Ingenious. Maddeningly, sickeningly, insidiously ingenious.
Okay, so I've been reading Naomi Klein's 'No Logo' lately and it has re-stirred the anti corporate/commercial outrage. It has been quite interesting reading over her predictions for the future of public action, reaction and discourse - I would come across passages where I thought to myself "oh, I remember when that was going on". Much of what she says is still valid, some eight years down the track. And as one of the generation who was subjected to the marketing 'cool hunters', it resonates.
Every now and then I'm taken by surprise at the latest commercialisation of something I thought was either free or even some vague kind of right. We've been surrounded, indeed harassed by marketing and advertising for quite some time now but it still has the capacity to annoy the fuck out of me. Like the fact that using Google's email services means the bots read over my emails for keywords and display 'targeted' ads in the sidebar. Bottled water - that still gets me. Consultancy, the result of businesses deciding that they don't need to directly employ anybody who knows anything, gets me.
So today I received an email from a travel website. They sponsor the netball association I've been playing with and I did indeed sign up - their site hosts travel blogs and notice boards and has travel offers. I thought I'd see what they were about as they were making a contribution to something to enjoy and, I admit, they were offering the chance to win a camera. I will also be using another sponsor's services to send money back to Australia. Back scratching. Relationship building. Whatever.
So what appalled me? They were offering, for a modest fee, to allow you and your friends to view your blog ad free. If you pay them, they won't put shitty advertising on your website.
Okay, so they host your site for free, they do offer you a service. They are 'allowing' you to exercise your freedom of expression in the space that they have purchased and maintain. And it is not without some self-loathing that I acknowledge the 'commercial realities' of them needing income from somewhere.
But pay us and we'll stop doing what you never asked us to do in the first place? Sadly, the only commercial reality I can affect here is to exercise my 'choice' and click that unsubscribe link. Ooh, the power of the consumer.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Work Habits
I'm sure if I looked in the architectural guide, the building I worked in over the weekend at Canary Wharf would probably be described as 'smart'. The lighting system may well have been promoted as 'intelligent' but all I know is that it made me look like a monkey.
About every half hour or so I was forced not just to wave my arms in the air like a lunatic but actually lift myself up out of my chair or begin to slide the chair backwards by pushing off with my feet. All so the lights would come back on. I'm sure the system ticks all sorts of 'green' boxes but I'm pretty sure I know how to use a light switch too. Or perhaps the lighting system was a way to avoid dvt, perhaps it also ticks an 'ergonomic' box by making me increase my circulation at regular intervals. Sitting at a computer for hours does not keep the lights on. That I know.
At another work place I discovered on the intranet that they provided a smoking room on the premises. At the end of a subterranean warren sits the most neglected room in the building. Indeed you would be forgiven for thinking you had somehow made it into another building, so out of character is this room with every other. I can accept the wisdom of painting the room nicotine yellow (yes, I could see it was painted rather than stained) but could they not have finished painting? Does the linoleum floor really have to look as if neither broom nor mop has touched it in its 10 years of use? I can only think that either none of the partners smoke or that they have their own private smoking rooms up on the skyline floors (much more likely). I commented on the state of the room to a non-smoker who of course had been blissfully unaware of the existence of such a room but who said "Well, I suppose they don't want to encourage smoking...". Encourage it? Does she think that a lick of paint and a clean floor might make hundreds of staff decide to take up the habit?
About every half hour or so I was forced not just to wave my arms in the air like a lunatic but actually lift myself up out of my chair or begin to slide the chair backwards by pushing off with my feet. All so the lights would come back on. I'm sure the system ticks all sorts of 'green' boxes but I'm pretty sure I know how to use a light switch too. Or perhaps the lighting system was a way to avoid dvt, perhaps it also ticks an 'ergonomic' box by making me increase my circulation at regular intervals. Sitting at a computer for hours does not keep the lights on. That I know.
At another work place I discovered on the intranet that they provided a smoking room on the premises. At the end of a subterranean warren sits the most neglected room in the building. Indeed you would be forgiven for thinking you had somehow made it into another building, so out of character is this room with every other. I can accept the wisdom of painting the room nicotine yellow (yes, I could see it was painted rather than stained) but could they not have finished painting? Does the linoleum floor really have to look as if neither broom nor mop has touched it in its 10 years of use? I can only think that either none of the partners smoke or that they have their own private smoking rooms up on the skyline floors (much more likely). I commented on the state of the room to a non-smoker who of course had been blissfully unaware of the existence of such a room but who said "Well, I suppose they don't want to encourage smoking...". Encourage it? Does she think that a lick of paint and a clean floor might make hundreds of staff decide to take up the habit?
