tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22775516596819957672024-02-02T07:12:23.626-08:00From my BalconyInjihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-51254652792807328332021-01-02T05:14:00.008-08:002021-01-02T05:31:36.867-08:00My second shortest trip to Lisbon<p>It's been 10 years since I posted about my travels. I have been in Mexico City for most of this time, and with a little one for the past 3 years, and so I have done more local travel than anything. In 2020, with lockdowns, economic downturns, and the hassle associated with travel, I have traveled even less. Yesterday I got on my first travel virtual travel experience, via Airbnb. </p><p>This was my second shortest trip to Lisbon, the first was featured <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/2277551659681995767/882280368207471814">on this blog</a>. I started the day cooking Portuguese food, listening to fado, looking at old pictures, and making drawings of the city. When the time came for the experience I was in Portugal in my mind. <br /></p><p>While the host could have been more engaging and inclusive, it was still nice to travel in my mind. I also got to make drawings pending from my <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/2277551659681995767/882280368207471814">first visit to Lisbon</a>, almost 15 years ago!!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaYDu_mRqB8V1OV98p4FgIIh5wKVYdTDaI3pyq6oDzTMwE7EO7OaN2kL6dNs9Xhv-6pYB2e4bv0oUgP4i4OMhv6EA1aMwRQLnZCIRxymvnmlrUPXO47Iife9ABwh0AaUFLXlbMNFQ9nts/s429/Captura+de+pantalla+2021-01-02+a+las+7.28.57+a.m..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="89" data-original-width="429" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaYDu_mRqB8V1OV98p4FgIIh5wKVYdTDaI3pyq6oDzTMwE7EO7OaN2kL6dNs9Xhv-6pYB2e4bv0oUgP4i4OMhv6EA1aMwRQLnZCIRxymvnmlrUPXO47Iife9ABwh0AaUFLXlbMNFQ9nts/s320/Captura+de+pantalla+2021-01-02+a+las+7.28.57+a.m..png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_y1IEmEAC3ddtddIOttxzJUg-vIRPkQTSOjjGJIB6aNf72DQZT-i7NtuR0Xj4IYUwB0yigmjl68gWBvwCyGFWcBoFQbZl6oiuhAxvxFE3v73Hg9wzgOXideMSmkpUMnGVv8vX8hweisY/s2048/lisbon.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1393" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_y1IEmEAC3ddtddIOttxzJUg-vIRPkQTSOjjGJIB6aNf72DQZT-i7NtuR0Xj4IYUwB0yigmjl68gWBvwCyGFWcBoFQbZl6oiuhAxvxFE3v73Hg9wzgOXideMSmkpUMnGVv8vX8hweisY/w136-h200/lisbon.png" width="136" /></a></div><p></p><p>I learned about the geography of Lisbon, about the history of the <i>azulejos</i>, the beautiful colored tiles covering buildings, cork-making, Portuguese wine, a local festival, revisited the different neighborhoods and got more into <i>fado </i>music<i>. </i></p><p>This inspired me to organize a Mexico City virtual trip, so stay tuned. <br /></p>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-7740156168550177272012-02-07T03:43:00.000-08:002012-02-07T03:53:22.448-08:00Thorn Tree cafe, Nairobi<div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; " ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span ><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; " ><img style="text-align: center;float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnW3U10RkejlGp6UpR5Q3W03El52U54qjwxcZVODdIpNGMhmKgwYPdykamS5RqtIQJKRq2KydizpYOr6tyEol7XeaOHlesudzgq9nLZbrqW1nP49Zjh0EMawboXTEoHm_mFNBIG8Yw98g/s320/IMG00453-20120111-1809.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706359107936209810" /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span ><span style="font-family: Georgia; ">The Thorn Tree Café has long served as a central meeting p</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; ">lace in Kenya, and was originally named after an acacia tree that served as its centerpiece and was used as a message board for passing travelers. Over the years it has also been a popular hang-out for high profile guests, most notably, Ern</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; ">est Hemingway. Today, the Café -hosted in the Sarova Hotel- still retains its position as a central meeting place in Nairobi’s business district (and still provides a message board, although more for nostalgia purposes) and is a popular destination.