWgcuo4H4I/AAAAAAAAAHU/MtRsDKkoNPY/s320/virgin.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396896143889670018" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWh1yultNI/AAAAAAAAAHc/fq5V85IsMhw/s1600-h/xochimilco.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 172px; height: 115px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/SuWh1yultNI/AAAAAAAAAHc/fq5V85IsMhw/s320/xochimilco.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396897673995728082" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />.........................smelling the sweet breads at the supermarket, going to church and seeing faith at it's worst and at it's best, arriving in Salamanca and seeing shops called "The king of cuts" (a hairdressing salon in a teeny village in Mexico), going to a tiangis (a market selling everything from TV's to Gucci bags..(not real of course, but just as good), Frida Kahlo's house, the canals of Xochimilco, Diego Rivera's murals, the pyramids, the huge mall in Santa fe because it has marble floors, the zoo, the beautiful Ángel de la Independencia, visiting people's homes, talking to the maids, making sopes, the mercado de jamaica for all it's flowers and for the market community who made friends with my father, the mercado en la zona rosa because I love the silver there and love the marchantas there, the smell of the laundry, and the smell of the air very early in the morning.<br /><br />There are many more things.<br /><br />But that is enough for now.<br /><br />Have a great day,<br /><br />Besos,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-88526872501470072992009-10-23T16:12:00.005+01:002009-10-23T17:02:09.145+01:00Ode to New York CityToday my friends I booked my tickets to Mexico City. I am incredibly excited, and nervous at the same time. Nervousness can be good, and I go on a very personal journey of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">discovery</span> to this wonderful country of Mexico.<br /><br />I shall not elucidate upon the intricacies of why this voyage is so important to me. Suffice to say it is.<br /><br />Whilst scouring the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Internet</span> now for two full days, attempting to find the best ticket, best price, best times for my departure, I found myself day dreaming as I waited for the endless pages of flights and prices to upload. My daydreams were, as you can imagine, all about travelling.<br /><br />Over the years I have been lucky enough to travel quite a lot. Having a Mexican father and an American mother has meant I have been taken to their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">home</span> countries from six months old, almost every summer. These places, therefore, have become a part of me, of my identity, and hold very special places in my heart. I miss them tremendously.<br /><br />There are certain memories I especially relish. Today I will list a few of my New York memories. Tomorrow Mexico....<br /><br />Arriving in New York and seeing the sky line. I remember when the twin towers were still there, the skyline would take my breath away.<br /><br />Getting in a NY cab. That for me is heaven. The smell of the leather on the seats, a sort of sweet smell of life buzzing around you. I love the air fresher trees that hang from the car mirror. I always wanted my parents to get one. I still do. I get the impression not many people are fans of them. Why not I ask?<br /><br />There are certain hotels in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">NY</span> I remember very fondly. The Kimberly, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">because</span>, my parents got a suite, and I had the living room, with a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">TV</span> (which i secretly watched after they had fallen asleep!) The Kimberly was around the corner from a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">McDonald's</span>, and for me, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">McDonald's</span> for some strange reason was so exotic in the States. I would beg my mother to have one every time we passed it. One day, my mother and I were going back to the hotel to have a nap (I was a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">young'un</span>) and we passed <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">McDonald's</span>. I begged. Bless my mother. She conceded, and bought us both a meal. Oh the joy! I was thrilled! We got back to the hotel, sat in the kitchen of our room, and ate. When I was done, I realized that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">McDonald's</span> in NY wasn't as good as the enormous deli burgers, pastrami sandwiches, steaks, french fries I was having at restaurants and deli's. I learnt my lesson. (Not to say <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">McD's</span> is bad, just when you have so much other choice! Why settle?!)<br /><br />Then there was the Algonquin. The Algonquin is an old famous <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">NY</span> hotel. It is where the theatre and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Broadway actors, directors and</span> producers convene, for a martini. It is very charming, very classic, very NY. In the entrance, to the right, was a sort of old fashioned book shelf. The bottom shelf had a four poster bed, for a cat. The hotel cat. As a little girl, this was amazing. As a grown up, it still makes me smile. I walked by there this summer. I had come from a long walk, in trainers, and was not feeling very <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">attractive</span>. I stopped <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">in front</span> of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">the</span> entrance and smiled as memories of the Algonquin gushed over me. The doorman cam<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">e out</span>, and commented on how happy I looked. I told him I had such warm memories of the place. He opened the door, and invited me in for a cold drink. I thanked him kindly, but said i would be back in better attire, and would love the drink another day. I have yet to go back. But when I do, I hope that door man is there, he made my day.<br /><br />NY also means the Metropolitan Museum of Art to me. And <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">of course</span> the MET shop! I love touching all the books on art, and always want to buy everything. They are so delicate, full of knowledge I wish to acquire. I always have been bought a diary, pencil case, maybe a mirror or pen, pr bag from the MET. It is such a treat. This is followed my a hamburger at the Greek deli around the corner, and then a good humour ice cream. I don't have it. My mother does. there is nothing like watching her enjoy her ice cream. It is her child hood flavour, and every time she gets it she melts with happiness, retelling the tales of when she would count her pennies for when the good humour ice cream man would come selling ice creams.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">NY</span> also has meant Smith and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Wollensky's</span> to me. Again because my mother adores the meat there. Nobody <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">enjoys</span> a good piece of meat like my mother. I remember when I was little I ordered french fries at Smith and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Wollensky's</span> and they gave me three. the size of my hand. Enormous. Everything is big. Delicious. And again, just very very NY for me.<br /><br />Queens. Ah Queens. My mother's birthplace. Jackson heights. Seeing my Grandmother's friends. Imagining my Grandmother, Grandfather, Mother living there so many years ago. Wishing with all my heart that I could have met my Grandparents. Which makes me sad, but at the same time, being there makes me feel they are right next to me. I believe they are.<br /><br />Chinatown. Once we went to Chinatown with my mother's cousins who are a ball of laughs. I mean they make you laugh 'till you cry. We were the only group at the restaurant. It was a well known one, but we arrived so early, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">that</span> nobody was eating dinner yet. There was an elevated large table on a stage. We were given this table. Big mistake. We put on a show. Well they did, i sat in awe and laughed. One of my mom's cousins girlfriends was paranoid <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">that</span> the meat was cat meat. It didn't bother me. Whatever it was, it was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">delish</span>. We always go to Chinatown, we all love the scrumptious food, crab cakes especially, and oh yes, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Chinese</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">broccoli</span>. After our meal we walk over to little Italy. To a famous Italian desert place, whose name escapes me right now, but anyways, it is famous to me because once my grandma was there, and Pavarotti entered. She stood up and said in her beaming voice, "Pavarotti! Maestro!" and a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">paso</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">doble</span> was playing, so they danced towards one another and embraced. This was my Grandma. She gave him his entrance. She didn't need one, she just <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> a star.