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Manners, please.
It's easy, when life has been transferred to another city and begins to take on a routine, to overlook those things that are peculiar to your adopted home or give you the little thrill of the cliché. Tonight, after an all-nighter at work, I had a car take me home. A silver BMW 7 series I think (at least, that's the description of the car I was to look for on Fleet Street - I just looked for a silver car with the telltale logo) and an East London accented chauffeur within who insisted on calling me Miss. Busy night at work, Miss? Do you always work these hours, Miss? Hope you have a nice sleep, Miss.
I suppose it's part of the wider art of English Manners, something that strikes me more with men. I've grown up amongst men who are too nervous to open or hold open doors for women lest they be accused of insinuating that women are unable to do such things themselves or see it as an insult. But here I have become almost used to doors being opened or held open for me, men who wait in the elevator until all the women have exited and even, on occasion, men ushering me on to board the tube before them. And am I a traitor to the principles of feminism if I admit to not minding this or, dare I say, liking it?
At first I went on my merry way, being equally polite to men and women when it came to doors etc and this still applies to holding open a door I'm about to or have gone through but I've stopped opening doors for English men because I find this utterly confuses them. It seems it's almost an embarrassment as if I might be questioning their masculinity, showing them up to other men.
Is accepting an open door or an insistence that you go first a retrograde step in woman's struggle for equality or is it just an acknowledgement of good manners?
NB I've decided to free myself from the bounds of linear timelines a little by popping in a few random thoughts on this latterly neglected blog because I've half written reports on our engagement party in Adelaide and the Green Curry Cook-off and, with no reflection on the events themselves, I lose a little enthusiasm to finish them. They will come soon but not in chronological order. Better an update on something than none?
I suppose it's part of the wider art of English Manners, something that strikes me more with men. I've grown up amongst men who are too nervous to open or hold open doors for women lest they be accused of insinuating that women are unable to do such things themselves or see it as an insult. But here I have become almost used to doors being opened or held open for me, men who wait in the elevator until all the women have exited and even, on occasion, men ushering me on to board the tube before them. And am I a traitor to the principles of feminism if I admit to not minding this or, dare I say, liking it?
At first I went on my merry way, being equally polite to men and women when it came to doors etc and this still applies to holding open a door I'm about to or have gone through but I've stopped opening doors for English men because I find this utterly confuses them. It seems it's almost an embarrassment as if I might be questioning their masculinity, showing them up to other men.
Is accepting an open door or an insistence that you go first a retrograde step in woman's struggle for equality or is it just an acknowledgement of good manners?
NB I've decided to free myself from the bounds of linear timelines a little by popping in a few random thoughts on this latterly neglected blog because I've half written reports on our engagement party in Adelaide and the Green Curry Cook-off and, with no reflection on the events themselves, I lose a little enthusiasm to finish them. They will come soon but not in chronological order. Better an update on something than none?
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
All Aboard
I'm fascinated by the underground. All those tunnels, running across and beside each other. But has anyone come up with a decent map? I've scoured the net for a 3D map or one that shows the depth of the various lines, a way to make sense of the steps and escalators one is constantly traversing.
I've come across some good efforts at showing where, topographically, the snaky curves really travel, sometimes with an overlaid street map. Or a re-rendering of the classic tube map, spoiling all its graceful and reassuring straight lines and right angles with curly representations.
But I want to know how deep underground the Victoria line is; is it above or below the Central line or the Northern line; do they ever cross above or below each other; how is it that at some stations the platform for northbound is higher than southbound? Are the lines on a uniformly flat gradient or have I really detected a slight uphill feeling and have my ears continued to pop with the pressure at the same part of the Jubilee line due to a downhill surge? And who is that woman who tells me "The next station is Victoria. Change here for the District and Circle lines, National Rail, and the Victoria Coach Station" - she must still be around because the message at Brixton has changed to say it has step-free access (which is a lie) with no discernable difference in tone with the old message. These are just some of the questions I've been pondering over... Then there are all the tunnels that aren't used for the trains, old tracks and old abandoned stations. It’s a tunnel graveyard down there below the sewers and waterways. Queensway station on the Central line has been closed for ages and the train slows as it goes through the deserted tiled platform, like it's sneaking through when no one's looking. Frankly it's a little spooky.