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span ><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; " ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--><div><br /></div></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-16839894724538735172011-06-17T21:43:00.000-07:002011-06-17T21:46:52.804-07:00Places, a visual approach<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:6;color:#313131;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 22px;"><a href="http://kollage2011.blogspot.com/p/places.html">my collage collection</a></span></span></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-52969945200499417612010-11-29T13:50:00.000-08:002010-11-29T14:20:01.770-08:00People & Places<span style="font-size:130%;">it's been 3 years on the balcony, and I yet have to write about my first visit to my beloved Mexico, I still have to tell you about my love-hate rumba with New York, about England land of the Beatles, Vienna untouched by world wars, San Francisco where I should have been born in the 70s, tales of the deep america, memories of enchanted Prague, a Geneva summer weekend, my first February summer birthday in Australia and re-encounters with my second home, Spain.<br /><br />As I'm spending too much time in front of my computer screen for work and for study, I'm currently expressing myself through pictures instead of words (no i'm not taking photos, give up already!).<br /><br />After 3 years of writing about People and Places, I'll use a different form of expression, <strong>Collage.</strong><br /><br />So stay tuned ;)</span>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-76188697374783600622010-08-13T02:54:00.000-07:002010-08-13T03:03:32.731-07:00Berlin again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWhdQoSWd8hHF-trcu96jsjk0iB1veyJWpTZak3qejvYe5fC6OSINeOoMOzrXyCLbs6z23l44MiYULgKCZNXu0MdFj7ltwTczaxEX7SfI6UPBkA-sn8hLJelsqFQelz3W_dxIwY0lnegw/s1600/tapa.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWhdQoSWd8hHF-trcu96jsjk0iB1veyJWpTZak3qejvYe5fC6OSINeOoMOzrXyCLbs6z23l44MiYULgKCZNXu0MdFj7ltwTczaxEX7SfI6UPBkA-sn8hLJelsqFQelz3W_dxIwY0lnegw/s320/tapa.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504832706558927250" border="0" /></a>Berlin skyline, Nikolai neighborhoodInjihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-54511379239243689892010-03-21T13:54:00.001-07:002010-05-10T07:45:31.033-07:00Amman, do not judge a book by its cover<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9iQFQqD3dU8rCswoc2Qj22Z14FyXlS9l8wLWH1Supk0THAROumGNxRasRMUGwX10sfDV7lF46zlpeyru0kfQfCiFaMeTAla81vIVxAPstOwXvrKkgbig4w4_SynF92F_R_9DSD9YvOY/s1600/church.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9iQFQqD3dU8rCswoc2Qj22Z14FyXlS9l8wLWH1Supk0THAROumGNxRasRMUGwX10sfDV7lF46zlpeyru0kfQfCiFaMeTAla81vIVxAPstOwXvrKkgbig4w4_SynF92F_R_9DSD9YvOY/s320/church.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469647103498386370" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />Hearing that I would go to Amman, many warned that it would be uber-boring, and that there is nothing to see there. Seeing buildings with perfect limestone façades, no higher than four floors, and hearing no noise, I freaked out, I was going to be stuck in this city for ten whole days ...</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I was lucky to meet and reconnect with people who took me around the city, Amman is now on my list of my favorite cities.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The soundtrack to the trip was the voice of</span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hRYgYg9Tlo"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></a><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VlsK1JOEmz4&feature=related"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Makadi Nahas</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> whom I was lucky to catch in concert at </span><a href="http://www.atico-jo.com/courtyard-project.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Courtyard</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> a lounge hidden in the lovely Shmeisani district where my friend lives. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In the horizon the mountain neighbourhoods have little two storey limestone houses with gardens, and you could see their lights twinkling from the terrace of </span><a href="http://www.booksatcafe.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Books</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">@cafe or simply Books as Ammanis call it, a bookstore, lounge, bar, cafe mix, 70s wall art, a relaxed artsy crowd, lots of scarves and curls, chairs with different but matching colors, a jazzist and her microphone on the lounge wall, just my kind of place!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Books is off Rainbow street where all the hip-spots are and that may be the only street where cool spots are concentrated, and I didn't mind that. The beauty of Amman is in its mystery, the coolest hangouts are hidden away in residential neighbourhoods, and fancy restaurants look like houses from the outside and are as welcoming when you go in (Levant, Romero, Fakhr El Din).