<br /><br />I love the smell of NY. The streets full of the smells <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">escaping</span> homes, restaurants, shops. The mix is mesmerizing, and takes your mind a wandering when you get a sudden gust of air from who knows where. I love the people. You cannot define New Yorkers. People have tried. There are no words for them. each person is different. Each person has their own tale, their own sorrows and joys, that's what makes <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">NY</span> so unique. It is truly a plethora of people that make up this glorious city.<br /><br />These are the memories I think of when I first think of NY. There are many more. Many that are far too close to my heart to put down in words, they are feelings, that one just can't define. There are friends and family there that I miss, and long to be with every day. One day I may live there a while....for now? I start to adventure to Mexico. Next time I will write to you about Mexico. Mexico Lindo y Querido...<br /><br />Have a lovely weekend compadres,<br /><br />There is a Rum festival on Saturday and Sunday at Victoria. It is great fun! Go along and try some samples! You will be so very happy... Here is the link <a href="http://www.rumfest.co.uk/rumfest/html/home.html">http://www.rumfest.co.uk/rumfest/html/home.html</a><br /><br /><br />Besitos,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-11642421864617517902009-10-21T13:00:00.020+01:002009-10-28T11:44:01.949+00:00Feeling under the weather...It is awful having a cold. Your nose runs constantly, your eyes water, a sneeze feels wonderful after you have been walking around like an imbecile attempting to let it out, (when you finally do, and your insides seem to leave your body, there is a brief moment of rejoice, then inevitable despair as you try and clean your face up).<br /><br />Everybody gets sick in their own way. By sick, I mean just the basic cold. Ah, but my friends, the cold can manifest itself in several ways in different people.<br /><br />There are those that will not acknowledge the cold. They ignore Mrs. Cold. They say, "do do do, I am dot sick...atchoooooo!....I am fiiiide...reeely..." These are the martyrs. They say don't give me pity, but we all know what they really want.<br /><br />Then there are man colds. You know when your father, boyfriend, guy friends, any male acquaintance gets sick, and they come sniffling towards you, and say "what do I do? How many of these should I take?" Why is it that some men don't understand that it is two, you take two paracetamols, two Tylenol, two Sudafed...TWO! It also says on the box! Maybe it is because women have periods, and we are used to at some point taking some pain killer for that, but many men exaggerate a cold to such an extent you would think there were suffering the bubonic plague. Women have to shed their uterine lining once a month, squeeze a baby out of their vagina..... yet we are at times accused of not tolerating pain as a man. Yet when a man (not all men) has a cold? the world ends. Why? they have a genetically different variable of a cold...it is called man flu. He he...<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8MdlKZOII/AAAAAAAAAGE/YFRJZqsjYRQ/s1600-h/man+flu+1.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 285px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8MdlKZOII/AAAAAAAAAGE/YFRJZqsjYRQ/s400/man+flu+1.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395044580944590978" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />Then you have those who genuinely ignore the cold. They cover it up extremely well, and feel no self pity, nor want any pit whatsoever. A cold is a cold. Ja, dat iz de vey it iz. Shape up or ship out mentality. Good for those who manage that, I on the other hand prefer love, comfort and yes some pity.<br /><br />I remember when I was at school there was no better feeling then being allowed to stay home because I was sick. I would wake up, tired, feeling congested, feverish, and would look at my father who would wake me up, smearing on the thickest 'sick' accent I could manage I'd whisper faintly, "papa, I am so sick. I just CANNOT go to school today". I hated when this was met by, "Ay Jenny, get up, have a shower. You will feel better. You will see". The thing was I didn't want to see! I didn't want to feel better! This was at a time when I was doing my International Baccalaureate, the most work I have ever done. I would stay up until about two every day, doing all sorts of essays, projects, homework, attempting to be a normal sixteen year old at the same time, (not easy...) and so at six when I was awoken by my alarm clock father, I was rarely in the mood to remove myself from bed. There was a time when I would attempt to feel better, and would in fact get up, shower and trudge sulkily off to school, however, this quickly fizzled and I started to know that when the sick feeling was there, I was staying home, that was that. (It didn't happen that often, so I don't feel bad about it).<br /><br />When you have decided to stay home, from school, work, anything you were meant to do, but you just don't feel up to, there is nothing better than laying your head back down on the pillow. The bed almost hugs you saying "it's okay. No guilty feelings, you deserve to rest...." Ah, it is heavenly. I used to love sleeping in when I knew all my friends were at school. I indulged in this sensation, and when I finally did get up, I would savour a delicious breakfast and watch one of my favourite films, imagining what people were doing as I sat there squealing with happiness on my sofa. Ha ha ha! Those were the days ey?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8IwSVH1DI/AAAAAAAAAFM/7ka_Mx_fjxQ/s1600-h/syltetoy.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 96px; height: 141px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8IwSVH1DI/AAAAAAAAAFM/7ka_Mx_fjxQ/s200/syltetoy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395040504260318258" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8H7y_OsUI/AAAAAAAAAE8/TEp2ZabHHKI/s1600-h/kanel+bolle.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 141px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8H7y_OsUI/AAAAAAAAAE8/TEp2ZabHHKI/s200/kanel+bolle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395039602493796674" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8Jz9HvRGI/AAAAAAAAAFc/3wo38Rw1eNc/s1600-h/orange_juice.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 99px; height: 136px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8Jz9HvRGI/AAAAAAAAAFc/3wo38Rw1eNc/s200/orange_juice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395041666798142562" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br />My mother used to come home with treats for me, a "boller", which are Norwegian sweet breads with raisins, and cardamom (scrumptious), or "kanelboller" which are buns with cinnamon, and my father would rent me a film. Oh it was bliss! I suppose I love attention (who doesn't?) and the love and consolation you get when you are ill is just sublime.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8KrqHSmsI/AAAAAAAAAFs/eA2lRX9Ljg4/s1600-h/boller+1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8KrqHSmsI/AAAAAAAAAFs/eA2lRX9Ljg4/s200/boller+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395042623768664770" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8Krr13w-I/AAAAAAAAAFk/VA8Vnf-i4wQ/s1600-h/boller.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 132px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/St8Krr13w-I/AAAAAAAAAFk/VA8Vnf-i4wQ/s200/boller.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395042624232473570" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sadly, there are those people who like to throw around the word "hypochondriac". I have grown to hate this word. Yes, you guessed why, I have been named such a thing a few times in my lifetime. I think my reputation as a hypochondriac may have been shed slightly when I was stung by a scorpion. Let me tell you about it...<br /><br />One summer, my parents and I on our usual visit to my God parents ranch in Mexico, I woke up smelling the gorgeous wave of bacon, freshly squeezed orange juice, freshly made tortillas, and scrambled eggs. There is no better place in the world to wake up in. I got up, and meandered in my bare feet and pyjamas to the living room. I joined my Godparents, and parents, and stared out at the table, sipping on my scrumptious orange juice. "What oh what shall I begin with", my greedy little eyes and belly thought to themselves. It was at this moment, however, that I realized I had no feeling in my left arm. "Strange..." I thought, but the food looked so good, so I was almost distracted enough, when, "ah! I have lost all feeling in my arm". Not even food could distract me from this eerie fact. I panicked slightly. "Mama, I can't feel my arm" I muttered with now watery eyes. "Jenny, go have a shower, and you'll feel better, come on now". Reluctantly, I got up, and begrudgingly I locked myself in the bathroom, turned on the shower, and started to undress. But my left arm was just not working. It felt as thought it had fallen into a deep sleep, without the pins and needles. It was just a heavy limb hanging from my side! At this point fear hit me. I dived back into my clothes and ran into the living room, at this point quite hysterical. "Mama, Papa, really! I cannot feel my arm....and now....my throat..it feels tight...it is...closing up!!"