The underground is old and what is that peculiar taste you get in the back of your throat after a journey? Is it the same stuff that blackens your tissue? Is it, as one book claims, over 100 years of dead skin wafting through the tunnels?
But I love that the tube is old - it brings sweet traditions with it like that all the stations have different feature tiles so that the illiterate could recognise the stations.
And the other night I saw that the American Werewolf in London chased a man through the tunnels and escalators of Tottenham Court Road station.
We watched a film called Creep, which was set in the tube after hours. A tipsy girl falls asleep on the platform and misses the train. She wakes up to find the station locked up etc. Of course there are horrid creatures living in the tunnels... Really, I wouldn't bother AT ALL. But it is interesting that someone could make such a dead cert flop out of a germ of a good idea when the going rate for filming in the underground is some £250 a night. Yet another frustrating example of those with too much money and not enough sense.
I've come across some good efforts at showing where, topographically, the snaky curves really travel, sometimes with an overlaid street map. Or a re-rendering of the classic tube map, spoiling all its graceful and reassuring straight lines and right angles with curly representations.
But I want to know how deep underground the Victoria line is; is it above or below the Central line or the Northern line; do they ever cross above or below each other; how is it that at some stations the platform for northbound is higher than southbound? Are the lines on a uniformly flat gradient or have I really detected a slight uphill feeling and have my ears continued to pop with the pressure at the same part of the Jubilee line due to a downhill surge? And who is that woman who tells me "The next station is Victoria. Change here for the District and Circle lines, National Rail, and the Victoria Coach Station" - she must still be around because the message at Brixton has changed to say it has step-free access (which is a lie) with no discernable difference in tone with the old message. These are just some of the questions I've been pondering over... Then there are all the tunnels that aren't used for the trains, old tracks and old abandoned stations. It’s a tunnel graveyard down there below the sewers and waterways. Queensway station on the Central line has been closed for ages and the train slows as it goes through the deserted tiled platform, like it's sneaking through when no one's looking. Frankly it's a little spooky.
The underground is old and what is that peculiar taste you get in the back of your throat after a journey? Is it the same stuff that blackens your tissue? Is it, as one book claims, over 100 years of dead skin wafting through the tunnels?
But I love that the tube is old - it brings sweet traditions with it like that all the stations have different feature tiles so that the illiterate could recognise the stations.
And the other night I saw that the American Werewolf in London chased a man through the tunnels and escalators of Tottenham Court Road station.
We watched a film called Creep, which was set in the tube after hours. A tipsy girl falls asleep on the platform and misses the train. She wakes up to find the station locked up etc. Of course there are horrid creatures living in the tunnels... Really, I wouldn't bother AT ALL. But it is interesting that someone could make such a dead cert flop out of a germ of a good idea when the going rate for filming in the underground is some £250 a night. Yet another frustrating example of those with too much money and not enough sense.
Monday, May 22, 2006
A Reception For Mike Rann
This evening I attended a reception for Mike Rann at Australia House. And yes, I did bump into people I knew. John Kelly was there, as was Haroon Hassan. The Audreys put in an appearance too, being in town on their two and a half month tour with manager Alistair Cranney. What does it take to get a few folk in business dress to meet Mike? The promise of Vilis pies, Coopers Ale & Pale Ale and some Yalumba wines. For such treats we even stood through Mike’s speech (apparently a very slightly updated version of last year’s) where he told us ‘what was happening in South Australia’. So what’s happening?
Well, there’s a huge defence contract for starters. Woo hoo. Yep, millions of bucks building warships or some such. They’ve even managed to get a platoon or something relocated from Sydney to Edinburgh, which must have the pubs rubbing their hands together. I’m sure there’s plenty he left out which I will guess at rather than research: plenty of ‘incentives’ to land the contract such that its net value is probably negligible. But hey, it’s job creation, job creation, job creation. Retention? We’ll worry about that next time they vote. Somewhere in there was talk of a dedicated support area that started to sound suspiciously MFP-like.
