"Hey, Sancho! How did we end up in the Evita museum?"
"Beats me! I didn't think donkeys could swim that far."
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Lost in the Museum
"Hey, Sancho! How did we end up in the Evita museum?"
"Beats me! I didn't think donkeys could swim that far."
Rooney's Boutique Hotel
Normally, this blog steers clear of anything that smacks too overtly of product placement. But occasionally, one stumbles across a product or service that is so remarkable that an exception has to be made. As regular readers will know, my friend Paddy visited from Washington D.C. for ten days earlier in the month. While here in Buenos Aires she stayed at a hotel in the centre called
Rooney's Boutique Hotel.
From start to finish her entire stay there was absolutely terrific. The location was ideal and the hotel is gorgeous (the painstakingly renovated home of the writer Leopold Lugones, whose complex family life was discussed in a previous post). Most importantly, the staff were uniformly charming - professional, incredibly helpful, just really nice, friendly people, who made her stay there truly memorable. And there is actually a "Rooney" - the hotel is owned by a compatriot of mine called Kieran Rooney, from Belfast, as nice a guy as you could ever hope to meet, and a resident of Buenos Aires for over nine years now.
Located right in the heart of Buenos Aires, very reasonably priced, with expected features such as free Wi-Fi access, and some more unexpected, like free tango lessons three nights a week, Rooney's is a gem of a hotel. I have no hesitation in recommending it to anyone who might be thinking of heading to Buenos Aires. Further information available by clicking on the link to their webpage above.
Rooney's Boutique Hotel.
From start to finish her entire stay there was absolutely terrific. The location was ideal and the hotel is gorgeous (the painstakingly renovated home of the writer Leopold Lugones, whose complex family life was discussed in a previous post). Most importantly, the staff were uniformly charming - professional, incredibly helpful, just really nice, friendly people, who made her stay there truly memorable. And there is actually a "Rooney" - the hotel is owned by a compatriot of mine called Kieran Rooney, from Belfast, as nice a guy as you could ever hope to meet, and a resident of Buenos Aires for over nine years now.
Located right in the heart of Buenos Aires, very reasonably priced, with expected features such as free Wi-Fi access, and some more unexpected, like free tango lessons three nights a week, Rooney's is a gem of a hotel. I have no hesitation in recommending it to anyone who might be thinking of heading to Buenos Aires. Further information available by clicking on the link to their webpage above.
A lazy day!
One of the hazards of having an apartment as nice as the one here in B.A. is that, after a pretty gruelling week (including, let's not forget) four hours in the dentist's chair, it becomes far too easy to just lounge around at home, listening to the latest from Gotan Project on the CD player, and not accomplishing much of anything. Oh, strike that - it's not a hazard, it's a pleasure.
But a day where one's main achievement is cleaning the Augean stable of one's inbox (trimming the number of messages from over 20K to 10K so far, and we're not done yet, nosiree bob!) calls for a little more.
Maybe I'll head out in search of sustenance. I know a place just down the street that does a fine Chicken Maryland....
My latest American Express statement has entries like "dinner for two, including wine and tip - $45", "complete dental checkup and 2 inlays - $679". OK, that may not be the exact wording, but you get the point. This year things are even more ludicrously inexpensive than last year, as the exchange rate is considerably better. The U.S. dollar, which was valued at about 3 Argentine pesos a year ago, is now worth - typically - somewhere between 3.80 and 3.85 pesos.
Why don't I just move here and have done with it? (To any of my friends in SF, that's a rhetorical question - I'm not actually serious. At least I don't think so.)
This brings up the reasonable question of my long-term plans. After all, I hope to take the DELE superior, which is the Everest of Spanish proficiency exams offered by the Cervantes Institute, in November. Assuming it goes well, it leaves me only the flimsiest of excuses to take further Spanish language classes. My original plan had been, once Spanish was 'done', to repeat the whole experience in French. More recently, however, I've been having the thought that it seems a shame not to put the Spanish I've learned to some use. So the notion of perhaps trying to set something up where I would spend time as a visiting lecturer in statistics at a university in some Spanish-speaking country has crossed my mind. I hope to investigate this possibility further when I go back to Madrid in November.
Even if that idea comes to nothing, France as a backup option doesn't seem half bad.
But a day where one's main achievement is cleaning the Augean stable of one's inbox (trimming the number of messages from over 20K to 10K so far, and we're not done yet, nosiree bob!) calls for a little more.
Maybe I'll head out in search of sustenance. I know a place just down the street that does a fine Chicken Maryland....
My latest American Express statement has entries like "dinner for two, including wine and tip - $45", "complete dental checkup and 2 inlays - $679". OK, that may not be the exact wording, but you get the point. This year things are even more ludicrously inexpensive than last year, as the exchange rate is considerably better. The U.S. dollar, which was valued at about 3 Argentine pesos a year ago, is now worth - typically - somewhere between 3.80 and 3.85 pesos.
Why don't I just move here and have done with it? (To any of my friends in SF, that's a rhetorical question - I'm not actually serious. At least I don't think so.)
This brings up the reasonable question of my long-term plans. After all, I hope to take the DELE superior, which is the Everest of Spanish proficiency exams offered by the Cervantes Institute, in November. Assuming it goes well, it leaves me only the flimsiest of excuses to take further Spanish language classes. My original plan had been, once Spanish was 'done', to repeat the whole experience in French. More recently, however, I've been having the thought that it seems a shame not to put the Spanish I've learned to some use. So the notion of perhaps trying to set something up where I would spend time as a visiting lecturer in statistics at a university in some Spanish-speaking country has crossed my mind. I hope to investigate this possibility further when I go back to Madrid in November.
Even if that idea comes to nothing, France as a backup option doesn't seem half bad.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Relatos de viaje : del libro al blog
(I am using this post to archive a short piece I wrote for the school newsletter this week. We will return to your regularly scheduled language in the next post.)
En el año 1974, Bruce Chatwin, periodista del Sunday Times de Londres, viajó a Patagonia por primera vez. El paisaje y los habitantes le encantaron tanto que decidió despedirse del periódico para quedarse en la región. Después de viajar seis meses por Patagonia, Chatwin publicó sus recuerdos de viaje como libro. "In Patagonia" salió en 1977 y fue un gran éxito, aclamado por la crítica y el público, ganando el premio prestigioso Hawthornden y el premio E.M. Forster también.
Chatwin no fue el único escritor que se quedó encantado con Patagonia. En 1979 salió el libro "The Old Patagonian Express" del escritor estadounidense, Paul Theroux, relato de un viaje que el autor había hecho en varios trenes, desde Boston, en el norte de los Estados Unidos, hasta Tierra del Fuego, en Patagonia. El libro de Theroux también recibió críticas muy favorables y es considerado, como lo de Chatwin, un clásico del género "relatos de viaje".
Lo empecé hace dos años cuando me decidí a aprender español. Tiene dos objetivos para mí: como crónica de mi "viaje de aprendizaje" del castellano y como modo de comunicación con mi familia y mis amigos. También los comentarios que dejan otros viajeros en el blog me conducen a otros relatos de viaje muy interesantes. A veces la experiencia de vivir fuera de mi país y lejos de mis amigos puede ser complicada; el esfuerzo por captar mis impresiones y mis pensamientos en el blog me ayuda mucho a procesar la experiencia. Claro que hay otras ventajas prácticas también - por ejemplo, la posibilidad de cargar y compartir mis recuerdos fotográficas (más de 3,000 desde el principio de mi "aventura española") en sitios de red como Flickr.
En el año 1974, Bruce Chatwin, periodista del Sunday Times de Londres, viajó a Patagonia por primera vez. El paisaje y los habitantes le encantaron tanto que decidió despedirse del periódico para quedarse en la región. Después de viajar seis meses por Patagonia, Chatwin publicó sus recuerdos de viaje como libro. "In Patagonia" salió en 1977 y fue un gran éxito, aclamado por la crítica y el público, ganando el premio prestigioso Hawthornden y el premio E.M. Forster también.
Chatwin no fue el único escritor que se quedó encantado con Patagonia. En 1979 salió el libro "The Old Patagonian Express" del escritor estadounidense, Paul Theroux, relato de un viaje que el autor había hecho en varios trenes, desde Boston, en el norte de los Estados Unidos, hasta Tierra del Fuego, en Patagonia. El libro de Theroux también recibió críticas muy favorables y es considerado, como lo de Chatwin, un clásico del género "relatos de viaje".
Si Chatwin o Theroux hicieran sus viajes hoy en dia, claro que su forma preferida de recordar sus memorias de viaje no sería escribir un diario, sino crear un blog. En nuestra época, en la que cada viajero tiene su portátil y hay cybercafés en las esquinas más remotas del mundo, no hay nadie que no pueda crear su propio blog. Hay tantos "bloggers" como viajeros, y se supone que hay tantas razones para crear un blog de viaje como viajeros también. No puedo adivinar los motivos de otros, solamente compartir mis propias razones para escribir este blog.
Lo empecé hace dos años cuando me decidí a aprender español. Tiene dos objetivos para mí: como crónica de mi "viaje de aprendizaje" del castellano y como modo de comunicación con mi familia y mis amigos. También los comentarios que dejan otros viajeros en el blog me conducen a otros relatos de viaje muy interesantes. A veces la experiencia de vivir fuera de mi país y lejos de mis amigos puede ser complicada; el esfuerzo por captar mis impresiones y mis pensamientos en el blog me ayuda mucho a procesar la experiencia. Claro que hay otras ventajas prácticas también - por ejemplo, la posibilidad de cargar y compartir mis recuerdos fotográficas (más de 3,000 desde el principio de mi "aventura española") en sitios de red como Flickr.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
The Rule of Carolina
The rule of Carolina (aka 'la regla de Carolina') states that the only consonants which can appear doubled in Spanish are those appearing in the name 'Carolina'. Tonight I had dinner with the very Carolina who first taught me this rule.
Oddly enough, we had pizza for dinner. It is a sign of my incurable geekitude that I find this hilarious.
The plain people of Ireland: What's he on about now? We don't get it.
MOTP: PiZZa! See, there is no 'z' in 'Carolina'. Oh, never mind ....
Oddly enough, we had pizza for dinner. It is a sign of my incurable geekitude that I find this hilarious.
The plain people of Ireland: What's he on about now? We don't get it.
MOTP: PiZZa! See, there is no 'z' in 'Carolina'. Oh, never mind ....
RECURSOS EN INTERNET PARA ESTUDIANTES DEL ESPAÑOL
Cuando empecé a aprender alemán, en el año 1968, teníamos un libro de conversación (aburridísimo) y un libro de gramática (aún más aburrido) y nada más. Hoy en dia, en cambio, hay una riqueza increíble de recursos para quien quiera aprender cualquier idioma extranjero, no solamente el castellano. La mejor estrategia para descubrir todos las ayudas de aprendizaje del español que se puede encontrar en internet es hacer su propia búsqueda por Google (o cualquier otro sitio de busca).