<br /><br />Now my parents realized this was serious. In what can only be described as a mess of a situation, they all attempted to decide what to do with me. My God mother suggested taking me to the vet. The closest doctor for humans was a thirty minute car ride away, and in the words of my God mother "she may not make it there...." With the thought of me dying, and having to go see a vet to save my life, you can imagine I was not feeling tremendously happy. At this point, I believe I was crying. Perhaps even sobbing. My right arm had by this point lost feeling, so I remember standing in front of everybody manically attempting to make a plan to save their little jenny, whilst i stood before them, head hung, slobbering and sobbing, without use of my arms. It was ridiculous. Finally, my parents guided me to the car, and off we went to the doctor for humans. We decided we would make it.<br /><br />Half way there, my throat was closing tightly. I remember trying to breathe calmly, but when your throat is constricting, staying calm is quite difficult. When we finally arrived at the doctors, who was waiting for us with family friends who happened to have three sons, all standing there looking at the poor maiden (me)...I fell into the doctors arms, and I believe said something along the lines of "thank God you are here....thank God". You must understand the relief was enormous. I thought my days were up!<br /><br />I was given intravenous...everything. Antidotes, drugs galore. I was so dizzy, I felt as if everyone was talking in slow motion. Sound was reverberating in my head. The doctor and my father started talking about bullfighting, the three boys stood over me, making sure I didn't die. At one point they attempted to feed me yogurt. I almost threw up, so they removed it from my face. My mother sat by my side, worrying, and finally made the doctor clarify what he was giving me. "How many drugs are you giving my daughter!" When he tried to tell her it was alright in a pedantic tone, I think she just pointed at me and said "this (as in my gaga face) is not alright....I want you to list what you have given her and why". He stopped pumping me with drugs, and I lifted my arm to say yay to my mother. Blood flowed down my intravenous tube, and I remember that it made me queasy. I had to go to the bathroom, and my mother had to walk me there. It was as if I was extremely drunk. I had no control over my legs, and as I kept on lifting my arm, I kept getting disgusted by seeing blood in my tubes....it was a mess. I just remember laughing drunkenly with my mother, and thinking how bizarre the whole situation was.<br /><br />Finally I was disconnected from tubes, and sort of carried home. I lay down two hours, and when I got up I felt fit as a fiddle. Si fit I was out playing football with the guys that evening. I suppose that is why people say I overreacted. I say, "no!", I am just incredibly brave, and a quick at recuperating. Ha. It is true.<br /><br />The baby scorpion was found. In my room. the doctor thought I had been bitten in my sleep, or my a young scorpion, as I didn't feel the bite, and that numbness is a common result of a young insect who doesn't know how to inject the poison yet. But these are boring details, the fact is, I was bitten, it was dramatic, and a scorpion was involved. I was brave. Not a hypochondriac. In the slightest. End of story.<br /><br />Now for all of you who are sick, as it is cold season, try some chamomile tea (te de manzanilla), with a teeny bit of honey, and lemon. Or just boiled water with honey and lemon (I prefer lime). Also if you have to drink, have some brandy it warms you up. Whiskey is said to be very good. I prefer tequila. Sleep lots, and change your tooth brush. Most importantly have some Jewish Penicillin (Chicken soup.....)<br /><br />Besitos,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-85349994277134276432009-10-19T16:12:00.009+01:002009-10-19T17:46:24.223+01:00Feeling, Knowing, beyond what we See....Sometimes people cannot see beyond what they see before them. Yes, I know, the obvious thing you may think is, well obviously not! If you have a tree in front of you, you see a tree. Simple as that. What I mean, however, is that some people's reality is very black and white. Imagination is out of the question. Lately I have been struck by those who are caught up in the materialistic world, that at times can engulf our incredible ability to see beyond the tips of our nose.<br /><br />The texture, taste, and feel of what we experience on a daily basis is one that we, who have all of our senses in tact, at times fail to appreciate fully.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StyQHdkrSGI/AAAAAAAAAEk/msvJvoZOgQU/s1600-h/mercado+jamica.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 191px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StyQHdkrSGI/AAAAAAAAAEk/msvJvoZOgQU/s200/mercado+jamica.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394344911554955362" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">A while ago a friend of mine helped film, edit and direct a documentary about a group of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">blind</span> people in Mexico City, who were part of project run by the Institution for the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Blind</span> in Mexico City. The project's main goal was to challenge the idea that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">blind</span> people should be excluded from the visual arts, an opinion shared not only by sighted people, but also the blind. The question was, can those who cannot see, take a picture? Could people without visual perception capture a moment, and truly appreciate what would make a beautiful photograph?<br /></div><br />The people participating in the project described how for them, a picture was capturing an image that <span style="font-style: italic;">felt</span> beautiful. Their other senses, heightened by the lack of their ability to see, such as hearing, touch and smell, allowed them to imagine, <span style="font-style: italic;">feel</span>, what shot would interpret how they saw, in their minds eye, the world in that moment, and capture it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StyQp55U5lI/AAAAAAAAAEs/CaLbxGFi6mY/s1600-h/mexico+cars.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 223px; height: 155px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StyQp55U5lI/AAAAAAAAAEs/CaLbxGFi6mY/s200/mexico+cars.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394345503273313874" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StyQ98s1WOI/AAAAAAAAAE0/lGomzAH-L34/s1600-h/mexico+street+vendor.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 154px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StyQ98s1WOI/AAAAAAAAAE0/lGomzAH-L34/s200/mexico+street+vendor.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394345847623604450" border="0" /></a></div><br />This project was successful in challenging how those who see, as well as those who don't, assume that blind people are unable to visually appreciate their surroundings. Importantly this project also served as a form of rehabilitation, encouraging the blind to be more secure of themselves, less afraid to walk in the streets, and manage to get around on their own. It also opened up dialogue between blind and seeing friends, shedding light on how ironically, it is often those that <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> see that are blinded by an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">incorrect</span> preconception that visual perception <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">relies</span> solely on our eyes.<br /><br />Watch the short. Perhaps we should all try and appreciate what is around us more fully, more <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">honestly</span>, and be more aware of our <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">surroundings</span>, appreciating the gestures by kind friends or even strangers, the love from those close to us, and really see beyond the tip of your nose...beyond what is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">in front</span> of us...<br /><br />Here is the link to the short. Enjoy!<br /><br /><a href="http://current.com/items/77527741_sight-of-emotion.htm">http://current.com/items/77527741_sight-of-emotion.htm</a><br /><br />Love,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-26856376277957575522009-10-15T13:51:00.028+01:002009-10-28T11:50:06.509+00:00Indulge this weekend..I had a craving today for some tapas like nibbly scrumptious foods. My cravings are specific. They are my childhood foods, eaten when on holiday in Mallorca with my parents, or in Mexico. They are delicious, try them and see.