What else? Mining and plenty of it. He rattled off all sorts of figures about the exploration potential having increased – there’s even a mine that’s bigger than anyone thought. Given the tout on the generic ‘mining’, could we help but speculate it was probably uranium he was talking about?
So the Premier on a junket (he’d just flown in from Cannes) comes all the way to London to tell us there’s plenty of defence and mining jobs in the offing. Oh and they’ll probably need lawyers too. A small snigger went round the room when he spoke of needing environmental lawyers – ‘guess they’re foreseeing a little trouble with that mining thing’.
Well, there’s a huge defence contract for starters. Woo hoo. Yep, millions of bucks building warships or some such. They’ve even managed to get a platoon or something relocated from Sydney to Edinburgh, which must have the pubs rubbing their hands together. I’m sure there’s plenty he left out which I will guess at rather than research: plenty of ‘incentives’ to land the contract such that its net value is probably negligible. But hey, it’s job creation, job creation, job creation. Retention? We’ll worry about that next time they vote. Somewhere in there was talk of a dedicated support area that started to sound suspiciously MFP-like.
What else? Mining and plenty of it. He rattled off all sorts of figures about the exploration potential having increased – there’s even a mine that’s bigger than anyone thought. Given the tout on the generic ‘mining’, could we help but speculate it was probably uranium he was talking about?
So the Premier on a junket (he’d just flown in from Cannes) comes all the way to London to tell us there’s plenty of defence and mining jobs in the offing. Oh and they’ll probably need lawyers too. A small snigger went round the room when he spoke of needing environmental lawyers – ‘guess they’re foreseeing a little trouble with that mining thing’.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Hola
Yeah okay folks, I know. This update has been a long time coming but at least it’s here, right? That’s the thing about blogs – you start one and you gotta keep at it. Or people start sending you emails telling you your blog has become so boring since you got engaged. They shall remain nameless.
So it’s the beginning of March and I understand why the English whinge about the weather. I catch myself saying ‘hmmm, 10 degrees tomorrow, that’s not too bad’. Help me.
The Spanish trip was fabulous. After a very early start (we left Brixton at 3am) we picked up a car in Herez and made coastal. We stayed the first night in Cadiz in one of those lovely buildings with the internal courtyard. For some unfathomable reason, they locked the toilet at night and it was an interesting search around the building for one that had been left open at 3am. Our room had floor length windows facing the narrow street with wooden shutters. It was all that those typical Spanish apartment buildings clichés are made of. Just gorgeous, excepting the mattress. Indeed, an uncomfortable nights sleep, especially for Steven, saw us splashing out the next night on a more western style hotel in … in the hope of a better rest.
But oh, the market in Cadiz was amazing and, dare I say it, rivalling even the Central Market in Adelaide for its variety of fresh food and beating it on price. As we were another day away from our little house in mountains we couldn’t indulge in the meat or fish but I’ve not seen so many varieties of prawns – beyond King and tiger prawns, I didn’t know so many other kinds existed. Fresh anchovies and sardines and all the other fish you wish to imagine displayed on ice. Extremely tempting.
But we made do with lots of fresh vegetables, an enormous jar of green olives pickled in anchovy juice, fruit, chorizo, jamon and four different kinds of cheese. Mouth watering just thinking about it! Our major concession to Christmas and English tradition was bringing some mince pies with us.
It was a long days drive to the next coastal town, I think it was Almunecar and it was dark by the time we decided not to drive any further along the unlit highway. The coast, Costa del Sol, is very beautiful but one of those spots that’s very touristy and especially full of English retirees. The breakfast in the hotel was a Spanish version of the full English – sausages, eggs, tomato etc. But all, including the eggs, seemingly poached in a lot of olive oil and I think we would much have preferred whatever the Spanish were having.