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Even art centers are hidden in the mountains and one feels as if intruding on someone's private art collection in their home, that's exactly how I felt when I knocked on the doors of Darat Al Funun. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I have to admit that I freaked out on the first day when I couldn't find an arts and culture guide, and now I can say I am happy I worked for it, I am happy I only knew when I asked around, only then I knew that </span><a href="http://www.7iber.com/calendar/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">7iber</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> (Ink) is the reference. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I loved the views from the benches at Rainbow streets which reminded me of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">miradores </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">in Spain, designated points in the city to get a bird's eye view. I even enjoyed the down town kitsch cafe-bars, which had only male customers and are now attracting the intellectual hippie crowd, I know they will very soon become Amman's equivalent of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Horreya </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">in down town Cairo. I also found Jazz, so I cannot complain, Cafe de Paris had unique gigs, night after night.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">As for old Amman, my friends have transmitted their nostalgia to me, I can tell stories of Jabal Natheef and </span><a href="http://www.csbe.org/urban_crossroads/urban_crossroads19/luweibdeh.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Jabal Luweibdeh</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, of the neighbours in the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">harras</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, and of the old jasmine tree.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When I remember Amman, I remember fresh pine scented air, rain on my coat, trying to find my way to </span><a href="http://www.wildjordancafe.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Wild Jordan</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, and the lady at the fruit shop who gave me a banana and wished me a lovely day.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Photo: Church in beautiful Luweibdeh, near Luzmilla hospital (the first picture I take in 2 years) </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-35665100965824189162010-01-27T02:30:00.000-08:002010-01-27T02:48:28.937-08:00Urban Tribes<span style="font-size:130%;">Previously I had blogged about <a href="http://el-balcona.blogspot.com/2009/05/palette.html">Identity</a>, quoting Amin Maalouf, one of the authors I really admire.<br />A couple of days ago, I realized more than ever that even those of us who </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >broke the traditional molds</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (as we say in Arabic) need to belong, maybe to a group of different people each "</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >freaky" </span><span style="font-size:130%;">in their own way, all wandering away from the herd but in different directions.<br /><br />I was always questioning if <a href="http://www.urbantribes.net/">Urban Tribes</a> were born from this need to belong.<br />Here is a documentary produced by my alma mater, <a href="http://www.uc3m.es/">UC3M</a> about Urban Tribe, you can watch it on YouTube (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6UuerUqY3Y">part1</a>, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlEN789ybKM&feature=related">part2</a>).<br /><br />Let me know what you think of all this.</span>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-8822803682074718142010-01-19T15:40:00.000-08:002021-01-02T05:15:38.107-08:00My shortest trip to Lisbon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhqYSkLvNy8Q64U_BFikyuGmPsGT3IH1mUivUpZo5epveoWU0b5zGKaQDKqY_zqosFeaerOOqe279-H1zo1h0NSxLAjWzzrj43VjVgm2ouryyephz12bLq_ltzcIPh9du6bySoeRRxz0/s1600-h/monumento+descubridores.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhqYSkLvNy8Q64U_BFikyuGmPsGT3IH1mUivUpZo5epveoWU0b5zGKaQDKqY_zqosFeaerOOqe279-H1zo1h0NSxLAjWzzrj43VjVgm2ouryyephz12bLq_ltzcIPh9du6bySoeRRxz0/s320/monumento+descubridores.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428609245461521122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">More often than not, we'd like to travel to more places than our time and dime would allow, today I found that one can take a 2 hour 30$ trip to Portugal.