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">My first passion are nuts.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stcf--q6gAI/AAAAAAAAAB8/0qPGHMXdtsQ/s1600-h/salted+marcona.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 105px; height: 85px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stcf--q6gAI/AAAAAAAAAB8/0qPGHMXdtsQ/s200/salted+marcona.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392814245634801666" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stcf_gz4xpI/AAAAAAAAACM/I3v_dTAc7wg/s1600-h/pistachious.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 95px; height: 84px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stcf_gz4xpI/AAAAAAAAACM/I3v_dTAc7wg/s200/pistachious.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392814254799242898" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stcf-vfsKZI/AAAAAAAAAB0/7a28LRRBRk4/s1600-h/peanuts.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 85px; height: 85px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stcf-vfsKZI/AAAAAAAAAB0/7a28LRRBRk4/s200/peanuts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392814241561192850" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stcf_Hxj3rI/AAAAAAAAACE/-zCdqWO5UPc/s1600-h/japoneses.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 84px; height: 84px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stcf_Hxj3rI/AAAAAAAAACE/-zCdqWO5UPc/s200/japoneses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392814248078597810" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />Salted marcona's (almond's), pistachios, peanuts, and lastly cacahuates Japoneses. The last ones are to be found in Mexico - direct translation is "Japanese peanuts". I know they are not Japanese, I don't know why they are described as Japanese, in Spanish "Japoneses". They are, however, truly delicious, crunchy, lemony, divine. If you don't believe me, here is the bag so you can see they are really called Japanese (in case you go to Mexico and must satisfy your craving, these are the best)....<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StciBDnPhXI/AAAAAAAAACc/jOf_mLD7BvU/s1600-h/kkhuates_japoneses.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StciBDnPhXI/AAAAAAAAACc/jOf_mLD7BvU/s200/kkhuates_japoneses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392816480344573298" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />Secondly I love olives. Mmmmmm, Glorious Olives. I didn't honestly like them until my older brother introduced me to them at the age of about four. I liked them because he liked them. At first I was shocked at this salty grape, and spat it out. Seeing all the adults enjoying them so I strived to love them. Lo' and behold, now I do. I love them both, green and black, any kind, from any place...(well I love the black kalamata most). Just look at them! Yum!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StcktsDnVSI/AAAAAAAAAC0/Lq9UpLQEfYA/s1600-h/kalamata+1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 152px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StcktsDnVSI/AAAAAAAAAC0/Lq9UpLQEfYA/s200/kalamata+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392819446138492194" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />What about some meat? I am no meat eater really, but give me some jamón serrano or jabugo and I eat it all, licking my fingers as I go! Jamón serrano is a dry cured Spanish ham. There are many types, and the quality depends on the type of pig, what it was fed, what part of it was used to make this scrumptious ham, and the manner in which the ham was cured.<br /><br />The best is Jamón ibérico, Iberico ham, also called <i>pata negra</i>, is made from the black Iberian Pig.....<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StcvOjYEqRI/AAAAAAAAAC8/g_5KbW-TDLY/s1600-h/black+pig.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 148px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StcvOjYEqRI/AAAAAAAAAC8/g_5KbW-TDLY/s200/black+pig.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392831005860342034" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />This pig lives mostly in the south and south western parts of Spain, and southeast of Portugal. There are three categories of Jamón ibérico;<br /><ul><li>The finest, juiciest, and incidentally most expensive jamón ibérico is called jamón ibérico de bellota (acorn). Roaming oak forests (called <i>la dehesa</i>) along the border between Spain and Portugal, these pigs have a strict diet of ONLY acorns. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acorn" title="Acorn"></a> during this last period. The roaming and acorns combined have a wonderful impact on the flavour of the meat, and after it is cured for 36 months (!) it is worthy of being a person's last meal...<br /></li><li>Second best (but still, pardon my French, fucking divine!!!!) is jamón ibérico de recebo. These piggies get acorns AND grain (how the other pigs must envy them!)<br /></li><li>Lastly (and again, absolutely to die for..) is the jamón ibérico de pienso, or simply, jamón ibérico. This little piggy is only fed grain....then cured for 24 months.</li></ul><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StcyMe-OjoI/AAAAAAAAADM/ZNFb_pT7-qE/s1600-h/jamon+serrano.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 181px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/StcyMe-OjoI/AAAAAAAAADM/ZNFb_pT7-qE/s200/jamon+serrano.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392834268853341826" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />Sometimes you hear Spanish people say "Jabugo" as an umbrella term for jamón ibérico. This is because the little village of Jabugo, in the north of the province of Huelva, is almost entirely devoted to making jamón ibérico. Their piggy's are happy 700 metres above sea level, and enjoy the weather .... Meaning that their ham is scrumptious, and well known, so if you hear Jabugo, now you know why and what it is (jamón ibérico).<br /><br />Now add to the mix some cheese, something simple, manchego cheese (a sheep's milk cheese made in the La Mancha region of Spain).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stczturt7ZI/AAAAAAAAADU/In2BryUohr0/s1600-h/machego.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 196px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stczturt7ZI/AAAAAAAAADU/In2BryUohr0/s200/machego.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392835939517984146" border="0" /></a></div><br /><p>Almost done now.</p><p>Try some boquerones fritos (fried anchovy's. Did you know, I always thought there were sardines. I hate anchovy's! Apparently I don't! ha! One learns something new everyday no?)</p><p>These glorious little fried fish fit right in your mouth. Add some lemon, and indulge. Crispy, tasty, with a zing, you just cannot go wrong with these little fellas.</p> <p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stc7a10m93I/AAAAAAAAAD8/JcfiMnSaE5Y/s1600-h/tio+pepe+fino.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 89px; height: 198px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stc7a10m93I/AAAAAAAAAD8/JcfiMnSaE5Y/s200/tio+pepe+fino.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392844411109832562" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stc8QxHx4TI/AAAAAAAAAEE/XijaiflY3RY/s1600-h/boquerones+fritos.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 172px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/__QsIqi23DRI/Stc8QxHx4TI/AAAAAAAAAEE/XijaiflY3RY/s200/boquerones+fritos.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392845337560998194" border="0" /></a></p> You REALLY need something to wet your pallet with all this salty food, so I would have some jerez (sherry) such as, Tio Pepe (fino) or a glass of a wonderful red wine I found the other day called, Les Charmes de Magnol 2006, Barton & Guestier, Médoc. It is about £12 but worth every penny. Share it with a couple of friends...that will make it taste even better.<br /><br />If you are in London try the Tapas place in Borough Market called Tapas Brindisa.<br />If you want a good list of tapas places in London try this website: <a href="http://www.tapasbrindisa.com/">http://www.tapasbrindisa.com/</a><br /><br />Also, it seems that tapas are being expanded to not only Spanish food but Italian. Polpo, on Beak Street, has a cosy feel to it. Enjoy a glass of rose, in an actual glass not wine glass, some olives, and several Italian small plates. Tasty, delightful. Having opened only 13 days ago Polpo has done exceedingly well. They are also very friendly. Go have a look, it is worth it. <a href="http://www.polpo.co.uk/">http://www.polpo.co.uk/</a><br /><br />Okay, well I leave you for the weekend. I hope it is a greatly magnificent one, eat well, drink well, laugh lots, enjoy friends and family...if you need more inspiration go to Timeout London :<br /><a href="http://www.timeout.com/london/">http://www.timeout.com/london/</a><br /><br />Besotes,<br /><br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-51620657524991441302009-10-15T11:28:00.003+01:002009-10-15T12:25:41.332+01:00I danced with Michael Jackson...Ladies and Gentleman! I have just awoken from the most magnificent of dreams. I danced with Michael Jackson. He was lovely. <br /><br />I don't know why Mr. Jackson was on my mind. I haven't seen anything about him in the last week that would make my brain pluck him out of my thoughts and create a bizarre dream. I almost flatter myself with the thought that he visited me in my dreams, (well he essentially did). Let me tell you how..