We hopped in the car again and decided to take in Gibraltar, mostly to find a Guardian newspaper. If you’re ever in these parts, I wouldn’t bother. You know that big famous rock? Well that’s all there is to Gibraltar, stuck out on a rocky peninsula with not the slightest bit of charm. A long empty road from the border check at the start of the peninsula to the narrow streets of the quasi piece of England at the bottom of Spain. And not a newspaper to be found. That’s just first impressions I guess but they were so favourable we must have stayed a full 45 minutes. And as we left, this photo opportunity just couldn’t be missed:
Unfortunately it’s getting a little hazy remembering quite the order of things but we finally made it to the tiny mountain town of Picena (pronounced Pithena) in the Sierra Nevada mountain range where we spent the next week. Picena has a population of perhaps 200 and there are two bars which are attached to two shops. The house we had hired for the week was bigger than we expected and, being built on the side of the mountain, had an entrance on one street to the kitchen and an entrance three floors down on another street. It had very thick walls which were plastered throughout and ceilings of exposed beams and floors of tile. Oh and a spectacular mountain view.
We settled into village life quite quickly; starting a fire in the enormous fire place in the lounge room each morning, having breakfast, reading and lying about, maybe a walk in the afternoon to the shops for supplies. We met the couple who ran the shop and bar on the village square and indeed Pepe turned out the be a bit of a property magnate, showing us a house in town that was available for rent to “nice couples like us”, a grand house that he was building and a grand house next to it that he and his family lived in when they weren’t living above the bar.
With me being such a sucker for snow, on Christmas Day Steven suggested we go the mountains outside Granada. We got out the maps and started on what looked to be a couple of hours drive north. Six hours of driving around narrow mountain roads, including a hairy meeting on a blind curve with a full sized bus later, we found the snow. So worth it and the drive had afforded some beautiful views. There wasn’t much daylight left but we played in the snow for a couple of hours before heading back down in darkness to Granada itself. We wandered the surprisingly crowded streets, checking out a bar or two and the line ups for nativity scenes. The drive home along the highway was only two hours.
So boxing day became our Christmas day and after much consternation and some phone calls, I managed to get the oven working for the roast chicken. I thought I was in for gutting my first chicken as when we bought it we had to ask for the head and feet to be removed by the butcher; but as it turned out, only the liver had been left inside. Along with some veg and a potato and chirzo (choritho) bake we ate a huge dinner with much red wine and settled in front of the fire to toast our Spanish Christmas.
Ahhh!!! I just looked out the window and it’s lightly snowing!! This is probably only about the third time we’ve had a little snow here in the capital this winter. And damn it, just as I write that, the snow has stopped! Ah well.
So on to New Years’ Eve. We set out from Picena early on the 31st, taking in a few mountain roads on the way to Seville. I had a couple of lovely pissy phone calls from Adelaide where the New Year had already rolled around. It was a bit of a culture shock arriving in a town around the size and population of Adelaide after such quiet living. We stayed in the old Jewish quarter, an easy place to get lost amongst the winding narrow maze of alleyways. After a much needed rest, we set out around 11pm to one of the bridges over the river that runs through the town to partake in the tradition of drinking champagne and eating grapes at midnight. We had a bottle of Bolli we had been given in London and a couple of tins of grapes. Steven accidentally cracked open the bottle 10 minutes early but we toasted the new year alongside the 50 or so other people on our particular bridge and watched the fireworks. Some were clearly organised displays but the majority were being launched from people’s balconies or on the street.
We slowly made our way (read stopping at every bar for a drink along the way) to the part of town where we were meeting up with the group of friends that Steven made when he lived in Seville. We were picked up by Danny’s people mover and taken to a warehouse squat party. The Spanish rules of car parking were in full force; cars were double parked all along the street but with the handbrakes left off so, after rearranging some of the cars, Danny managed to park the van.
It was quite bizarre inside the warehouse, a sort of punk meets goth affair with DJs and VJs. There weren’t that many people around but it was okay. After an hour or so we hopped back into the people mover and started driving out of town, landing eventually at a huge out of the way mansion. And running towards us with arms outstretched as we parked was Carlos in a blue clown wig. What the…?
We were ushered in through the front door to a large room where the crowd was pumping as much as the music; Carlos’ wig now made sense as every one was wearing some kind of wig. The rum and coke was flowing freely, as were the party drugs. At one point in the night I had one of those moments; I was at a wig party in a mansion (apparently hosted by the daughter of a Spanish soap star) fairly out of it, not speaking a word of the language and dancing with the rest of the full dance floor to Love Shack. How the fuck did I get here?