Como motivación, les ofrezco esta corta lista de sitios útiles, con algunos comentarios sobre el contenido, para empezar:
1. www.cnn.com/espanol/
2. www.elpais.es/
3. www.literatura.org/
4. www.indiana.edu/~call/
5. www.cervantes.es
6. http://www.rae.es/
7. http://www.lanacion.com.ar/
1 = CNN News en castellano
2 = diario español "El País" en internet
3 = sitio sobre la literatura argentina contemporánea : incluye artículos sobre varios escritores, entrevistas, cuentos, y notícias de eventos literarios
4 = sitio muy amplio del "Spanish CALL Project" de la universidad de Indiana (EEUU) - ofrece diversas cosas interesantes, entre ellos un surtido de ejercicios muy buenos para estudiantes y profesores del español. También ofrece enlaces a varios otros sitios que tienen que ver con el aprendizaje de la lengua española
5 = sitio del Instituto Cervantes (el centro de nervios para "las culturas hispánicas en Internet"). Quizás la dirección de red más importante de esta lista - ofrece recursos para estudiantes y profesores, ejercicios, información sobre los examenes DELE ("Diplomas de Español como Lengua Extranjera") y mucho más ....
6 = diccionario de la Real Academia de la Lengua Española (para cualquier duda sobre el uso actual del español)
7 = el diario argentino "La Nación" en internet.
Que disfruten!
Como motivación, les ofrezco esta corta lista de sitios útiles, con algunos comentarios sobre el contenido, para empezar:
1. www.cnn.com/espanol/
2. www.elpais.es/
3. www.literatura.org/
4. www.indiana.edu/~call/
5. www.cervantes.es
6. http://www.rae.es/
7. http://www.lanacion.com.ar/
1 = CNN News en castellano
2 = diario español "El País" en internet
3 = sitio sobre la literatura argentina contemporánea : incluye artículos sobre varios escritores, entrevistas, cuentos, y notícias de eventos literarios
4 = sitio muy amplio del "Spanish CALL Project" de la universidad de Indiana (EEUU) - ofrece diversas cosas interesantes, entre ellos un surtido de ejercicios muy buenos para estudiantes y profesores del español. También ofrece enlaces a varios otros sitios que tienen que ver con el aprendizaje de la lengua española
5 = sitio del Instituto Cervantes (el centro de nervios para "las culturas hispánicas en Internet"). Quizás la dirección de red más importante de esta lista - ofrece recursos para estudiantes y profesores, ejercicios, información sobre los examenes DELE ("Diplomas de Español como Lengua Extranjera") y mucho más ....
6 = diccionario de la Real Academia de la Lengua Española (para cualquier duda sobre el uso actual del español)
7 = el diario argentino "La Nación" en internet.
Que disfruten!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Cristina's Trifecta
Over my delicious dinner of Chicken Maryland*, a delicacy that I had previously only known from my youth in Ireland, but which, I am delighted to report, is a staple menu item here in Buenos Aires, I attempted to improve my Spanish by reading "El Pais". In an otherwise fairly boring article about la Presidenta Cristina's (Kirchner's) efforts to push through anti-monopoly legislation affecting the telecommunications industry the following concluding sentence caught my eye: (Cristina is responding, peeved, to suggestions by reporters that her husband Nestor, who preceded her in the presidency, was pulling the strings)
"Como si yo fuera una persona que no decide y quien decida sea Nestor Kirchner", respondio, enojada.
("As if I were an indecisive person, and the one who decides were Nestor Kirchner", she replied, annoyedly.)
That italicized sentence, containing, as it does, three separate uses of the subjunctive, leaves me slack-jawed in admiration. With just a tinge of despair. You see, this is the kind of sentence I can only aspire to. Never in my life could I manage to get all those three subjunctives correct. I would certainly have managed that "Como si yo fuera" (denoting a condition deemed by the speaker to be impossible), probably even that "sea Nestor" (another supposition that the speaker deems unreal). But that "quien decida" (where the subjunctive is used to denote a lack of specificity about the person who is actually the decider) - not in a month of Sundays!
Sigh.
*: you could look it up; most versions include a deep-fried banana and pineapple rings. 'Nuff said.
"Como si yo fuera una persona que no decide y quien decida sea Nestor Kirchner", respondio, enojada.
("As if I were an indecisive person, and the one who decides were Nestor Kirchner", she replied, annoyedly.)
That italicized sentence, containing, as it does, three separate uses of the subjunctive, leaves me slack-jawed in admiration. With just a tinge of despair. You see, this is the kind of sentence I can only aspire to. Never in my life could I manage to get all those three subjunctives correct. I would certainly have managed that "Como si yo fuera" (denoting a condition deemed by the speaker to be impossible), probably even that "sea Nestor" (another supposition that the speaker deems unreal). But that "quien decida" (where the subjunctive is used to denote a lack of specificity about the person who is actually the decider) - not in a month of Sundays!
Sigh.
*: you could look it up; most versions include a deep-fried banana and pineapple rings. 'Nuff said.
El codigo de las empanadas (continued)
Continuing (briefly) with yesterday's topic. The whole vexed subject of empanada decoding is apparently infinitely more complex than one might ever have thought possible. I checked with Ciro this morning, and it appears that there is no 'universal empanada code'. That is, inferences based on shape or other indicators have to be drawn locally, specific to the particular place of manufacture. So that the fact that a triangular empanada from Jumbo foods contains tuna is of no help in deciphering the contents of a triangular empanada produced at a different establishment.
Ciro did say that some manufacturers try to help the consumer by tracing helpful abbreviations on the exterior surface of the pastry. Thus, 'CS' would mean 'carne suave', 'CP' corresponds to 'carne picada' and so forth. This system does appear to presuppose a certain command of Spanish, however - for instance, it assumes that the consumer is savvy enough to see past the potential eucharistic associations of the abbreviation 'JC' to figure out that the contents are more likely to be ham and cheese than the body of (depending on one's views on transubstantiation versus consubstantiation*) one's personal Lord and Savior.
*: a specific heresy subscribed to by assorted Protestant sects, or - to use the quaint Irish phrase - those who dig with the other foot.
Ciro did say that some manufacturers try to help the consumer by tracing helpful abbreviations on the exterior surface of the pastry. Thus, 'CS' would mean 'carne suave', 'CP' corresponds to 'carne picada' and so forth. This system does appear to presuppose a certain command of Spanish, however - for instance, it assumes that the consumer is savvy enough to see past the potential eucharistic associations of the abbreviation 'JC' to figure out that the contents are more likely to be ham and cheese than the body of (depending on one's views on transubstantiation versus consubstantiation*) one's personal Lord and Savior.
*: a specific heresy subscribed to by assorted Protestant sects, or - to use the quaint Irish phrase - those who dig with the other foot.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Happy Birthday, Dale!
With only two hours to go (well, three in Canada), and my e-mail still not working, let me use this forum to wish a most excellent birthday (what's left of it) to my brother-in-law, Dale. Last year I sent him a fine model car for his birthday, only to have Canada Customs take it to pieces and not really reassemble it properly. So this year, I'm afraid the best I can do is send him a picture of his own car, currently in the shop (AGAIN), as I understand it.
And a fine vehicle it is too!
Hope you had a great birthday, Dale, and that I see you guys again in the not too distant future.
Un abrazo.
David
And a fine vehicle it is too!
Hope you had a great birthday, Dale, and that I see you guys again in the not too distant future.
Un abrazo.
David
Empanada Semiotics (also an OBG update)
Dear Jumbo Foods:
It's probably a consequence of my currently reading "Barthes para Principiantes" (Barthes for Beginners), but I couldn't help thinking earlier this evening, as I gummed down some of your tasty baked goods, "Have you ever considered hiring a professional semiotician"? For one thing, (s)he might have something to say about your somewhat ill-considered name choice as a company. And some pointers about how to package your product line in a consumer-friendly fashion:
Chalk it up to my non-Argentine ancestry, but I'm afraid that, when confronted with the cornucopia of flaky goodness pictured above earlier tonight, I found myself at a distinct loss. How was I to know, for instance, that 'triangular' is code for 'delicious tuna', or that the other, more misshapen, item on the left in the second picture would contain 'carne with black olives'? I'm sure that this is information every good Argentine absorbs with his mother's milk, but spare a thought for us poor foreigners. My ignorance about the semiotics of differently shaped empanadas lent a decidely aleatory touch to tonight's dining experience.
Granted, you are not alone in your erroneous assumptions about the semiotic savvy of consumers. For instance, it has taken me half a lifetime of noshing on the kind of chocolates that come in gift boxes to figure out that square or rectangular almost always means caramel or nougat (a kind I would definitely have to avoid in my current temporarily dentally challenged state), while oval almost always indicates a fondue filling of some kind.
But the manufacturers of Whitman Samplers, Cadbury's Milk Tray assortments, Rowntree's Black Magic and the like generally take some pity on their sweet-toothed customers and include a little schematic diagram to help decipher the contents of their various chocolatey treats, a feature which helps minimize the frequency of such hideous events as finding a tooth-marked delicacy (i.e. tried and rejected) nestling innocently in the box.
Perhaps you too might consider such an aide-memoire? If only to help us pitiful foreigners who are just visiting this great land of yours.
I, for one, would be droolingly grateful.
Communication Difficulties
Yahoo! Mail (you know, the system with non-existent spam filters) has been balky all day. So anyone expecting to hear from me who doesn't should know that it is nothing personal. Having lost a couple of composed messages already, I've given up on it for the moment. I hope the problem is fixed soon, but it is beyond my control.
In other news, I'm back from la dentista, starving as I didn't have any lunch, with the drooling semi-facial paralysis characteristic of residual anaesthetic effects. Hungrily eyeing the delicious-looking mush that I can look forward to gumming down later this evening. But I look forward to going back tomorrow to having my two shiny new implants put in, and to greatly improved masticating abilities in the days ahead. Maybe I should alert the local restaurateurs* to get ready to put another steak on the parrilla.
You may wonder why I seem to spend so much time at the dentist when I come to Argentina. I think the real puzzle is why more people don't. Even factoring in the airfare down here, it will still cost me far less than it would have done in San Francisco (and my experience with Kaiser's dentists has been less than stellar). In addition to being completely charming, Doctora Marisol was extremely professional, obviously very competent, and spoke perfect English. Plus I can kid myself that it's an adventure down here and pretend that I'm having fun. More easily than at home anyway. However, it would be nice if the fillings that I got during my twenties would stop lodging themselves in whatever I happen to be eating at the time. But maybe, like artificial joint replacements, there is some kind of natural life expectancy for dental work.