<br /><br />The dream was set in a hotel. An enormous beautiful hotel, in a warm country. I want to say Morocco, but that may be because I want to go there. Suffice to say it was one of those grandiose hotels with an enormous marble fountain in the lobby, with flowers adorning just the right areas. I was wearing little patent leather shoes, that made a slight pitter patter on the marble floor. I love that sound. (On a side note, when I was about five we would all sit around my teacher Mrs. Jameson, a Scottish marvel of a woman, and at times she would ask us to come and get something from the front of the class. Our teeny toes in our tiny slippers would make a beautiful pitter patter on the floor. We would all hold our breathe and envy the person making the noise. It was almost a competition, who could make the clearest roundest pitter patter.....) <br /><br />I am not sure why I was in the hotel, or with whom. I know I was with friends, but I can't remember who at this point. I do, however, remember finding out that Michael Jackson was staying at our hotel. The excitement! Everyone was heaving with joy, and trying to find a way to meet him. The next thing I know I was walking along a corridor, and was going to get something (perhaps buy a diet coke?) when i found myself standing in front of a door. I didn't know why. I just stood there. I remember feeling confused. Then, the door opened. Michael Jackson stood before me. He was wearing sunglasses. The shades, however, were not very darkly tinted so I could see his eyes. They were friendly, slightly squinty, and looking right at me. He had on his typical black leather trousers. A white tank top, and a sort of checkered red loose shirt. He had a black hat on, and a yellowish scarf around his neck, and yes, a glove on one hand. He smiled at me, and in his soft effeminate voice asked me to follow him. He even knew my name! I can't tell you how hard my heart was beating.<br /><br />Suddenly we were in the lobby. Hundreds of people grouped around him. I was standing by his side. On his right side in fact. (See? I told you this is the strangest yet most wonderful dream.) Then he started to dance, and we all copied him. He was teaching us his moves! the strange thing is that this must be where my brain interfered (as of course the rest of the tale is sheer truth and I am starting to believe it happened), and the dance move Mr. Jackson was teaching us (I almost said me) was one in which he walked forward, in his familiar swagger, then his right leg shot out behind him, whist he bent his left knee. This is a rather uncomfortable position. You have to do it right, or else you look like an idiot. We all looked like fools. He looked great. He tried teaching us this for a while. Behind me was the most annoying little man. He kept trying to get closer to Michael (we are on first name basis now), and tried to sidle his annoying self up close to me. Finally after a silent battle, whereby my foot kept attempting to nudge him, and his body kept trying to elbow me away, he won. I watched as Michael and this idiot danced off into the distance. I was so disappointed. I walked back to my room and told my friends what had happened. Of course, nobody believed me. <br /><br />Suddenly there was a loud knock at our door. I opened and there stood an FBI looking body guard....man. With the suit, shades, and coil thing in his ear. "Would you be so kind as to follow me. Mr. Jackson has requested your company". I stood there, my jaw dropped to the floor, turned to my friends who were equally flabbergasted. Collected myself, gave them a little "told you so!" look, and marched off with the body guard. I was taken to a room that was buzzing with all sorts of people who seemed to be fixing anything from Michael's makeup to screwing in light bulbs, everyone equally busy. It was a bit uncomfortable to be honest. Then Michael emerged, smiling, still with his shades on, took me by the arm and said, "come on, I've got a party to go to, and I would love you to accompany me.." Suddenly, as if in a fairy tale, I was dressed in a cool little black sequined dress, hair done perfectly, beautiful make-up and we strutted through the lobby. Past my friends.....te he. It was swell.<br /><br />So there you are. I awoke with a soar rear end from all that dancing, and a new found love for Michael Jackson. I have always liked him a lot, and loved his music. His dancing has always made me squeal with excitement, but now, I know this may sound mad, and it is mad, I feel I have met him, and like him even more. Crazy, but true.<br /><br />When I was twelve I was invited to his concert in Oslo. It was for a birthday. I had no idea who he really was. My first CD had been "It's not easy being Green", a Kermit the frog compilation of songs sung by a list of artists consoling Kermit's despair with Miss Piggy. The concert was incredible. from the moment he came on stage the audience was in awe, moved to tears, screaming, and silent when his musical numbers required it. He was a star. A super star. Nobody will ever compare. His dedication shone through his perfectly choreographed dances, each step was there for a reason, followed by a perfectly accompanied move. His passion for entertaining, spreading joy was insurmountable, incomparable, will always be, unforgettable.<br /><br />I was in New York, in Lord and Taylor's in the shoe department when the news spread like wild fire, of his death. First we were told that he had had a heart attack. Sadly, everyone knew. We all knew this was it, his number was up, and he was dead. There was a true sense of loss that afternoon. We all sat in silence as the news sunk in. Even those who hadn't really liked him felt sad. That night his music boomed through the city. Every borough mourned his death. In Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, our crack addict neighbours played his music all night, singing and dancing. <br /><br />He was a complex character, obviously with many issues, but an icon nonetheless. A true mark was made in musical history by him. May he rest in peace, and find happiness wherever he is.Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-47105508835665578722009-10-14T13:07:00.000+01:002009-10-14T14:06:23.576+01:00White lies...Yesterday something happened that made me think of white lies.<br /><br />I was rushing to go meet a Mexican friend of mine at the BFI. Actually, I say friend, but I have never met him. We are facebook acquaintances. Facebook has a wonderful community of Mexicans abroad, and of course, I joined as quickly as I found this glorious group. In true Mexican spirit, when I announced that I was to be coming to London, I was contacted by group members, asking if I needed any help relocating to London, a place to stay, a job, a tour of England... Viva Mexico! Solidarity at its finest.<br /><br />So, yesterday, I was finally going to meet one of the Mexicans. I was excited. I mean really excited. I wrote my blog in the morning, went for a jog, did regular administrative things ... I attempted to hide the popped zit on the side of my mouth which makes me look like I have herpes (not the best first impression...) Then of course I noticed it was already 5 and I was to be at the BFI at 6, so I rushed into the shower, washed like a frantic baboon, scrambled into my outfit (which I had luckily already picked out in my head whilst jogging), literally threw makeup onto my face, started to run out of the door, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and decided I looked like a 7 year old having stolen makeup from my mother, readjusted my face, took a deep breath, then off I went, skipping to the tube station...