The night ended around 8am as we were exhausted little bunnies who slept much of the next day, venturing out for coffee and not doing much else. The next couple of days were pleasantly spent hanging out in cafes, doing some shopping (patent leather look court heels for six euros!) and visiting some of Steven’s old haunts. Here is a pic of a cafe with every kind of coffee maker imaginable above the bar:
So here’s some pics that I will simply caption:
Hotel balcony in coastal hotel; Picena from an upper hill; at café in Seville
Church in Mariena; friendly dog on our street in Picena; view of our street in Picena
Steven self portrait; at another café in Seville; hill fire lit by farmers in Picena
Outdoor café in Cherin – a five km walk from Picena. We had set off in the afternoon and we returned in absolute darkness up the unlit winding road with the aid of a pen light; snow in Seria Nevada; at the market in Ugljar – we had a sobering time on one visit to this town where we saw a man who had just died in a café and his wife and others were waiting for the ambulance. Half the town was gathered and it was very sad.
Picena town square by night with the Christmas lights; checking out one of Pepe’s houses; our neighbour across the street in Picena.
It was not much fun returning to work the day after we got back – horrid how holidays seem to be relegated to the distant memory within days. But the parts I remember the best have to do with the style of living; the hours after lunch when all the shops are closed for siesta (or phonetically middiadeya [midday]), the tapas meals and the fact that we could not find a bad coffee. Not one, and we had many coffees. Steven had been planning to propose to me in Picena but instead got to proudly explain our happy engagement to the locals who wished us well. At least, that’s what he tells me they said.
So it’s the beginning of March and I understand why the English whinge about the weather. I catch myself saying ‘hmmm, 10 degrees tomorrow, that’s not too bad’. Help me.
The Spanish trip was fabulous. After a very early start (we left Brixton at 3am) we picked up a car in Herez and made coastal. We stayed the first night in Cadiz in one of those lovely buildings with the internal courtyard. For some unfathomable reason, they locked the toilet at night and it was an interesting search around the building for one that had been left open at 3am. Our room had floor length windows facing the narrow street with wooden shutters. It was all that those typical Spanish apartment buildings clichés are made of. Just gorgeous, excepting the mattress. Indeed, an uncomfortable nights sleep, especially for Steven, saw us splashing out the next night on a more western style hotel in … in the hope of a better rest.
But oh, the market in Cadiz was amazing and, dare I say it, rivalling even the Central Market in Adelaide for its variety of fresh food and beating it on price. As we were another day away from our little house in mountains we couldn’t indulge in the meat or fish but I’ve not seen so many varieties of prawns – beyond King and tiger prawns, I didn’t know so many other kinds existed. Fresh anchovies and sardines and all the other fish you wish to imagine displayed on ice. Extremely tempting.
But we made do with lots of fresh vegetables, an enormous jar of green olives pickled in anchovy juice, fruit, chorizo, jamon and four different kinds of cheese. Mouth watering just thinking about it! Our major concession to Christmas and English tradition was bringing some mince pies with us.
It was a long days drive to the next coastal town, I think it was Almunecar and it was dark by the time we decided not to drive any further along the unlit highway. The coast, Costa del Sol, is very beautiful but one of those spots that’s very touristy and especially full of English retirees. The breakfast in the hotel was a Spanish version of the full English – sausages, eggs, tomato etc. But all, including the eggs, seemingly poached in a lot of olive oil and I think we would much have preferred whatever the Spanish were having.
We hopped in the car again and decided to take in Gibraltar, mostly to find a Guardian newspaper. If you’re ever in these parts, I wouldn’t bother. You know that big famous rock? Well that’s all there is to Gibraltar, stuck out on a rocky peninsula with not the slightest bit of charm. A long empty road from the border check at the start of the peninsula to the narrow streets of the quasi piece of England at the bottom of Spain. And not a newspaper to be found. That’s just first impressions I guess but they were so favourable we must have stayed a full 45 minutes. And as we left, this photo opportunity just couldn’t be missed:
Unfortunately it’s getting a little hazy remembering quite the order of things but we finally made it to the tiny mountain town of Picena (pronounced Pithena) in the Sierra Nevada mountain range where we spent the next week. Picena has a population of perhaps 200 and there are two bars which are attached to two shops. The house we had hired for the week was bigger than we expected and, being built on the side of the mountain, had an entrance on one street to the kitchen and an entrance three floors down on another street. It had very thick walls which were plastered throughout and ceilings of exposed beams and floors of tile. Oh and a spectacular mountain view.