*: this word was extraordinarily difficult to type correctly; even now I'm not sure I managed to do so.
The plain people of Ireland: Here, this is very boring today. Reading this entry is like being in the dentist's chair.
MOTP: That may be the case, but at least it doesn't take two hours and leave you with a semi-paralyzed face like a drooling idiot. Anyway, what do you expect, wretches? Life isn't all beer and skittles, you know.
In other news, I'm back from la dentista, starving as I didn't have any lunch, with the drooling semi-facial paralysis characteristic of residual anaesthetic effects. Hungrily eyeing the delicious-looking mush that I can look forward to gumming down later this evening. But I look forward to going back tomorrow to having my two shiny new implants put in, and to greatly improved masticating abilities in the days ahead. Maybe I should alert the local restaurateurs* to get ready to put another steak on the parrilla.
You may wonder why I seem to spend so much time at the dentist when I come to Argentina. I think the real puzzle is why more people don't. Even factoring in the airfare down here, it will still cost me far less than it would have done in San Francisco (and my experience with Kaiser's dentists has been less than stellar). In addition to being completely charming, Doctora Marisol was extremely professional, obviously very competent, and spoke perfect English. Plus I can kid myself that it's an adventure down here and pretend that I'm having fun. More easily than at home anyway. However, it would be nice if the fillings that I got during my twenties would stop lodging themselves in whatever I happen to be eating at the time. But maybe, like artificial joint replacements, there is some kind of natural life expectancy for dental work.
*: this word was extraordinarily difficult to type correctly; even now I'm not sure I managed to do so.
The plain people of Ireland: Here, this is very boring today. Reading this entry is like being in the dentist's chair.
MOTP: That may be the case, but at least it doesn't take two hours and leave you with a semi-paralyzed face like a drooling idiot. Anyway, what do you expect, wretches? Life isn't all beer and skittles, you know.
Monday, September 14, 2009
DELPO !!!
Earlier this evening I was having a hard time figuring out why so many people in stores, bars, and restaurants seemed to be transfixed by the TV screens. After all, there wasn't a soccer match on, so the state of semi-paralysis seemed strange, to say the least. It was only as I was browsing the Yahoo! Argentina headlines just now that the penny dropped. In huge font size, the headline blared:
Del Potro vence a Federer y gana Abierto EEUU
(Del Potro beats Federer to win the U.S. Open)
Thereby presumably salvaging a portion of the national pride, which took a beating after last week's successive losses by "La Seleccion" on the soccer field.
In other Yahoo! Argentina frontpage news, the country is apparently abuzz with rumors of romance between the hosts of "Talento Argentino" (Argentina's got talent)
Junto con el rating, crecen los rumores de romance entre Catherine Fulop y Maximiliano Guerra
At least we know that such developments are unlikely between Ellen deGeneres and Simon Cowell.
Yeah. I know. It's a slow news day. So sue me.
Del Potro vence a Federer y gana Abierto EEUU
(Del Potro beats Federer to win the U.S. Open)
Thereby presumably salvaging a portion of the national pride, which took a beating after last week's successive losses by "La Seleccion" on the soccer field.
In other Yahoo! Argentina frontpage news, the country is apparently abuzz with rumors of romance between the hosts of "Talento Argentino" (Argentina's got talent)
Junto con el rating, crecen los rumores de romance entre Catherine Fulop y Maximiliano Guerra
At least we know that such developments are unlikely between Ellen deGeneres and Simon Cowell.
Yeah. I know. It's a slow news day. So sue me.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Evita!
As I write this, Paddy's plane should be taxi-ing down the runway at Ezeiza, ready to take off for Washington Dulles. It was a wonderful week - great weather, great food, many long leisurely conversations, with just the right amount of cultural and tourist activities thrown in (I am in awe of Paddy for taking advantage of the free tango lessons at her hotel, as well as scheduling her own private lesson with the instructors).
Inevitably, this afternoon we ended up at the Evita museum in Palermo. Which was not at all tacky (as I had feared it might be), and quite a bit more interesting than I had anticipated. With a great gift shop. Here are a few pictures:
I even got to satisfy my matchbox quota for the week (note that they double as nifty refrigerator magnets):
Finally, before Paddy left, we got to satisfy our prurient curiosity and check out the street where Governor Sanford's mistress lives (only one street over from the Evita museum, though I should stress that we have no way of knowing whether or not it is the particular block indicated on the sign)
I am, of course, sad that Paddy has left. But tomorrow begins a new week, with fresh challenges. Such as my role as editor-in-chief of the inaugural edition of the school's newsletter. (No, gentle readers, I didn't ask for this honor - some have greatness thrust upon them). The good news is that I will have both morning classes with Ciro for the week.
And so, good night.
What's that? The taxi scam? Maybe some other time. Oh, all right. Let me start by saying that, after it happens, you ask yourself - "how ever could we have been so gullible?" The answer is twofold. First, it all happened so fast. And second, if you never trusted anyone, you'd have to spend your whole life lurking in your apartment. Which, ultimately, seems like it would be a far worse fate than being taken for an amount that, in the general scheme of things, was pretty negligible. Far better to be in a position to have such a misadventure, and to be able to laugh about it afterwards, than to spend one's whole life sheltered from such escapades.
A final note of practical advice. Should you find yourself in an Argentine taxicab, be ready to pay with small bills. Should the driver tell you the notes you just handed him are fake, DO NOT HAND HIM ANY MORE NOTES*. Instead, just get out of the taxi, while offering to take the matter up with any available policeman. If you can write down the number of the taxi while doing so, so much the better.
Naturally, of course, we did none of these things. And were taken for suckers instead. Fortunately, not for a particularly large amount.
Luckily, this was a very minor blemish in an otherwise perfect week. And now, really, I have to go to bed.
*: this was where we really messed up.
Inevitably, this afternoon we ended up at the Evita museum in Palermo. Which was not at all tacky (as I had feared it might be), and quite a bit more interesting than I had anticipated. With a great gift shop. Here are a few pictures:
I even got to satisfy my matchbox quota for the week (note that they double as nifty refrigerator magnets):
Finally, before Paddy left, we got to satisfy our prurient curiosity and check out the street where Governor Sanford's mistress lives (only one street over from the Evita museum, though I should stress that we have no way of knowing whether or not it is the particular block indicated on the sign)
I am, of course, sad that Paddy has left. But tomorrow begins a new week, with fresh challenges. Such as my role as editor-in-chief of the inaugural edition of the school's newsletter. (No, gentle readers, I didn't ask for this honor - some have greatness thrust upon them). The good news is that I will have both morning classes with Ciro for the week.
And so, good night.
What's that? The taxi scam? Maybe some other time. Oh, all right. Let me start by saying that, after it happens, you ask yourself - "how ever could we have been so gullible?" The answer is twofold. First, it all happened so fast. And second, if you never trusted anyone, you'd have to spend your whole life lurking in your apartment. Which, ultimately, seems like it would be a far worse fate than being taken for an amount that, in the general scheme of things, was pretty negligible. Far better to be in a position to have such a misadventure, and to be able to laugh about it afterwards, than to spend one's whole life sheltered from such escapades.
A final note of practical advice. Should you find yourself in an Argentine taxicab, be ready to pay with small bills. Should the driver tell you the notes you just handed him are fake, DO NOT HAND HIM ANY MORE NOTES*. Instead, just get out of the taxi, while offering to take the matter up with any available policeman. If you can write down the number of the taxi while doing so, so much the better.
Naturally, of course, we did none of these things. And were taken for suckers instead. Fortunately, not for a particularly large amount.
Luckily, this was a very minor blemish in an otherwise perfect week. And now, really, I have to go to bed.
*: this was where we really messed up.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
At the mall
Today, we went to the Abasto shopping centre, where we saw a Ferris Wheel:
as well as a kosher McDonald's:
The latter was, of course, closed what with being a Saturday and all.
Right now I am examining the map to plan tomorrow's trip to the Evita museum, and - only a block away - the street where Governor Sanford's mistress lives. Good times!
Sadly, tomorrow is Paddy's last day.
as well as a kosher McDonald's:
The latter was, of course, closed what with being a Saturday and all.
Right now I am examining the map to plan tomorrow's trip to the Evita museum, and - only a block away - the street where Governor Sanford's mistress lives. Good times!
Sadly, tomorrow is Paddy's last day.
Friday, September 11, 2009
At the museum
Before we return to the sore topic of the great fake banknote taxi scam, here's a pleasant memory from yesterday. Paddy and I went to MALBA, the fancy museum of American art in Palermo. In the bookstore, I found this delightful set of little books for children, for only 20 pesos (a little over 5 dollars) for the entire collection:
My favorite is definitely the one which tells the story of the invention of 'dulce de leche':
Though the story of the Buenos Aires zoo comes in a close second:
My favorite is definitely the one which tells the story of the invention of 'dulce de leche':
Though the story of the Buenos Aires zoo comes in a close second:
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The great Argentine taxi-driver fake banknote switcheroo scam
Oh yes. We will have more to report on this, once we have regained our composure. Let's just say for now that being left with this particular collection of "banknotes" in your possession, as the taxi vanishes into the distance, is not a particularly good sign:
Can *you* figure out why? Of course you can! And, with the benefit of hindsight, so could we.
Full details of this particular scam, and advice on how YOU can avoid being similarly taken for a ride, tomorrow.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go lie down.
Can *you* figure out why? Of course you can! And, with the benefit of hindsight, so could we.
Full details of this particular scam, and advice on how YOU can avoid being similarly taken for a ride, tomorrow.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go lie down.
Que dicen los Rice Krispies?
The sounds of global Rice Krispies:
English: "Snap! Crackle! Pop!"
French: "Cric! Crac! Croc!"
Spanish: "Pim! Pum! Pam!"
German: "Knisper! Knasper! Knusper!"
Danish: "Piff! Paff! Puff!"
Finnish: "Riks! Raks! Poks!"
Dutch: "Pif! Paf! Pof!"
Afrikaans: "Knap! Knaetter! Knak!"
Because enquiring minds need to know.
English: "Snap! Crackle! Pop!"
French: "Cric! Crac! Croc!"
Spanish: "Pim! Pum! Pam!"
German: "Knisper! Knasper! Knusper!"
Danish: "Piff! Paff! Puff!"
Finnish: "Riks! Raks! Poks!"
Dutch: "Pif! Paf! Pof!"
Afrikaans: "Knap! Knaetter! Knak!"