(if you skip you look less like a maniac than if you run, and it is faster than walking...a win win situation really). <br /><br />It is guaranteed that whenever I am late, (which is rare), something happens on my journey. Yesterday, the tube stopped at Camden Station. The lady on the loud speaker mumbled something. I thought she said that the train had now become a Morden via Bank one, and for all those who wanted via Charring Cross, get off! All this I deciphered from her sulky miserable tone, so I jumped off. I wanted the freakin' Charring Cross branch! Argh! Then the train just stood there, door open. Nobody budged. I looked up at the screen and it said that this train was a Charring Cross branch. I was, as you can imagine, confused. I hate when you have attempted to make yourself look effortlessly nice, and these things happen. Why? I get flustered, and start to sweat. I am a very cold person. As we say in Mexico, I have cold hands but a warm heart. Now my hands were hot, and I was panicking because it was 5:50. I was going to be late. Being late for a Mexican shouldn't really be a big deal. In Mexico when you invite people over for dinner at 7, you really mean 8, and they arrive at 9. It is just a way of life. If you come at 7, you are rude, nothing is ready, and you look like a fool. If you come at 8, you are forgiven. Arrive at 9? You hit the jackpot and everyone is happy. I, however, did not want to be late. I wanted to be there at 6, Norwegian style, punctual, looking cool as a cat. <br /><br />I gathered my thoughts, and finally decided to get back on the fucking (yes by this time I was angry...) train. Damn it! I think I may have sworn and muttered curses under, or indeed over my breath...I got stares. Believe me, at this point, I was beyond caring. Finally, the train, going at a turtles pace, meandered into embankment station. Again, fate decided I was to stand behind a very wide woman on the escalators. In London you stand on the right side, and those who want to walk and exercise there patunkus (butt, ass, derriere, bottom) do so on the right. the woman in front of me was so wide, nobody could even dream of passing. I was standing behind her, so people nudged me, as if I was to blame. I sort of shifted to the right, sort of turned around, eyed the annoyed crowd behind me, and shrugged kind of indicating with my head at the lady infront of me. Luckily, they understood, and we all stood in silence, counting to ten to exercise some patience.... ( I know this is horrible of me to say, but alas, I am not mean a lot, and so...well...let it pass.)<br /><br />Over the Waterloo bridge I raced, ducking people as if I was a boxer avoiding my opponents punches. I was swift, I was fast; I whipped through the crowd. As I approached the BFI, I slowed down, breathed, fixed my hair, re-applied lipstick, adopted my "why hello! I have just shimmied on down here..no stress, all is cool..", smoochy look. <br /><br />My phone rang. <br /><br />It was the Mexican. Guess what? He wasn't coming. Poor fella' had been in a car crash and the front of his car was squashed. He was very embarrassed and apologetic. I was just glad nothing happened to him. I got off the phone, took a deep breathe, and stared out at the Thames. With St. Paul's cathedral on one side, and Big Ben and the Westminster on the other, who cares if you've been stood up? I giggled at myself and the hysteria that had engulfed me earlier. I know he was telling the truth because I could hear the traffic in the background, and police men etc. It was this that reminded me of white lies....<br /><br />When I was a little girl, there were times when my friends would ask me over and I would not want to go. For fear of saying no, and looking like a dork, I would ask my parents to pretend they weren't letting me go...."Hi, no, I can't go. I know, My parents said no. I have to stay home and help them clean/do homework/bake/be Cinderella/walk my dog/wash my dog/go to sleep....<br /><br /> I would rather tell a white lie at times. Somebody once told me this was a cultural thing. I was very hurt. Is it a Mexican thing? No. My Pakistani friends do it too, Indian friends, Spanish friends, French, South African (I just realized it may sound like I am boasting of having many friends from all over.....I do. Result of going to an International school, but believe me, there are times I wish we all lived in the same country. Especially as I can't afford to go to all those places!) <br /><br />I think the culture of white lies is quite ingrained all over the world. I think it is great! I mean instead of hurting people's feelings, you can make a little story up. Nothing too big. That way you are happy, and the other person can live in blissful ignorance. The truth at times is so blunt and unkind. In fact, isn't life a lot more pleasant if we help the narration of it? If cold old truth and life were to be the chief narrators of our existence, we would be in a dull and grey place. Let me tell you. So spice it up a bit....believe me, it really is a win win situation. <br /><br />Let me just add that you should not white lie if it hurts the other person. You know the basics... Just thought I'd say that so you don't think I am a sinful creature promoting harming others. <br /><br />"Go in peace". Sermon over.Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-3803609384836134972009-10-13T13:02:00.000+01:002009-10-13T15:23:30.998+01:00Buses...Lately I have been taking the bus everywhere in London. I love to sit on the top level of the double decker buses and look out upon the city. People rush by, and I just sit there, above them, watching. I imagine where they are going, what their day has been like, and wonder what kind of people they are. Sometimes I look at people and feel I know them. Something in their face seems familiar to me, and I have to refrain from waving at them, as if they were my oldest acquaintance in the world. (I have to admit that I do smile at people when I am walking in the street. Many smile back. Which is lovely. Other's frown at me, furrow their brow and must think I am insane).<br /><br />Buses, however, allow you to do more than just watch people. They let you listen to the people around you. I know I may seem guilty of voyeurism and being a self proclaimed eves dropper, but I listen with the most honest intentions. I love human beings. I love what we talk about, how we talk, what we look like - all our mannerisms. They are extremely entertaining to me. <br /><br />For example. The other day I took the number 9 bus from High Street Kensington to the Aldwych. I sat at the front of the upper level of the bus. The best seat. Pleased with my view I started scouring the streets, indulging my eyes in the feast of people, and the hustle and bustle I love so much. Suddenly, it came to my attention that to my right, sat an elderly couple, whose conversations seemed beautifully scripted, and whose companionship moved me to tears. Despite being an older couple, (I would say in their late 70's), they were in great shape. The lady had planted her feet up on the plastic sort of separator at the front of the bus. She was wearing little black patent leather shoes. With a bow. Shoes that I love, and used to have as a child. Her hair was perfectly coiffed in an intentionally messy very modern style. She wore black leggings and a long sweater, and clung to a large leather bag, that I suspect may have been a Furla bag. She had large rings on her fingers, and bangle bracelets. Her make up was simple, and she had pouty lips. Perhaps too pouty, which convinced me of the botox or collagen enhancing those lips. Nevertheless, she was beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous. Her husband, was the stereotypical English country man. He wore his green Barbour jacket, had his flat cap in hand, and hush puppies on his little tootsies. This, followed by his tweed trousers, white shirt under a green sweater, made me remember my fathers fascination with English clothing. <br /><br />As a little girl my father, a Mexican, would take me to his favourite hat shop off of the Kings Road. I remember the green hat he bought. It was faint green, mixed with blue's and faint yellow, creating an elegant musky green. Almost the colour of freshly cut grass commencing to age. I remember the hat shop as small,stuffy, dusty with a mysterious aura that made me feel I had stepped into a magical and mysterious cave. Boxes loomed over your head, and the shop keeper was a charmingly old man, who hunched his back as he joyfully helped you select the right hat. Every hat you bought would be registered in an enormous leather bound book. The old man would take out his pen, (I remember it as a plume, but that may be a slight exaggeration) and he would write in his beautiful cursive penmanship, the hat's name, date, and new owner of the hat. When my father and I went, he told the old man that he had bought a hat there in the 60's. The little old hunch backed jolly man, got out the book, which was I feel bigger than him, and licked his fingers, and started to turn the pages. Sure enough he found my fathers name, the date he had bought his hat and the type. He disappeared into the back of the shop, and emerged with a new hat for my father, identical to the one he had had before. It is a shame the shop does not exist anymore, such places bear memories that indulge your senses and can remind you of things from caramels to dusty attics. <br /><br />As I was saying, this couple, on the bus, entertained me so much with their chit chat that I smiled all the way to the Aldwych. Wouldn't you? Their accents were so beautiful, so fine and elegant, so purely beautifully eloquent, the Queen's English to a T. I wished that I could enjoy a cup of tea with them, or have scones with lashings of cream and strawberry jam in their company. They giggled, teased, and loved one another so intensely that I almost reached out and touched the ladies shoulder. I wanted to check they were real, not just a result of my active imagination. But real, they were. "Darling, do you know? It was a marvelous idea to escape our house. What a beautiful day! Look at the trees! Good Lord. How marvelous!" Their enthusiasm was contagious. I loved how they counted their money openly. The lady took out a wad of 20's and started to count the money they were to deposit at the bank. My eyes widened, and I may have drooled slightly. I wish I had such a wad I thought to myself! "It is so annoying that they don't give 50 pounds notes anymore darling". Yes, I thought to myself, I want those notes, now!! They were true wonders of this world, and were the greatest of company on my number 9 bus trip. <br /><br />Moral of the story? Take the bus. You see more of where you live, where you are going, you see people.....It provides a sense of community. It may take longer, but as with all great things in life, you have to make time for them.