We settled into village life quite quickly; starting a fire in the enormous fire place in the lounge room each morning, having breakfast, reading and lying about, maybe a walk in the afternoon to the shops for supplies. We met the couple who ran the shop and bar on the village square and indeed Pepe turned out the be a bit of a property magnate, showing us a house in town that was available for rent to “nice couples like us”, a grand house that he was building and a grand house next to it that he and his family lived in when they weren’t living above the bar.
With me being such a sucker for snow, on Christmas Day Steven suggested we go the mountains outside Granada. We got out the maps and started on what looked to be a couple of hours drive north. Six hours of driving around narrow mountain roads, including a hairy meeting on a blind curve with a full sized bus later, we found the snow. So worth it and the drive had afforded some beautiful views. There wasn’t much daylight left but we played in the snow for a couple of hours before heading back down in darkness to Granada itself. We wandered the surprisingly crowded streets, checking out a bar or two and the line ups for nativity scenes. The drive home along the highway was only two hours.
So boxing day became our Christmas day and after much consternation and some phone calls, I managed to get the oven working for the roast chicken. I thought I was in for gutting my first chicken as when we bought it we had to ask for the head and feet to be removed by the butcher; but as it turned out, only the liver had been left inside. Along with some veg and a potato and chirzo (choritho) bake we ate a huge dinner with much red wine and settled in front of the fire to toast our Spanish Christmas.
Ahhh!!! I just looked out the window and it’s lightly snowing!! This is probably only about the third time we’ve had a little snow here in the capital this winter. And damn it, just as I write that, the snow has stopped! Ah well.
So on to New Years’ Eve. We set out from Picena early on the 31st, taking in a few mountain roads on the way to Seville. I had a couple of lovely pissy phone calls from Adelaide where the New Year had already rolled around. It was a bit of a culture shock arriving in a town around the size and population of Adelaide after such quiet living. We stayed in the old Jewish quarter, an easy place to get lost amongst the winding narrow maze of alleyways. After a much needed rest, we set out around 11pm to one of the bridges over the river that runs through the town to partake in the tradition of drinking champagne and eating grapes at midnight. We had a bottle of Bolli we had been given in London and a couple of tins of grapes. Steven accidentally cracked open the bottle 10 minutes early but we toasted the new year alongside the 50 or so other people on our particular bridge and watched the fireworks. Some were clearly organised displays but the majority were being launched from people’s balconies or on the street.
We slowly made our way (read stopping at every bar for a drink along the way) to the part of town where we were meeting up with the group of friends that Steven made when he lived in Seville. We were picked up by Danny’s people mover and taken to a warehouse squat party. The Spanish rules of car parking were in full force; cars were double parked all along the street but with the handbrakes left off so, after rearranging some of the cars, Danny managed to park the van.
It was quite bizarre inside the warehouse, a sort of punk meets goth affair with DJs and VJs. There weren’t that many people around but it was okay. After an hour or so we hopped back into the people mover and started driving out of town, landing eventually at a huge out of the way mansion. And running towards us with arms outstretched as we parked was Carlos in a blue clown wig. What the…?
We were ushered in through the front door to a large room where the crowd was pumping as much as the music; Carlos’ wig now made sense as every one was wearing some kind of wig. The rum and coke was flowing freely, as were the party drugs. At one point in the night I had one of those moments; I was at a wig party in a mansion (apparently hosted by the daughter of a Spanish soap star) fairly out of it, not speaking a word of the language and dancing with the rest of the full dance floor to Love Shack. How the fuck did I get here?
The night ended around 8am as we were exhausted little bunnies who slept much of the next day, venturing out for coffee and not doing much else. The next couple of days were pleasantly spent hanging out in cafes, doing some shopping (patent leather look court heels for six euros!) and visiting some of Steven’s old haunts. Here is a pic of a cafe with every kind of coffee maker imaginable above the bar:
So here’s some pics that I will simply caption:
Hotel balcony in coastal hotel; Picena from an upper hill; at café in Seville
Church in Mariena; friendly dog on our street in Picena; view of our street in Picena
Steven self portrait; at another café in Seville; hill fire lit by farmers in Picena
Outdoor café in Cherin – a five km walk from Picena. We had set off in the afternoon and we returned in absolute darkness up the unlit winding road with the aid of a pen light; snow in Seria Nevada; at the market in Ugljar – we had a sobering time on one visit to this town where we saw a man who had just died in a café and his wife and others were waiting for the ambulance. Half the town was gathered and it was very sad.