Because enquiring minds need to know.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
National tragedy
Normally this blog steers a mile wide of all things sports-related, but it would be remiss not to report on the general sense of stupefaction that has taken hold of the Argentine capital after tonight's stunning loss of La Selección, [also known as the Albicelestes (Light blue and whites)] in the World Cup qualifier versus Paraguay. Tonight's 1-0 loss in Asuncion against the clearly superior Paraguayan team, following on Sunday night's loss to Brazil, places the Albicelestes' chances of qualifying for next year's World Cup in significant jeopardy.
In a country where soccer is something akin to the national religion, folks here in B.A. couldn't be unhappier. The name of former national idol (Diego) Maradona, who took on the role of head coach of the Albiceleste squad last year, is in grave danger of becoming a byword.
In a country where soccer is something akin to the national religion, folks here in B.A. couldn't be unhappier. The name of former national idol (Diego) Maradona, who took on the role of head coach of the Albiceleste squad last year, is in grave danger of becoming a byword.
This trip's quest
Every trip needs a quest. After some discussion with Paddy at the flea market in San Telmo on Sunday, we decided that this month's theme should be matchboxes. Compact, moderately interesting, suitable for building dioramas on those slow Sunday evenings, and spanning a broad variety of themes. Here are some examples from Week 1:
Some of the matchboxes shown even double as nifty refrigerator magnets. how cool is that?
Some of the matchboxes shown even double as nifty refrigerator magnets. how cool is that?
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Festivities (part 1)
What bliss when one can combine a legitimate reason for celebration with an OPERATION BAKED GOODS UPDATE!
I hope that the photos, and the look of bliss on Katrin's face, capture the superior quality of these particular baked goods, known locally as 'masas finas' (fine pastries).
I hope that the photos, and the look of bliss on Katrin's face, capture the superior quality of these particular baked goods, known locally as 'masas finas' (fine pastries).
An anniversary
Today marks the 30th anniversary of that fateful day when I departed, tearfully, from Shannon Airport, to begin my life in the New World.
There will be festivities later on today, that I can promise.
There will be festivities later on today, that I can promise.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Don't be shy
Yes. We welcome comments on this blog. Yours especially. We are a long way from home. We crave attention and affection. Even if you can't provide those, we still welcome your comments.
If we do not receive them, ultimately we become sulky, morose, and petulant. All unattractive qualities in a blogger. So you know what to do to forestall this unpleasant eventuality.
If we do not receive them, ultimately we become sulky, morose, and petulant. All unattractive qualities in a blogger. So you know what to do to forestall this unpleasant eventuality.
Previously undiscovered family members
As we wandered through the flea market in San Telmo earlier this afternoon, rummaging through the stalls, and through the various assortments of old photographs, I found it tempting to imagine that some of the photos in question were of a hitherto undiscovered Argentine branch of the Giltinan clan, for instance this picture of my Argentine great-aunts and their friends, taken on the night of the debutantes' ball, some time in the 1930s:
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Pablo y yo (redux)
How can you not love a book that contains the magnificent "Oda a las papas fritas"?
Ode to French fries
Maybe it's the stage of life at which I find myself, but the concrete imagery of the poems in this slim volume, odes to the cosas cotidianas de la vida, finds far more resonance with me than do the abstract profundities of e.g. "Veinte poemas del amor y una cancion desesperada".
There are odes to bread, to broken things, to wine, the onion, the tomato, to books, to copper, to the birds of Chile, roughly fifty odes in all. Despite, or perhaps because of, the concreteness of their imagery, these are poems that soar.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Decisions, decisions ....
The white? Or the red?
May have to try a little of each, for the patio picnic with Paddy, who arrived from DC this morning.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
The Lugones family
My friend Paddy arrives tomorrow for a 10-day visit. Before I left we searched for a decent hotel not too far from my apartment and settled on Rooney's boutique hotel (warning: link leads to a page with slightly annoying music).
One of the hotel's claims to fame is that it is the former residence of 'well-known Argentine author Leopold Lugones'.
A cursory google search leads to the Wikipedia entry on Lugones, which makes it clear that he led a fairly tortured existence, culminating in his death by suicide after ingesting a draught of cyanide and whisky. (This took place at an entirely different hotel in another part of town).
A contributing factor may have been the realization that Leopold's only son, Polo Lugones, was a nasty piece of work indeed, whose main claim to fame was that, during his tenure as chief of police during the dictatorship of Uriburu in the 1930s, he introduced the electric cattle prod as a method of torture.
In an ironic twist of fate, one of the "beneficiaries" of Polo's innovation was his own daughter (i.e. Leopold's granddaughter) whose anarchist views caused her to run afoul of the military dictatorship during the 1970s, at whose hands she eventually perished.
A grim reminder, if any were needed, of Argentina's uniquely violent history.
One of the hotel's claims to fame is that it is the former residence of 'well-known Argentine author Leopold Lugones'.
A cursory google search leads to the Wikipedia entry on Lugones, which makes it clear that he led a fairly tortured existence, culminating in his death by suicide after ingesting a draught of cyanide and whisky. (This took place at an entirely different hotel in another part of town).
A contributing factor may have been the realization that Leopold's only son, Polo Lugones, was a nasty piece of work indeed, whose main claim to fame was that, during his tenure as chief of police during the dictatorship of Uriburu in the 1930s, he introduced the electric cattle prod as a method of torture.
In an ironic twist of fate, one of the "beneficiaries" of Polo's innovation was his own daughter (i.e. Leopold's granddaughter) whose anarchist views caused her to run afoul of the military dictatorship during the 1970s, at whose hands she eventually perished.
A grim reminder, if any were needed, of Argentina's uniquely violent history.
Obelisco
In case anyone thinks I'm dry-blogging from 19th Street, here is a picture of B.A's most famous landmark:
Apparently there are stores that specialize in artistic ferrets:
Who knew?
Apparently there are stores that specialize in artistic ferrets:
Who knew?
El Profesor
This is Ciro (aka 'Xerxes'). One of the best Spanish teachers I've ever had, and certainly among the most charming.
For a selection of shots of Ciro in action, see:
El profesor
Classes with Ciro are another reason I love Buenos Aires so much.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
OPERATION BAKED GOODS UPDATE
This entry in the OBG series presumably speaks for itself:
In fairness, I should say that Buenos Aires has much more to offer. We will return to our ongoing investigation in due course.
In fairness, I should say that Buenos Aires has much more to offer. We will return to our ongoing investigation in due course.
Lear Redux
Tonight I went to see a production of "Rey Lear" at one of the theatres on the Avenida Corrientes, the Buenos Aires equivalent of Broadway. It was an extraordinarily powerful performance (I'd say I understood about 90%, if only because of my previous familiarity with this particular play).
Interestingly, it caused me to revise my previous view of the play - its overall message actually seemed far more hopeful, not nearly as nihilistic as I had previously thought. I'd been arguing this point with a number of friends on goodreads over the past months, so I need to acknowledge for the record that I now believe that their view is a more correct interpretation of the play.
It still remains one of my all time favorite plays.
Interestingly, it caused me to revise my previous view of the play - its overall message actually seemed far more hopeful, not nearly as nihilistic as I had previously thought. I'd been arguing this point with a number of friends on goodreads over the past months, so I need to acknowledge for the record that I now believe that their view is a more correct interpretation of the play.
It still remains one of my all time favorite plays.
Griping about la gripe
Though the threat has yet to materialize, the topic of swine flu is never far from the headlines. There was a summit of American heads of state in Bariloche this past weekend, and the main headline that resulted had to do with the fact that one of the fearless leaders came down with the flu as a result. Though everyone should know better, the press here still insist on referring to it as 'la gripe porcina'.
At the school there is a proliferation of placards instructing us on how to wash our hands properly:
With or without gel, it's clearly a much more complicated sequence of operations than one had previously realized.
I regret to report that I have already been told by at least two people who should know better that they intend to avoid contracting the flu by eliminating pork consumption.
Sigh.
At the school there is a proliferation of placards instructing us on how to wash our hands properly:
With or without gel, it's clearly a much more complicated sequence of operations than one had previously realized.
I regret to report that I have already been told by at least two people who should know better that they intend to avoid contracting the flu by eliminating pork consumption.
Sigh.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Obligatory virtual tour
I am staying in an apartment located at the intersection of Avenida Callao and Calle Lavalle. An address which, when pronounced in the local accent, involves enough shushing and sputtering to make a speaker of "pure" Castilian shudder.
The apartment is very elegant, and the location couldn't be more central. What passes for 'art' in the kitchen might raise a few eyebrows stateside, however:
Feel free to take the complete virtual tour by clicking
here
Ongoing tally of Borges pieces covered in class so far this visit: 1.
The apartment is very elegant, and the location couldn't be more central. What passes for 'art' in the kitchen might raise a few eyebrows stateside, however:
Feel free to take the complete virtual tour by clicking
here
Ongoing tally of Borges pieces covered in class so far this visit: 1.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Back on the pampas again!
Actually, that's not strictly true, as Buenos Aires is not exactly pampas country. But you will excuse a little poetic licence due to my exhilaration at being back in B.A.
Where the weather has been very weird thus far. But more of this anon.
Let's just say that I am overjoyed to be back, and that I probably learned more in today's classes than during my entire stay in Santiago.
For now, it's good night. I will keep you posted. I promise.
Where the weather has been very weird thus far. But more of this anon.
Let's just say that I am overjoyed to be back, and that I probably learned more in today's classes than during my entire stay in Santiago.
For now, it's good night. I will keep you posted. I promise.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Two Advantages of Leaving Early
The ability to eat all the remaining rum raisin ice-cream in one sitting, and actually feel virtuous about it. Because nobody likes an ice-cream waster.
Lowered* gift expectations. Obviously, an early departure makes severe inroads into the already paltry amount of time available for souvenir shopping. So it's refrigerator magnets all around, and you should all be damned grateful that you get anything at all.
*: If you hadn't already lowered yours, consider this post your cue.
Lowered* gift expectations. Obviously, an early departure makes severe inroads into the already paltry amount of time available for souvenir shopping. So it's refrigerator magnets all around, and you should all be damned grateful that you get anything at all.
*: If you hadn't already lowered yours, consider this post your cue.
Leaving Santiago
Well, Santiago wasn't all beer and skittles. But there were some definite high points - the visit to Neruda's home in Valparaiso, the wonderful postal and pre-Columbian museums, the party at Brad's uncle Norman's home on Sunday, this week's awesome overnight trip with Norman and Gloria to Cachagua, where we stayed at their beach condo (where I lost my hot tub virginity in their fine jacuzzi):
lunch at the pelican-covered restaurant in Vina del Mar on Wednesday:
dinner at the fine 80's video restaurant, innumerable pisco sours, the hamster movie, Ice Age 3, a couple of fine movies that I saw at school, including this morning's fascinating documentary about the 'golpe de estado' on September 11th 1973, two excellent symphony concerts, and the prospect of a third one this evening (a program of tango music, which will put me in the mood for Argentina).