<br /><br />I will leave you today with a joke. My Scottish friend once told me it, and it always makes me laugh. Enjoy. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">A new guy in town walks into a bar and notices a large jar filled to the brim with $10 bills. The man approaches the bartender and asks, "What's up with the jar?"<br /><br />"Well, you pay $10, and if you pass three tests, then you get all the money."<br /><br />"What are the three tests?" asks the man<br /><br />"Gotta pay first."<br /><br />So the guy gives him the $10 bucks, and the bartender adds it to the jar.<br /><br />"OK, here's what you have to do. First, you have to drink that whole bottle of pepper tequila -- the WHOLE thing at once -- and you can't make a face while doing it. Second, there's a pit bull chained up out back with a sore tooth. You have to remove the tooth with your bare hands. Third, there is a 90-year-old woman upstairs who's never had an orgasm in her life. You gotta make things right for her."<br /><br />"Well, I know I've paid my $10 bucks," says the man, "but I'm not an idiot. No wonder you've collected so much money -- that's impossible!"<br /><br />The new guy proceeds to drink several whiskeys, and eventually, he gets up his nerve.<br /><br />"Wherez zat teeqeelah?" he slurs.<br /><br />He grabs the bottle of pepper tequila with both hands and downs it, gulp by gulp. Tears are streaming down his cheeks, but he doesn't make a face. Next, he staggers out back. Everyone in the bar hears a huge scuffle outside -- barking, yelping and growling, then silence.<br /><br />Just when they think the man must be dead, he staggers back into the bar with his shirt ripped and gashes across his body.<br /><br />"NOW," he says, "wherez at ol' lady with the sore tooth?" </span>Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-89160845183496536382009-10-12T10:00:00.000+01:002009-10-12T10:16:39.082+01:00Autumn, apple crumble time....I woke up this morning to the sun shining on my face, dew covered windows, and a longing for Autumny food - you know, stews, pie's, roasts, any warm cosy food. For me, however, the most Autumn like food is my mother's apple crumble.It is truly DIVINE!<br /><br />My mother makes the best apple crumble in the world. I know there are those of you out there that may be thinking something along the lines of, "uh, no, MY mother makes the best apple crumble". I fear you are all wrong. It consists of flour, lots and lots of butter mixed together in a frying pan, with lots and lots of sugar, some cinnamon. This forms a mushy, sticky glorious sweet crumble. Cut the apples into slices, and layer them in a deep pan/bowl. Put a layer of apple, some butter, cinnamon, and on top of this add the floury, sugary, cinnamony, buttery crumble. Place this in a heated oven (about 170 to 200 C) for about forty minutes. Keep an eye on it, it may need less time so after about 20 minutes have a peek to check it is not burning. After you have prepared such a glorious warm, comfort food, it would be heart breaking to burn it!!<br /><br />I hope you enjoy, let me know if you have any yummy recipes I should try on these Autumn evenings.<br /><br />Love,<br />AynanitaAynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-35788931974242003522009-10-09T14:05:00.000+01:002009-10-11T13:24:00.997+01:00Obama and his Prize...This year 205 Peace Prize nominations were made – the highest number of nominations ever. Among the nominees were Zimbabwean Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai and Chinese dissident Hu Jia. It was, however, Barack Obama, the esteemed President of the United States of America who has been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. "Only very rarely has a person to the same extent as Obama captured the world's attention and given its people hope for a better future," the Norwegian committee said in a statement. "His diplomacy is founded in the concept that those who are to lead the world must do so on the basis of values and attitudes that are shared by the majority of the world's population." <br /><br />Thorbjørn Jagland, chairman of the Norwegian Nobel Committee , firmly defended the decision when questioned about the political nature of such a decision, he underlined that this award is for what Obama has managed to do thus far; encouraging dialogue in the worlds, working towards resolving conflicts, strengthening international institutions, working towards a world free of nuclear arms, strengthening International diplomacy - "It is a clear signal that we want to advocate the same as he has done," he said. <br /><br />The News has been praised and condemned. Facing a plethora of issues, both on the Domestic and International front, there are those who feel Obama’s award to be premature, even unfounded, and controversial. Despite Obama’s important action taken during his eight months, I cannot help but wonder whether the Nobel peace prize will truly galvanize International relations, in the way Jagland and the Nobel Committee states. <br /><br />Nevertheless, I believe that instead of our attention turning towards the bickering about whether Obama deserves the prize or not, I think we should dedicate attention to those people and organizations who are working daily, without recognition, towards peace, promoting and attempting to secure human rights. These people fight battles that many of us sitting comfortably on our sofas watching the news, arguing, discussing, haven’t even thought possible or would never dream of fighting. Why? Why do we so easily shout, comment, at the television, one another, the papers, online, and yet we still do nothing? Because we are selfish? Because we are far away from those problems? Because when we see them on television, we can’t switch it off, and watch the X;factor, or some new reality show being aired? Are we such an apathetic generation? Have re resigned to this? I don’t think so, I know we haven’t but let’s work towards positive commentary, and not follow in the paradigm of negative commentary we are surrounded by on a daily basis. <br /><br />Obama’s prize is an honor. It is no more, and no less. He is no Messiah. He represents hope, and incites inspiration. His nomination is no benchmark, he has lots to do, and he is the first to admit this. It is, therefore, perfectly beautiful that the president, who was awakened to be told he had won, said he was “deeply humbled”. Obama speaking in the Rose Garden today said he accepted the award, as a call to action to confront the common challenges of the 21st century. Importantly, he recognizes that these cannot be met by any one leader or any one nation. <br />Obama has underlined that the Nobel Peace Prize, is a shared prize. It is indeed a shared prize, and the only way that this prize overshadows the work of thousands of others, is if we let that happen. <br /><br />Let’s not.Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-14629595928803951762009-10-09T00:19:00.001+01:002009-10-09T01:03:17.641+01:00A long walk...It was a beautiful Autumn day. London gleamed under the beaming sun. Breathing in the crisp cool air, I commenced my long walk of the day. Today, my lovely friends, I walked from Trafalgar Square to High Street Kensington. My route was as follows. Trafalgar Square, to St. James Park, to Green park, to Hyde Park, finishing up in Kensington gardens.<br /><br />The trees are all turning a goldeny gloriously warm colour. I know that I was smiling during my whole walk (probably looking like a lost loon...). I saw so many interesting, and at times, odd things. A big round man, standing by his dog, who had planted him or herself in The Serpentine. The dog had half her body in the water, and her derriere out. Just laying there, with a very "so what?!" French attitude. It was bizarre. The round, or rotund, owner reminded me of Boggis from Fanastic Mr. Fox. As I walked by I recited the song the local children would sing about the three awful farmers [If you have never read Fantastic Mr. Fox by Roald Dahl, you must.]<br /><p style="text-align: center;"><i>"Boggis and Bunce and Bean</i><br /><i>One fat, one short, one lean</i><br /><i>These horrible crooks</i><br /><i>So different in looks</i><br /><i>Were none the less equally mean."</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I saw little girls skipping rope, a band playing on the band stand in Hyde Park, Spanish tourists arguing about how they had been walking for too long, happy couples walking hand in hand, and miserable couples arguing in irritated whispers... I sat by the Boat house in Hyde Park, and basked in the sun a little while. Little children, newlyweds, families, school children, and an elderly couple went in and out of the boats, enjoying the weather, and laughing. One of the guys who worked at the boat house, jumped in The Serpentine, which shocked passers by. It kind of made me feel a bit sick. He was swimming in a highly concentrated amount of duck, goose, swan, all kinds of bird shit. Not my cup of tea, he enjoyed it though, that's all that counts. Hope he doesn't get sick.