Picena town square by night with the Christmas lights; checking out one of Pepe’s houses; our neighbour across the street in Picena.
It was not much fun returning to work the day after we got back – horrid how holidays seem to be relegated to the distant memory within days. But the parts I remember the best have to do with the style of living; the hours after lunch when all the shops are closed for siesta (or phonetically middiadeya [midday]), the tapas meals and the fact that we could not find a bad coffee. Not one, and we had many coffees. Steven had been planning to propose to me in Picena but instead got to proudly explain our happy engagement to the locals who wished us well. At least, that’s what he tells me they said.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Two Front Teeth
It’s almost Christmas and the lights are turning on all over London. Some lights are, of course, fancier than others. This photo is of the lights on Regent Street (I think that’s one of the green ones on the monopoly board – stay tuned for Sidgirl’s personal tour of the monopoly board) which are high on the scale of fancy. Hmm, perhaps a trip to Mayfair to see just how fancy these things can get and, for a balanced view, a trip to Old Kent Road. On Brixton Road I think I may have uncovered a scandal – lit up and flashing outside our windows are, of all things, chillis. Erm, yep. Now forgive me if I’m not up on English or perhaps Afro-Brit Christmas tradition, but it’s my personal theory that Lambeth Council have obtained these street pole decorations for what I’m sure was a bargain price from dubious sources. Or cultural misunderstanding. “Chreesmaas decorations? Sure meesta, we got Chreesmaas decorations.” And when the package arrived from Mexico or Spain or Slough, what did the guy who opened the box say to his boss? “Er, yes Ma’am, the Christmas decorations we ordered have arrived but…”
Yet there is a nice sense of community in Brixton – I get a resident’s discount for using the facilities at the Brixton Recreation Centre and on Cold Harbour Lane there is an artists co-op in an old shop where you can look at different art from week to week, sign local petitions and even get your hair cut. Their latest addition which I’m super excited about is a piano. Middle C is broken and it’s terribly out of tune but did that stop me from tinkling the ivories? Hell no. Even better, they’re getting it fixed this week. And they’ve invited me to play whenever I like and asked if I would be interested in giving lessons to beginners. Well I’ve never been trained in piano myself but I’ll give it a good Aussie go. Yippee! As you can see, the barber has just set up behind me. Hmm, haircuts to live music – we could be on to something.
Of course the weather is a hot topic (hehe) in any small talk. All I can say is if I’m going to be this bloody cold, I want snow. Lots of it. A white Christmas. Snowball fights. Outdoor iceskating. Snow angels. Snow men and women. Catching snow on my tongue. No such luck in London yet but my gloved fingers are crossed and I’ve a handsome new green jacket to ease the pain. I don’t know that it will save me when I fall on my arse from icy footpaths (sorry, pavements). Already I think of 10 degrees as being a mild day. Oh God, help me.
And, as I prefer to present both sides of the story (see the commute post below), it is possible to find an empty staircase in some underground station and give the CCTV monitors something to giggle at.
Guy Fawkes night the other week was good fun too, if a little anarchic. We had visitors from Edinburgh, Tracy and Andy, for the weekend and a large weekend it was. On Saturday we went out to South Bank to see some fireworks. There were many sanctioned fireworks and bonfires and many more unsanctioned ones. For the two weeks either side of November 5 fireworks and firecrackers are de rigour. Now I’m a wimp at best when it comes to official displays – you should have seen my companions trying to get me to cut through a small park in South Bank with a couple of sets of people lighting their own… It was beautiful though – I would have posted a photo of Steven and I on the bank of the Thames that night but have ceded to his "oh no, you're not posting that, are you?" panic request.
I include here instead a gorgeous photo that Steven took of Brixton Road. Even if you are familiar with the street, you just don’t get to see it looking so magical. This photo is taken from just underneath the bridge that runs past our bedroom window.
So the street lights are still on when I get up for work at 7 and the light is gone by about 4.30. It’s time to rug up, be snug as, hire lots of DVDs and wait for the snow to transform the streets into a winter wonderland. Or so my romantic notions would have it.
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