Though my time here was certainly not dull, it will be nice to be home again.
lunch at the pelican-covered restaurant in Vina del Mar on Wednesday:
dinner at the fine 80's video restaurant, innumerable pisco sours, the hamster movie, Ice Age 3, a couple of fine movies that I saw at school, including this morning's fascinating documentary about the 'golpe de estado' on September 11th 1973, two excellent symphony concerts, and the prospect of a third one this evening (a program of tango music, which will put me in the mood for Argentina).
Though my time here was certainly not dull, it will be nice to be home again.
Change in Plans
I am cutting my time short here in Chile to take care of some things at home before continuing on to Buenos Aires at the end of the month. Accordingly, I will be leaving tomorrow evening and am scheduled to get back to San Francisco around midday on Sunday.
As I consider the two weeks I will be at home just an unscheduled leg of my original trip, I will continue to post from home during my time in San Francisco. To those in the Bay Area, I look forward to the chance to catch up next week or the week after.
As I consider the two weeks I will be at home just an unscheduled leg of my original trip, I will continue to post from home during my time in San Francisco. To those in the Bay Area, I look forward to the chance to catch up next week or the week after.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
To my awesome co-author
One of the undoubted highlights of my professional career as a biostatistician was the year I spent writing a monograph together with my good friend and colleague, Marie Davidian. Mind you, I doubt that either of us would have viewed it as a highlight at the time, but I think both of us are actually still quite proud of the result.
Marie went on to become one of the brightest stars in the statistical firmament. Quite fittingly, her brilliance was acknowledged earlier this month at the annual meeting of the Joint Statistical Societies in Washington DC. A gathering I was quite frankly happy to miss, though I would like to have seen her pick up her Snedecor Award:
Marie received the award, the top honour in biostatistics, 'for fundamental contributions to the theory and methodology of longitudinal data, especially nonlinear mixed effects models; for significant contributions to the analysis of clinical trials and observational studies; and for leadership as president of ENAR, as editor and as a member of the International Biometrics Society council.' The award, established in 1976, honors an individual who was instrumental in the development of statistical theory in biometry. The award is for a noteworthy publication in biometry within three years of the data of the award. Since 1991 the prize has been given every other year, in odd years, and consists of a plaque and a cash award.
But the woman's talents don't stop there. The immediately following weekend, there she was, with her husband Butch, knocking their socks off in New Orleans, in a frenzy of ballroom dancing excellence, of which this snippet (where she won first prize in her class in the Viennese waltz) is just one example:
Marie and Butch (Viennese waltz)
I've always felt enormously lucky to count Marie among my close friends. This post is dedicated to her, with all my love and admiration.
Marie went on to become one of the brightest stars in the statistical firmament. Quite fittingly, her brilliance was acknowledged earlier this month at the annual meeting of the Joint Statistical Societies in Washington DC. A gathering I was quite frankly happy to miss, though I would like to have seen her pick up her Snedecor Award:
Marie received the award, the top honour in biostatistics, 'for fundamental contributions to the theory and methodology of longitudinal data, especially nonlinear mixed effects models; for significant contributions to the analysis of clinical trials and observational studies; and for leadership as president of ENAR, as editor and as a member of the International Biometrics Society council.' The award, established in 1976, honors an individual who was instrumental in the development of statistical theory in biometry. The award is for a noteworthy publication in biometry within three years of the data of the award. Since 1991 the prize has been given every other year, in odd years, and consists of a plaque and a cash award.
But the woman's talents don't stop there. The immediately following weekend, there she was, with her husband Butch, knocking their socks off in New Orleans, in a frenzy of ballroom dancing excellence, of which this snippet (where she won first prize in her class in the Viennese waltz) is just one example:
Marie and Butch (Viennese waltz)
I've always felt enormously lucky to count Marie among my close friends. This post is dedicated to her, with all my love and admiration.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Photos galore - with actual people!
Yesterday, we were invited to Brad's uncle's. Where there was a terrific fiesta in full swing, in celebration of "el dia de los ninos".
Plenty of pictures here .
Plenty of pictures here .
Saturday, August 8, 2009
At the pre-Columbian musuem
A little group of us from school went yesterday afternoon in lieu of class. And a fine museum it turned out to be - spacious, well laid out, full of some really nifty stuff. Although the setup was not ideal for taking pictures (no flash allowed, and it's very hard to get the exposure long enough without wobbling in such circumstances), I did manage a few.
In my mind, I had been spelling the name of the museum as 'pre-Colombian', which makes no sense when you think about it; the correct spelling is that in the title of this post, as its contents were all artefacts from the time before the European 'discovery' of the Americas. I really enjoyed the visit. Here were some of my favorite exhibits -
pre-Columbian statistics
The totally stylin' pre-Columbian headgear was da bomb! Especially the little pointy-horned hats! You have no idea how much I crave one of these.
In my mind, I had been spelling the name of the museum as 'pre-Colombian', which makes no sense when you think about it; the correct spelling is that in the title of this post, as its contents were all artefacts from the time before the European 'discovery' of the Americas. I really enjoyed the visit. Here were some of my favorite exhibits -
pre-Columbian statistics
The totally stylin' pre-Columbian headgear was da bomb! Especially the little pointy-horned hats! You have no idea how much I crave one of these.
A book to be thrown aside with great force
Who knew jellyfish could write? I'd use the word "emasculated" to describe the author of this pathetic "short history of Chile" if it weren't obvious that to do so would be a grievous inaccuracy. Sergio Villalobos Rivera never had cojones to begin with. Hell, on the evidence, SVR doesn't even have a backbone. Which may warrant the creation of a new bookshelf in my collection - one for "written by invertebrates".
OK, OK. Let me back up. All I was looking for was a "brief history of Chile", as the title of this execrable "book" promised. Enough to get me oriented, so that I wouldn't feel like a complete tourist-bozo during my weeks here in Santiago. Enough to distinguish Ambrosio O' Higgins from his progeny, Bernardo. And maybe to figure out just why the latter is known all about town as "El libertador", even to the extent of having Santiago's main drag named after him. (Understanding why and when the O' Higginses left Ireland would have been lagniappe, as would any available information about Viscount Mackenna, after whom the street where my school is located is named).
Now, believe me, I understand completely that your average reader of this blog probably gives a flying Wallenda about the history of Chile. (Though if you were a U.S. citizen of voting age back in 1973, you might want to ask yourself if such insouciance is wholly justifiable, know what I'm saying?). But please bear with me here. If I don't get some of the incensitude that this "book" has provoked off my chest, I may just blow a gasket. And I shudder to think what Kaiser Permanente's coverage of gasket replacement in a Latin American capital might be.
What's so appalling about this book? Well, everything, really. Here's a short list:
* Despite its 200-page length, it's virtually devoid of information. There's a plethora of generic, meaningless, illustrations which help to take up space, but add nothing whatsoever. Examples: page 78, woodcuts of "mujeres chilenas" in quasi-national garb; page 73, drawing of generic pirate ships; page 66, peasants using wooden ploughs; page 67, a generic grain mill; page 117, drawing of a gentleman in the costume of the era; page 124 drawing of an impoverished peasant; page 114, a ball in the governor's palace; page 93, woodcut of the "building of the tribunal of the consulate", page 58, daily life under the conquistadors. Any of these freaking illustrations could be inserted into the history of any 'brief history" of any Latin American country and nobody would be any the wiser.
* Such text as there is in the book has the texture of cotton wool. Cliche follows platitude follows cliche follows platitude. After a couple pages, you have to stop, because you can actually feel your brain rotting inside your head.
* That spineless quality, alluded to earlier. The fall of the government of Allende is dispatched in less than a paragraph. the atrocities that followed under Pinochet get fewer than 3 lines, including the desultory observation that "more than 3000" people died. The closest Sergio ("Medusa") V-R comes to expressing anything approximating a point of view is to allow that the political situation in 1973 was "very confusing".
"Bah, humbug!", say I. If you are incapable of formulation an opinion, dumbass, then you are not qualified to be writing history books.
On the plus side, I only paid $8 for this piece of basura. But, to put it another way - I PAID 8 DOLLARS FOR THIS PIECE OF TIME-WASTING RUBBISH?
Caveat lector. If, for whatever reason, you are interested in learning more about the history of Chile, be assured you won't find anything pertinent here.
Gaaaaah! Fade, to the sound of gaskets blowing....
Friday, August 7, 2009
Operation Baked Goods (Santiago Update)
A surprisingly strong showing from the Chilean capital, as suggested by these pictures:
Obligatory coin update
Witness the coin near the top of this photo. It is a Chilean peso and must be, by my reckoning, one of the least valuable coins in existence. 540 of these might buy you a U.S. dollar, if the exchange rate is favorable. One wonders why they even bother minting them.
The gentleman whose profile is featured on the coin in question appears to be Bernardo O' Higgins (my eyesight is not good enough to be able to tell with certainty), who is also known around these parts as "El Libertador". I will have more to say about Bernardo, and his pa, Ambrosio O' Higgins, in a future post.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Home, sweet (former), home
Since I appear to be in full-blown nostalgia mode, here is a picture of the house I grew up in, taken when my sister and I were revisiting old haunts during our visit to Ireland in May
It's the red-roofed bungalow in the background.
It's the red-roofed bungalow in the background.
Hooters comes to Starbucks
The downtown shopping area in Santiago's city centre approximates what you would find in any major metropolis - several blocks of relatively pleasant pedestrianized streets, flanked by department stores, fast food restaurants, specialty shops of various kinds. Including many coffeeshops.
Should you enter one of these latter establishments in search of a cuppa joe, however, there the resemblance ends. Because Santiago is host to a phenomenon that, to my knowledge, is duplicated in no other world capital - that known as 'cafe con piernas' - literally 'coffee with legs'. Enter one of these downtown cafes and you will be greeted by the sight of clusters of lecherous businessmen being served their coffee by baristas decked out in what can only be described as the Latin American equivalent of the Playboy bunny suit. They may not have the little bobtail, but there is at least as much fresh female flesh on display.
Where does this somewhat odd custom originate? Thus far, despite the best efforts of our MOTP research staff, no satisfactory explanation has been found.
Hey, we just report the facts on this blog. We don't control them.
The plain people of Ireland: You don't have any, you know, pictures, do you, by any chance?
MOTP management: How did I know this would get your attention, ye salacious wretches!? No, I do not. Now, be quiet, before I alert Nuala.
The plain people of Ireland: Yerra, sure, there's no need for that. We were just asking, like.
MOTP management: Sigh.