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Kensington Gardens reminded me of playing rounders, when I saw a group of young ones playing. I wanted to join, and remembered when i was little and could just march up to other kids playing and ask "can I play?" I fear that if I had done that today, I would have been stared at...in a bad way.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">On Kensington High Street I went to TK Max, oh the glorious TK Max. It is a new discovery of mine. I like that one, as there are not that many people, and it is a pleasant experience. Then, onto Whole Foods, the heavenly place. I feel a sense of calm as I step into a shop with so much fresh, organic food. Unfortunately, my wallet gets stressed out, and has a bit of an anxiety attack, so I just look. No touching. And maybe treat myself to an apple, if the wallet permits. Today, however, I had a feast! There was a charming young lady showing us all how to use the amazing blender called vitamix. I am flabbergasted with what a tool this is! And believe me, I don't like tools, blenders, machines...but this. Well this is like the God of blenders! The charming lady made a smoothie (the best I have EVER had) using only a few different fruits, and ice. Delish! And then a soup. Yes a warm soup. The horse power is so high, that the soup gets hot. Amazing! And tastes absolutely divine! Then she made ice cream in 30 seconds.. THIRTY! I counted!! To clean this magical instrument you only put soapy water in it and zap on the spin two secs. Amazing. I am convinced. It is expensive though. Four hundred and fifty pounds....eeeesh. No can do. But one day. Apparently all the fast food chains, smoothie companies, everyone has them, and now people, in their own homes will too. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I am proud to say I even went for a jog on Hampstead Heath today. Action packed! Now I am tired, and going to bed. Good night all, as "que duermen con los angelitos gorditos" [may you sleep with the chubby angels].<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Love,</p><p style="text-align: left;">Aynanita<br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">p.s. Here is the website for the Vitamix blender, if you are curious, and lucky enough to be able to buy it (invite me over if you do?) :<br /><a href="https://www.vitamix.co.uk/">https://www.vitamix.co.uk/</a></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://www.vitamix.co.uk/"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><br /></a></p>Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6273149099587908402.post-40823692009902617202009-10-07T13:08:00.001+01:002009-10-07T14:50:47.040+01:00The Invention of Lying? Help!Last night my friends and I went to see The Invention of Lying. The night started off very well. We met for a good old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">drinkio</span> (actually two....) at The Churchill Arms on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Kensington</span> Church Street. If you want to be surrounded by flowers, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, and an interesting red light, which makes you feel like you are in a weird kitchen utensil sort of red light district - go Churchill it up. No seriously, it is a charming pub - and you have a good giggle when you step into the redness...Also if your a girl, and have to pee, be careful on the path to the Ladies room. A path of flowers, and little babbling brooks...even the Toilet's are lined with flowers! Amazing! There is great hand soap and cream provided, thumbs up, you can never get enough of great hand care...<br /><br />So anyways, where was I? Ah yes, the movie. The Coronet in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Notting</span> Hill does £3.50 tickets on Tuesday's. They are, awesome. It is a charming cinema, an old theatre. Which always give me butterflies in my tummy - there is something about the smell of carpet, old curtains, worn out seats, murky air, that makes me think of all the sweat blood and tears that went into putting on shows in an old theatre....Alas, I fear the same can not be said of Ricky <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Gervais</span>' last movie.<br /><br />Set in an alternative reality in which everybody can only tell the truth, Ricky <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Gervais</span> manages to firmly underline how everything, and I mean everything we believe in, is a lie. A big fat juicy cherry on top, Lie. Lie lie lie lie lie! Mark <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Bellison</span> (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Riky</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Gervais</span>) lives in a world in which his chubby physique and "snub nosed" features are constantly commented upon. In a world where lying does not exist, blunt remarks escape people's lips quite freely. Religion does not exist, nor does fiction, or advertisements (which are quite amusing actually - a coke add is just a bored looking man saying, "please do not stop buying coke"). When Mark goes on a date with Anna <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">McDoogles</span>(Jennifer Garner) she openly informs him that they will not be having sex, nor will they ever go on another date again, ever. Fair enough. Sometimes we all wish we could say those things. And yes, we do think, or at least I have thought things I wouldn't want other's to hear.... about people's looks (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">eeeek</span>! Oh the shame!)<br /><br />Mr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Gervais</span>, who I do love and admire greatly, however, in my humble opinion, took it all a little too far. I knew the movie would be a tad self indulgent, but when the movie takes a turn and Mark discovers he can lie when he goes to the bank, and firmly states he has $800 in his account (when he actually only has $300...how I wish I could do this!!) - it starts to snow ball into a big fat rant by Se<span style="visibility: visible;" id="main"><span style="visibility: visible;" id="search">ñ</span></span>or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Gervias</span>, kind of pointing a finger at us, and scolding the audience for living a lie. Mark invents the, "Man in the sky", and a place in the sky one goes to after death, where you all have mansions...etc etc..... Anna obsesses about how she must find someone with the right <span style="visibility: visible;" id="main"><span style="visibility: visible;" id="search"> <em>genetic</em> make up, so that she can have beautiful children. She can't marry Mark, as that would mean her children would be "chubby and snub-nosed"<span style="font-weight: bold;">. </span></span></span>If I ever hear the phrase "genetic make up" again... I will barf. Ugh.<br /><br />I left the theatre feeling deflated, and sort of lost. Surely Mister <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Gervais</span> did not intend to make the audience feel like shit? I went to sleep and dreamt of genetic make up, lying, and woke up today feeling a bit sad. His film was a bit to cynical for me. He already expresses his opinions in his stand up, and that he does in a charming, witty, clever way....in short he does it <span style="font-style: italic;">extremely</span> well. In this film, he kind of hammers it home, a bit too much, and repeats himself...too...many times. Sorry guys. Thumbs down for our ole' pal Ricky. But I still love him. I am just a bit...(here comes the dreaded word, hate to use it..but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">argh</span> must..!) disappointed. There I said it.<br /><br />"By the Beard of Zeus" I feel this got a bit serious.....but hey, I vented. I am off to have <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">edamame</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">miso</span> soup. My latest obsession these days. I better go before I start repeating myself, and hammering home the same point, again and again...<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Besos</span>....<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">muchos</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">besos</span>,<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Aynanita</span><br /><br />p.s. Here is the link for the wonderful Coronet cinema:<br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://www.coronet.org/">http://www.coronet.org/</a><br /><br />p.p.s. And of course, a link for The Churchill Arms:<br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);" href="http://www.pubs.com/pub_details.cfm?ID=159">http://www.pubs.com/pub_details.cfm?ID=159</a><br /><br /><br /><span style="visibility: visible;" id="main"><span style="visibility: visible;" id="search"><b><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></b></span></span>Aynanitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225269499451001126noreply@blogger.com0