Should you enter one of these latter establishments in search of a cuppa joe, however, there the resemblance ends. Because Santiago is host to a phenomenon that, to my knowledge, is duplicated in no other world capital - that known as 'cafe con piernas' - literally 'coffee with legs'. Enter one of these downtown cafes and you will be greeted by the sight of clusters of lecherous businessmen being served their coffee by baristas decked out in what can only be described as the Latin American equivalent of the Playboy bunny suit. They may not have the little bobtail, but there is at least as much fresh female flesh on display.
Where does this somewhat odd custom originate? Thus far, despite the best efforts of our MOTP research staff, no satisfactory explanation has been found.
Hey, we just report the facts on this blog. We don't control them.
The plain people of Ireland: You don't have any, you know, pictures, do you, by any chance?
MOTP management: How did I know this would get your attention, ye salacious wretches!? No, I do not. Now, be quiet, before I alert Nuala.
The plain people of Ireland: Yerra, sure, there's no need for that. We were just asking, like.
MOTP management: Sigh.
Remembrance of times past
As I sit here, nursing my cup of instant Nescafe espresso, sweetened with several heaping spoons of sugar, and a shot of condensed milk, fiddling with the menacing "heating system" (see earlier post for photographic details), I am strongly reminded of my days as an undergraduate at that fine institution of higher learning, University College, Cork. Perhaps it's the unabashed 70's flavour of the rented apartment, (tiled floor, inadequate heating, generally shoddy construction, furniture that is straight from the seventies, both in its design and colouring). The Nescafe definitely acts as some kind of Proustian trigger, as does the chocolate biscuit I am eating as accompaniment.
Throughout the seventies, there was what appeared to be an unending ad campaign by Cadbury's on Irish TV for one kind of chocolate-covered biscuit confection after another, usually depicting some demoralized kind of bank clerk woman, who would arrive home to her somewhat bleak-looking lodgings, only to give herself up to a moment of instant, orgasmic bliss as she bit in to whatever chocolatey treat was being peddled. The subliminal message was entirely clear, and as subtle as a bulldozer - even if your life is completely humdrum and you live in a hellhole, there is sweet instant relief to be found in a Cadbury's product. It is hardly coincidental that the space given over to sweets and biscuits in your average Irish supermarket of the era would have astounded even the most jaded American consumer. The subsequent havoc wrought on Irish dentition in people of my generational cohort is likely to keep future archaeologists speculating for many a long year.
So here I sit, half-thinking I should be studying for my honours maths exams in September. Only by turning on the TV, tuned to the latest breaking news on CNN Chile, am I able to dispel the overpowering sense of deja vu.
Truth be told, there's something oddly comforting about the whole situation.
Throughout the seventies, there was what appeared to be an unending ad campaign by Cadbury's on Irish TV for one kind of chocolate-covered biscuit confection after another, usually depicting some demoralized kind of bank clerk woman, who would arrive home to her somewhat bleak-looking lodgings, only to give herself up to a moment of instant, orgasmic bliss as she bit in to whatever chocolatey treat was being peddled. The subliminal message was entirely clear, and as subtle as a bulldozer - even if your life is completely humdrum and you live in a hellhole, there is sweet instant relief to be found in a Cadbury's product. It is hardly coincidental that the space given over to sweets and biscuits in your average Irish supermarket of the era would have astounded even the most jaded American consumer. The subsequent havoc wrought on Irish dentition in people of my generational cohort is likely to keep future archaeologists speculating for many a long year.
So here I sit, half-thinking I should be studying for my honours maths exams in September. Only by turning on the TV, tuned to the latest breaking news on CNN Chile, am I able to dispel the overpowering sense of deja vu.
Truth be told, there's something oddly comforting about the whole situation.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
La vida cotidiana en Chile
Isolated observations:
A standard feature on menus around here is to go all out and order your main course "a lo pobre". This means that your chunk of meat or fish will come garnished with a couple of fried eggs, some onions, and a heap of french fries. Though it can be suprisingly tasty, it doesn't seem like the healthiest of options. Overall, food here is inexpensive and pretty good, though unadventurous (which I personally am in favor of). Vegetables and salads don't feature prominently, though the situation is nowhere near as extreme as it was in Argentina last year.
The infirmity formerly known as swine 'flu has obviously done a number on travel to Chile (and from what I can gather, to Argentina as well). Enrolment at school is at an all-time low, and most restaurants do not seem to be thriving either. Though, presumably one has to make allowance for the fact that it is the dead of winter. (Note to self: why this habit of visiting the southern hemisphere right in the middle of winter - it would be entirely possible to avoid the oppressive summer heat by e.g. travelling in the spring or fall).
I had begun to give up on newspapers here altogether (the local dailies are pretty uninteresting, for the most part, being a little too local for my taste), when after a week I had still been unable to track down a copy of "El Pais" (which was ubiquitous and cheaply available both in Buenos Aires and in Mexico). Finally, this morning, I snagged a copy at a downtown kiosk while showing Brad around. But - que horror - I had to pay about $4 for a copy of yesterday's paper. And a pretty watered-down copy at that. Oh well, things will improve on this front once I get to Buenos Aires.
Brad arrived last night in the middle of the night, after an exhausting flight. We both agree that it's taken longer to get here than anywhere else either of us has ever been. But, to end with a resounding cliche, no pain, no gain.
A standard feature on menus around here is to go all out and order your main course "a lo pobre". This means that your chunk of meat or fish will come garnished with a couple of fried eggs, some onions, and a heap of french fries. Though it can be suprisingly tasty, it doesn't seem like the healthiest of options. Overall, food here is inexpensive and pretty good, though unadventurous (which I personally am in favor of). Vegetables and salads don't feature prominently, though the situation is nowhere near as extreme as it was in Argentina last year.
The infirmity formerly known as swine 'flu has obviously done a number on travel to Chile (and from what I can gather, to Argentina as well). Enrolment at school is at an all-time low, and most restaurants do not seem to be thriving either. Though, presumably one has to make allowance for the fact that it is the dead of winter. (Note to self: why this habit of visiting the southern hemisphere right in the middle of winter - it would be entirely possible to avoid the oppressive summer heat by e.g. travelling in the spring or fall).
I had begun to give up on newspapers here altogether (the local dailies are pretty uninteresting, for the most part, being a little too local for my taste), when after a week I had still been unable to track down a copy of "El Pais" (which was ubiquitous and cheaply available both in Buenos Aires and in Mexico). Finally, this morning, I snagged a copy at a downtown kiosk while showing Brad around. But - que horror - I had to pay about $4 for a copy of yesterday's paper. And a pretty watered-down copy at that. Oh well, things will improve on this front once I get to Buenos Aires.
Brad arrived last night in the middle of the night, after an exhausting flight. We both agree that it's taken longer to get here than anywhere else either of us has ever been. But, to end with a resounding cliche, no pain, no gain.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Book Review : Mrs Dalloway
In a remote region of my mind there exists a bookcase. It’s labeled “authors I really should read more of”, and it is – as you might imagine – gigantic. There’s a philosophy corner, where Plato, Kant, and Wittgenstein, among others, are engaged in a bull session for the ages. A.S. Byatt, and Grace Paley share a shelf with Turgenev, Chekhov, and Gogol, right next door to China Mieville, Roberto Bolano, Haruki Murakami and Salman Rushdie. Up on one of the higher shelves there’s the Nobel niche – Nadine Gordimer, Doris Lessing, Iris Murdoch, Octavio Paz are hanging out with Saul Bellow and Isaac Bashevis Singer. Becket has a spot there, but he usually prefers the French quarter, boozing it up with Balzac, Rabelais, Dumas, Hugo, and Colette. And that’s not even the half of it.
Let's be clear. This is a virtual bookcase. It exists only in my mind. Which is a good thing - because it's so completely chock-a-block that, if it existed physically, it would immediately collapse under its own weight. Even thinking about it triggers all kinds of guilt-related synapses. How can I consider myself a true reader when I haven’t read Rabelais? When my acquaintance with Dumas and Hugo is based solely on Saturday morning cartoons and heartwarming Broadway musicals? All the hip kids have read Bolano – why haven’t I?
Sporadically, as some kind of vague gesture in the fight against entropy, I try to tidy things up a little by removing a few authors. This requires me to actually read at least one work by the authors in question, to determine whether they merit transfer to the “authors I want to read more of” shelf or get consigned to the “a little goes a long way” depository. Last month, against all expectations, Henry James made the transition from the “should read more” to the “want to read more” shelf, on the basis of “The Ambassadors”.
Recently, I came across a bargain copy of “Mrs Dalloway”, so I figured it was time to give Virginia Woolf a try. I’d tried “To the Lighthouse” a few times, but never managed to get through it. I’m glad to report that “Mrs Dalloway” was a treat from start to finish – I loved this book. Which is a little unusual, because normally I tend to prefer novels where the plotting is strong, and there is no plot to speak of in “Mrs D”. It was written in 1924, just two years after the publication of “Ulysses”. Joyce may have been the first to use stream-of-consciousness, but it’s hard to argue that he did so successfully – large chunks of "Ulysses" are essentially unreadable, and for much of the book he seems primarily concerned with showing off his own cleverness.
In “Mrs Dalloway”, Woolf gets stream-of-consciousness right. In a deliberate break from established literary tradition, the structure of the book is unorthodox. The action is minimal: the book simply tracks the progress of the main characters across a single day in post World War I London. The narrative changes point of view continuously throughout the book, presenting the different characters’ thoughts and reactions. What amazed me about the book is its richness – though it seems as if we learn very little about a given character in any particular episode in the story, by the end we realize that Woolf’s characterization is brilliant. None of the main characters in the story is particularly likeable, but they are all completely credible and vividly realized. I’m not sure how exactly Woolf pulls this off – some kind of combination of presenting just the salient detail and inviting the reader inside the characters’ heads. Maybe it’s just alchemy. But she certainly manages to make the (often mundane) details of the characters’ lives interesting.
The other aspect of the book that delighted me was the writing. Although the “stream-of-consciousness” narrative entails occasionally complex sentence structure, it’s fairly easy to read, and there are many passages that are simply terrific.
I’m really not explaining this very coherently. I don’t quite know why I liked “Mrs Dalloway” as much as I did. I’ve never read anything else like it. In the end, maybe that’s reason enough for you to consider giving it a shot.
Let's be clear. This is a virtual bookcase. It exists only in my mind. Which is a good thing - because it's so completely chock-a-block that, if it existed physically, it would immediately collapse under its own weight. Even thinking about it triggers all kinds of guilt-related synapses. How can I consider myself a true reader when I haven’t read Rabelais? When my acquaintance with Dumas and Hugo is based solely on Saturday morning cartoons and heartwarming Broadway musicals? All the hip kids have read Bolano – why haven’t I?
Sporadically, as some kind of vague gesture in the fight against entropy, I try to tidy things up a little by removing a few authors. This requires me to actually read at least one work by the authors in question, to determine whether they merit transfer to the “authors I want to read more of” shelf or get consigned to the “a little goes a long way” depository. Last month, against all expectations, Henry James made the transition from the “should read more” to the “want to read more” shelf, on the basis of “The Ambassadors”.
Recently, I came across a bargain copy of “Mrs Dalloway”, so I figured it was time to give Virginia Woolf a try. I’d tried “To the Lighthouse” a few times, but never managed to get through it. I’m glad to report that “Mrs Dalloway” was a treat from start to finish – I loved this book. Which is a little unusual, because normally I tend to prefer novels where the plotting is strong, and there is no plot to speak of in “Mrs D”. It was written in 1924, just two years after the publication of “Ulysses”. Joyce may have been the first to use stream-of-consciousness, but it’s hard to argue that he did so successfully – large chunks of "Ulysses" are essentially unreadable, and for much of the book he seems primarily concerned with showing off his own cleverness.
In “Mrs Dalloway”, Woolf gets stream-of-consciousness right. In a deliberate break from established literary tradition, the structure of the book is unorthodox. The action is minimal: the book simply tracks the progress of the main characters across a single day in post World War I London. The narrative changes point of view continuously throughout the book, presenting the different characters’ thoughts and reactions. What amazed me about the book is its richness – though it seems as if we learn very little about a given character in any particular episode in the story, by the end we realize that Woolf’s characterization is brilliant. None of the main characters in the story is particularly likeable, but they are all completely credible and vividly realized. I’m not sure how exactly Woolf pulls this off – some kind of combination of presenting just the salient detail and inviting the reader inside the characters’ heads. Maybe it’s just alchemy. But she certainly manages to make the (often mundane) details of the characters’ lives interesting.
The other aspect of the book that delighted me was the writing. Although the “stream-of-consciousness” narrative entails occasionally complex sentence structure, it’s fairly easy to read, and there are many passages that are simply terrific.
I’m really not explaining this very coherently. I don’t quite know why I liked “Mrs Dalloway” as much as I did. I’ve never read anything else like it. In the end, maybe that’s reason enough for you to consider giving it a shot.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Book Review : "The Scarlet Pimpernel"
I read this concurrently with Victoria Woolf's "Mrs Dalloway". Mrs D. has no plot to speak of -- its virtues are in the characterization and the writing. "The Scarlet Pimpernel" is the direct opposite - its whole point is the plot. The characters are more or less your generic swashbuckling regulars, and the writing ranges from tolerable to truly atrocious.
But perhaps it's a little unfair to burden "The Scarlet Pimpernel" with exalted literary expectations. First and foremost, it's an adventure story. And a damned good one. The Baroness can't be faulted for her handling of the plot - it's hard to see how it could be improved. Great setup, excellent pacing, satisfying ending.
Now, a picky, caviling person might be tempted to find fault with certain aspects of the telling of the story - the unremitting evil of the satanic bad guy, the unbridled nobility of all those British gents, all those revolutionary froggies spouting "Sacres aristos!", with their British counterparts expostulating "Zounds!" and "Odd's life!" in every other line of dialog. Others might complain about this, but I don't. See, for this kind of story, I like my villains villainy. I lap up the cliched historical detail. If there hadn't been a scene with coarse Parisian proles knitting at the guillotine, I'd have felt cheated. And any swashbuckling aristocrat story worth its salt had better have some nobleman whose last name begins with ff. So I enjoyed these aspects of the book just fine.
I'd only have two gentle criticisms for the Baroness:
1. Was it absolutely necessary to name the doddering Jewish character Reuben Goldstein? The word "overkill" didn't cross your mind at all?
2. Why did you make Marguerite such a half-wit? A woman that slow on the uptake wouldn't be able to dress herself in the morning. Though I could imagine her being played by Anne Heche.
But, all things considered, "The Scarlet Pimpernel" is a fine book, well worth giving a whirl. I can see no particular reason to read any of its many sequels, however.
But perhaps it's a little unfair to burden "The Scarlet Pimpernel" with exalted literary expectations. First and foremost, it's an adventure story. And a damned good one. The Baroness can't be faulted for her handling of the plot - it's hard to see how it could be improved. Great setup, excellent pacing, satisfying ending.
Now, a picky, caviling person might be tempted to find fault with certain aspects of the telling of the story - the unremitting evil of the satanic bad guy, the unbridled nobility of all those British gents, all those revolutionary froggies spouting "Sacres aristos!", with their British counterparts expostulating "Zounds!" and "Odd's life!" in every other line of dialog. Others might complain about this, but I don't. See, for this kind of story, I like my villains villainy. I lap up the cliched historical detail. If there hadn't been a scene with coarse Parisian proles knitting at the guillotine, I'd have felt cheated. And any swashbuckling aristocrat story worth its salt had better have some nobleman whose last name begins with ff. So I enjoyed these aspects of the book just fine.
I'd only have two gentle criticisms for the Baroness:
1. Was it absolutely necessary to name the doddering Jewish character Reuben Goldstein? The word "overkill" didn't cross your mind at all?
2. Why did you make Marguerite such a half-wit? A woman that slow on the uptake wouldn't be able to dress herself in the morning. Though I could imagine her being played by Anne Heche.
But, all things considered, "The Scarlet Pimpernel" is a fine book, well worth giving a whirl. I can see no particular reason to read any of its many sequels, however.
Book Review: "The Ambassadors" by Henry James
This is Daisy Fuentes Miller, reporting to you live from the set of MTV’s “Real World Gay Paree”. Six strangers, from totally different backgrounds, thrown together, forced to live under the merciless glare of the Hankcam, which documents their every move for posterity. Let’s see what happens when the gloves come off, and things get real.
Strether: Hi. I’m Strether. I’m engaged to Chad’s mom. She’s pissed at him, and sent me over to bring him back to Connecticut to run the family business. Paree sure seems like an awesome party town.
Chad: This is the Chadster. I don’t wanna go back to Connecticut. I’m dating this totally hot older lady. Who’s a countess. She’s been giving me some private life coaching lessons. If you know what I mean.
Countess: ‘allo. Zis is Marie. you can call me Countess Cougar. Sacre bleu, but you American boys are fine!
Strether: Damn, that countess is one hot MILF. Chad – no rush about going home. We should just hang out here in Paris and par-tay!
6 weeks later -
Sarah: This is Sarah, Chad’s older sister. What the f*** is going on here? Strether, you’ve been over six weeks already. Mother sent me over. She wants you both to haul ass back to Connecticut, pronto. (You can ignore my fat philistine slob of a husband, Jim. He’s only here to provide a cheap diversion as a lazy stereotype and adds nothing to the plot)
Chad: Chill, sis. This is my girlfriend Marie. Ain’t she smokin? Did I mention she’s a countess?
Sarah: Filthy French slut! Chad, Mother expects you to do your duty.
Strether: Dude, don’t go! It’s a trap.
Sarah: You be quiet! And you can forget about marrying Mother. Which means you’ll die lonely and poor.
Strether: Bite me. Your mother always was one uptight bitch, anyway. I’ll just stay on here. Maybe catch a little menage-a-trois action with Chad and the Countess.
Chad : Not gonna happen, dude! Sis, tell Mom to take the job and shove it. I’m having too much fun tapping aristocratic ass here in Paree. Screw Connecticut.
2 weeks later -
Strether (alone in the confessional room): So Sarah and Jim are on the way back home, with no hanging Chad. My life is totally screwed up. But at least I can be happy about getting Chad to do the right thing, to avoid the money trap, and to choose life!
2 weeks later -
Chad (alone in the confessional room, very drunk): You know, I’ve always thought that advertising was where the future is at..... And, there's no two ways about it, Marie's boobs have definitely been showing some major saggage .... Operator! Get me the number for the Cunard line, please.
Fade, to the sound of Strether whimpering pathetically, off-camera. (Marie, of course, goes on to star in the breakout Bravo series, “Real Housewives of the 4th arrondissement”).
********************************************
OK, I'll come clean and admit that I’ve had a definite prejudice against Henry James for as long as I can remember. But reading Colm Toibin’s “The Master” last month made me think I should give him another try. “The Ambassadors” certainly confirmed my belief in the brilliance of Toibin’s accomplishment. It also changed my opinion of James – though I doubt I’ll ever achieve fanboy status, it was a far more interesting read than I had anticipated. In “The Master”, Toibin gives us a portrait of James in mid-career, focusing on the period between 1895 and 1900. It’s eerily well done – it’s almost as if he were channeling the spirit of James. Although Toibin is an avowed fan, his depiction of the author seems scrupulously honest and right on the mark. The picture of Henry that emerges is not entirely flattering – that of someone who is fascinated by the workings of the very privileged segment of society into which he was born, with a keen, almost obsessive, eye for the subtleties and complexities of the relationships among the various players, and the talent, determination (and free time) to document it in his writing. Even if that came at a certain emotional cost. In James’s case, that cost appears to have been an inability (or unwillingness) to form truly deep emotional attachments. There seems to have been a pattern of his withdrawing emotionally whenever another person threatened to come too close. This was a man who lived far too much of his life in his own head.
It shows in the writing, of course. Every detail of every character’s action, no matter how minor, is picked apart and analyzed. Characters are presented as being engaged in endless analysis and speculation about how to interpret the actions and motives of others. And if it takes a page and a half to pin down the precise nuance of A’s reaction to a casual snub by B, then so be it – James always assumes that the reader has both the time and interest to stay with him. The odd thing is that, although this can be a little offputting at the beginning, ultimately it becomes kind of hypnotic. He is so clearly fascinated by the inner world of his characters that he ultimately draws you in. The plot of “The Ambassadors” is wafer-thin. But the author’s focus on the psychology of his characters is so intense (and so believable) that one is motivated to keep on reading. This was not a dull book.
Much is made of Henry James’s style, and I just don’t get it. This is a man who never met a subordinate clause he didn’t like, with a definite preference for the baroque. Hemingway he’s not. But his penchant for convoluted sentences means that he’s not particularly easy to read. On any given page, there is likely to be at least one sentence that you will have to read three times over, and still not be sure you understand what he was trying to say. (He has a way of nesting negative particles in his various subordinate clauses that is particularly evil – I’d find myself counting them on my fingers, trying to figure things out). Stylistically, the writer he reminds me most of is Thomas Mann, who also had a penchant for long, complicated sentences. At least James wasn’t writing in German, so there is a limit to how convoluted things get. Personally, I don’t consider opacity to be a virtue. YMMV.
A book that was far more interesting than I had anticipated, and which definitely changed my mind about Henry James.
Strether: Hi. I’m Strether. I’m engaged to Chad’s mom. She’s pissed at him, and sent me over to bring him back to Connecticut to run the family business. Paree sure seems like an awesome party town.
Chad: This is the Chadster. I don’t wanna go back to Connecticut. I’m dating this totally hot older lady. Who’s a countess. She’s been giving me some private life coaching lessons. If you know what I mean.
Countess: ‘allo. Zis is Marie. you can call me Countess Cougar. Sacre bleu, but you American boys are fine!
Strether: Damn, that countess is one hot MILF. Chad – no rush about going home. We should just hang out here in Paris and par-tay!
6 weeks later -
Sarah: This is Sarah, Chad’s older sister. What the f*** is going on here? Strether, you’ve been over six weeks already. Mother sent me over. She wants you both to haul ass back to Connecticut, pronto. (You can ignore my fat philistine slob of a husband, Jim. He’s only here to provide a cheap diversion as a lazy stereotype and adds nothing to the plot)
Chad: Chill, sis. This is my girlfriend Marie. Ain’t she smokin? Did I mention she’s a countess?
Sarah: Filthy French slut! Chad, Mother expects you to do your duty.
Strether: Dude, don’t go! It’s a trap.
Sarah: You be quiet! And you can forget about marrying Mother. Which means you’ll die lonely and poor.
Strether: Bite me. Your mother always was one uptight bitch, anyway. I’ll just stay on here. Maybe catch a little menage-a-trois action with Chad and the Countess.
Chad : Not gonna happen, dude! Sis, tell Mom to take the job and shove it. I’m having too much fun tapping aristocratic ass here in Paree. Screw Connecticut.
2 weeks later -
Strether (alone in the confessional room): So Sarah and Jim are on the way back home, with no hanging Chad. My life is totally screwed up. But at least I can be happy about getting Chad to do the right thing, to avoid the money trap, and to choose life!
2 weeks later -
Chad (alone in the confessional room, very drunk): You know, I’ve always thought that advertising was where the future is at..... And, there's no two ways about it, Marie's boobs have definitely been showing some major saggage .... Operator! Get me the number for the Cunard line, please.
Fade, to the sound of Strether whimpering pathetically, off-camera. (Marie, of course, goes on to star in the breakout Bravo series, “Real Housewives of the 4th arrondissement”).
********************************************
OK, I'll come clean and admit that I’ve had a definite prejudice against Henry James for as long as I can remember. But reading Colm Toibin’s “The Master” last month made me think I should give him another try. “The Ambassadors” certainly confirmed my belief in the brilliance of Toibin’s accomplishment. It also changed my opinion of James – though I doubt I’ll ever achieve fanboy status, it was a far more interesting read than I had anticipated. In “The Master”, Toibin gives us a portrait of James in mid-career, focusing on the period between 1895 and 1900. It’s eerily well done – it’s almost as if he were channeling the spirit of James. Although Toibin is an avowed fan, his depiction of the author seems scrupulously honest and right on the mark. The picture of Henry that emerges is not entirely flattering – that of someone who is fascinated by the workings of the very privileged segment of society into which he was born, with a keen, almost obsessive, eye for the subtleties and complexities of the relationships among the various players, and the talent, determination (and free time) to document it in his writing. Even if that came at a certain emotional cost. In James’s case, that cost appears to have been an inability (or unwillingness) to form truly deep emotional attachments. There seems to have been a pattern of his withdrawing emotionally whenever another person threatened to come too close. This was a man who lived far too much of his life in his own head.
It shows in the writing, of course. Every detail of every character’s action, no matter how minor, is picked apart and analyzed. Characters are presented as being engaged in endless analysis and speculation about how to interpret the actions and motives of others. And if it takes a page and a half to pin down the precise nuance of A’s reaction to a casual snub by B, then so be it – James always assumes that the reader has both the time and interest to stay with him. The odd thing is that, although this can be a little offputting at the beginning, ultimately it becomes kind of hypnotic. He is so clearly fascinated by the inner world of his characters that he ultimately draws you in. The plot of “The Ambassadors” is wafer-thin. But the author’s focus on the psychology of his characters is so intense (and so believable) that one is motivated to keep on reading. This was not a dull book.
Much is made of Henry James’s style, and I just don’t get it. This is a man who never met a subordinate clause he didn’t like, with a definite preference for the baroque. Hemingway he’s not. But his penchant for convoluted sentences means that he’s not particularly easy to read. On any given page, there is likely to be at least one sentence that you will have to read three times over, and still not be sure you understand what he was trying to say. (He has a way of nesting negative particles in his various subordinate clauses that is particularly evil – I’d find myself counting them on my fingers, trying to figure things out). Stylistically, the writer he reminds me most of is Thomas Mann, who also had a penchant for long, complicated sentences. At least James wasn’t writing in German, so there is a limit to how convoluted things get. Personally, I don’t consider opacity to be a virtue. YMMV.
A book that was far more interesting than I had anticipated, and which definitely changed my mind about Henry James.
My true colours are just dust in the wind
The original post scheduled for this slot - some pseudo-profound musings about the poetry of Pablo Neruda - has been pre-empted, and will be brought to you at a later date.
But earlier this evening, I ventured forth, with the original intent of going to see "La Edad de Hielo III" (Ice Age 3) at the Cine Hoyt. When I actually got to the cinema, however, it became obvious to me that I wasn't quite up for yet another movie with cute talking 3-dimensional animals, so I wandered off in search of dinner instead.
And found what turned out to be, despite its unlikely appearance, the perfect restaurant. Not so much because of the delicious filet mignon and accompanying house salad (an excellent value at only $14, including the delightful pisco sour aperitif). Not even because of the extremely charming waiter (just the right degree of solicitude, without any of that intrusive hovering that the sight of a foreigner can sometimes provoke). No, the genius of this particular establishment was to be found on the television screens, which showed a loop of all the best MTV videos you've seen in your life.
Starting with Simon and Garfunkel ("hello darkness, my old friend"), moving on through various classics ("Careless Whisper", John Bon Jovi emoting his sweaty heart out, Cyndi Lauper, Phil Collins, "Lady in Red"), it was an instant transport back to the period of one's life when these songs MATTERED. All of a sudden, I was back in the cluster home in Chapel Hill, sitting slackjawed in front of the large-screen TV, watching video after video, secure in the guilty pleasure of ignoring the untackled dissertation topic that awaited me in the bedroom. Something, I regret to report, that I did for a period of at least six months, before conscience and the indignation of my out-of-town thesis adviser finally forced me to go cold turkey on the music videos and turn my reluctant attention to the subject of robust estimation in heteroscedastic regression models.
But what a fine six months they were. And how amazing to find the cheap power of those music videos in no way diminished. Like so many emotional triggers, they just kept firing tonight. As Phil Collins might have put it, there was "something in the air".
I thought for sure, when that apotheosis of emotionally manipulative pseudo-profundity, Kansas's "Dust in the Wind", came on, that the evening had reached its zenith. But no, just as the mozero served my cafe cortado, there she was:
"Turn around...."
Surely not? How awesomely perfect!
"Turn around, bright eyes ...."
Yes indeed, gentle reader. It was Bonnie herself, with the full 7-minute version.
"We're living in a powder keg, giving off sparks ..."
And just like that, this blogger's heart was totally eclipsed. I'm a complete wreck, I tell you. But in the best, happiest, most blissful, sense.
Hasta pronto, mi chiquititas!
But earlier this evening, I ventured forth, with the original intent of going to see "La Edad de Hielo III" (Ice Age 3) at the Cine Hoyt. When I actually got to the cinema, however, it became obvious to me that I wasn't quite up for yet another movie with cute talking 3-dimensional animals, so I wandered off in search of dinner instead.
And found what turned out to be, despite its unlikely appearance, the perfect restaurant. Not so much because of the delicious filet mignon and accompanying house salad (an excellent value at only $14, including the delightful pisco sour aperitif). Not even because of the extremely charming waiter (just the right degree of solicitude, without any of that intrusive hovering that the sight of a foreigner can sometimes provoke). No, the genius of this particular establishment was to be found on the television screens, which showed a loop of all the best MTV videos you've seen in your life.
Starting with Simon and Garfunkel ("hello darkness, my old friend"), moving on through various classics ("Careless Whisper", John Bon Jovi emoting his sweaty heart out, Cyndi Lauper, Phil Collins, "Lady in Red"), it was an instant transport back to the period of one's life when these songs MATTERED. All of a sudden, I was back in the cluster home in Chapel Hill, sitting slackjawed in front of the large-screen TV, watching video after video, secure in the guilty pleasure of ignoring the untackled dissertation topic that awaited me in the bedroom. Something, I regret to report, that I did for a period of at least six months, before conscience and the indignation of my out-of-town thesis adviser finally forced me to go cold turkey on the music videos and turn my reluctant attention to the subject of robust estimation in heteroscedastic regression models.
But what a fine six months they were. And how amazing to find the cheap power of those music videos in no way diminished. Like so many emotional triggers, they just kept firing tonight. As Phil Collins might have put it, there was "something in the air".
I thought for sure, when that apotheosis of emotionally manipulative pseudo-profundity, Kansas's "Dust in the Wind", came on, that the evening had reached its zenith. But no, just as the mozero served my cafe cortado, there she was:
"Turn around...."
Surely not? How awesomely perfect!
"Turn around, bright eyes ...."
Yes indeed, gentle reader. It was Bonnie herself, with the full 7-minute version.
"We're living in a powder keg, giving off sparks ..."
And just like that, this blogger's heart was totally eclipsed. I'm a complete wreck, I tell you. But in the best, happiest, most blissful, sense.
Hasta pronto, mi chiquititas!
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Pablo y yo
Discussing some of the finer points of his poetry with Pablo Neruda in the garden of his home in Valparaiso.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Product placement
This post is just a quick shout-out to acknowledge the vital role that my fine ACER notebook computer plays in my travels. Brad made me aware of the ACER when he came to visit me in Madrid in March, and I wasted no time in buying one when I got back to the U.S. It's beautifully compact, meets all my needs, has an 8-hour battery life - and at only $350 from Amazon, I consider it a steal. (I did have to equip mine with a mouse, however, given my general lack of trackball agility).
So far I've convinced Emer (my sister) and Paddy to join the ACER club. Maybe you should consider one yourself, for your next trip. You'll wonder how you ever managed without one.
{End blatant product placement. Though if anyone at ACER would like to sponsor this blog.... Oh, never mind! Wouldn't want to compromise my editorial independence...}
The plain people of Ireland: Begob, but that's a handsome machine, no two ways about it.
The management: Why am I not surprised that you would be pleased by shiny gadgetry?
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