</span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">
Tonight<a href="http://www.mariza.com/"> Mariza </a>the great took us from the Cairo Opera House to Lisboa and back, through the taverns of Mouraria where the Fado was born, and on-board a yellow furnicular up the hill to Alfama where it met Jazz and Coladeras. Luring us with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Iapqgekl3I"><span style="font-style: italic;">a white rose</span></a> and her graceful moves to sit and listen to the sad tales of sailors long gone and of lovers waiting in vain. Songs filled with <a href="http://el-balcona.blogspot.com/2008/05/people-and-places.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Saudade</span></a>, nostalgia to the homeland. Telling stories of her childhood and of other artists who sang for Portugal, Mariza made every note matter.
Every tune a candy along the trail leading to the mournful Fado trap, <span style="font-style: italic;">o <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cKv6EHNOTk">meu fado meu...</a></span>My foot slipped, I who have escaped the sad tunes in Lisboa, saw the city again, in its blue hand painted tiles, and its rain-washed streets, I didn't run from Fado this time, I sat quietly and listened by the Tejo river with my wine glass full of <a href="http://www.algarvebuzz.com/port-wine-portuguese-wine-branco-lagrima/"><span style="font-style: italic;">teardrops</span></a>* waiting for the boat to cross to the other side.
Here's to Mariza, for no one I know can turn a concert hall with 1200 people into a sitting room with a fireplace, and no one I know can keep the power of their voice intact when they kneel down on the floor at the end of a sad song.
Photo:
</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Off to the Sea, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Monument to the Discoveries in Lisbon.
Notes:
*Yes, Port Wine is called lágrimas, literally teardrops
More about Portugal:
You can read about my trips to Portugal <a href="http://el-balcona.blogspot.com/2008/02/nostalgic-day-in-lisbon.html">here</a>
More about the concert:
Chitra Kalyani's article, <a href="http://www.thedailynewsegypt.com/article.aspx?ArticleID=27228">Daily News Egypt</a>
Mohamed Radwan's article, <a href="http://www.almasryalyoum.com/en/news/mariza-fado-21st-century">Al Masry Al Youm</a>
<span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);">3 days after the concert:
I'm listening to Rosa Branca, over and over, after reading the above article I realize that I was right about its strong flamenco influence, this is how I felt like dancing when I listened to it (saudade for Spain (<span style="font-style: italic;">sigh</span>))
So, still ain't a Fado person, but now a Mariza fan, any vocalist in their right mind should watch her to learn about perfection, passion and projection (speaking of that after seeing her down on her knees, I thought I should never dare to sing out loud again, but I will seek perfection, I promise)
</span></span>
</div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-42415924100596162502009-12-30T05:19:00.000-08:002010-01-05T05:33:49.027-08:002 years in the balcony<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRRjtYazKJ3Zhqhyphenhyphen3lbEzs8JUkHNUAbtiJWEQGEyLnbC0cxGF-m5uy8iKhUVjIaFoosqwcWJDLOGyNHi4KdnWvQ40RhiUlQ1fEL8GCYqJ3BOQ8_jz_L-caV9HuwcQRixd-xxSfaEe-Ghk/s1600-h/ghandi.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423248182861727218" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 228px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRRjtYazKJ3Zhqhyphenhyphen3lbEzs8JUkHNUAbtiJWEQGEyLnbC0cxGF-m5uy8iKhUVjIaFoosqwcWJDLOGyNHi4KdnWvQ40RhiUlQ1fEL8GCYqJ3BOQ8_jz_L-caV9HuwcQRixd-xxSfaEe-Ghk/s320/ghandi.bmp" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Looking through my Bookmark collection* I realized there are still many more travels that I have not written about, I promise to refresh my memory and do that. Also, 2010, the first half, brings trips in my region, Arab World, which I barely know, soooo I will keep you posted :)</span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />*I collect bookmarks as they're light, non-breakable, practical and cheap when one's backpacking<br />photo: bookmark from <a href="http://www.gandhi.com.mx/">Gandhi,</a> the funniest set of bookmarks I ever got were from this library in Mexico (a place I have yet to see).<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Happy new year to all!Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-21426849712781051792009-11-09T14:25:00.000-08:002009-11-10T13:16:52.705-08:00Now we're cooking<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUv4-pyXzQOCJEWyMWW60qmZzuuTG4W7mDABvAGhyphenhyphenJNV26tpeQedQlYTg7AuFUMTAUnlUnnhRBDMLbHvvpCByJRfLTzEiVAnEVs-wzRS5MSrQ1fusg3nNV_Xj-N9K8h2o3NT6I_D6pCk/s1600-h/carrot+cake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUv4-pyXzQOCJEWyMWW60qmZzuuTG4W7mDABvAGhyphenhyphenJNV26tpeQedQlYTg7AuFUMTAUnlUnnhRBDMLbHvvpCByJRfLTzEiVAnEVs-wzRS5MSrQ1fusg3nNV_Xj-N9K8h2o3NT6I_D6pCk/s320/carrot+cake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402240295391254274" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >A rerun of one of my fav posts, as I´m watching the movie <a href="http://www.julieandjulia.com/">Julie and Julia</a>, a culinary delight.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Chocolate cream pie! You know what I love about cooking? I love that after a day when nothing is sure and when I say nothing, I mean nothing. You can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk, it will get thick. That's such a comfort."</span></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Tomorrow I will cook.</span><br />-----------------------------------------<br /><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;">I brought back from Panaji a beautiful hand carved wooden box decorated with flowers and smelling of spices. Inside the box lay perfect bay leaves, cardamom seeds, cloves, cinnamon sticks and a couple more Indian spices of which I cannot recall the name. Examining the ingredients I decide: perfect for chicken Curry and saffron rice.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">As I dissolve saffron in boiling water (hot tap water won't do, attention to detail makes all the difference when you cook) I remember my friend in Alicante who gave me this jar so I could cook Fideuà, a Valencian specialty which imitated Paella only to beat it. I also remember how we got the recipe from a notebook decorated with the most beautiful retro cut outs and filled with recipes in swirly handwriting. "Recetas de la mama mía" was my friend's wedding gift from her mom. That day we didn't cook Fideuà, we cooked vegetarian pasta with herbs, to celebrate my favorite couple's moving to the country side and growing cilantro in their own garden.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">As I savor the curry marinade after adding a bit of garam masala (literally hot spice) I can't help but feel sorry for those with low tolerance for spicy food. It is amazing how different cultures mix similar spices to create completely different feelings, I find myself remembering Mexican spices, for no good reason at all. I just wish I could stock up on Salsa Valentina, the local brand of hot sauce and then add it to pizza like we used to do at my Mexican friends' kitchens.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Once you've tasted a nation's food you immediately feel a sort of kinship (that's if you get to like it), and when you go there you're less of a </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >khawaga</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> or </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >guiri*</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (it also helps get a bit of a conversation going round the dinner table). Having cooked Patacones in Madrid with a dear friend from Colombia, mashing the plantains and then frying and refrying them, I find myself feeling a sort of familiarity with Bogotá while still on the plane (mind you, none of Patacones I ate in Bogotá would compare to the ones we used to cook. Tasting Okra a l'Indienne and asking a dinner companion for the recipe I find myself familiar with the spices she lists, having seen them in action in the kitchen I shared with a friend from Trinidad and Tobago of Indian origins (only the best ingredients shipped from the homeland for us, none of the supermarket stuff). I also know that I don't need to set foot in a restaurant when I go to Mexico, as I have helped cook <span style="font-style: italic;">tamales </span>and dined in a zillion Mexican restaurants with my favorite pal in Madrid (the one in Chueca has a green volkswagen zooming in from the ceiling replicating a taxi in the streets of Mexico city). I also recall two colleagues bonding over lobsters in India, oh Goan seafood prepared Portuguese style is just undescribable1</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">As recipes are passed from generation to generation, people preserve a sense of belonging to a distant land of origin where they have never set foot. Till this day, my grandmas cook Harira and Sharkaseya, reminiscent of Moroccan and Turkish roots and my friend's grandmother has Matzah always ready for Passover.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">It is a fact that food unites. Friends would tell tales of meeting fellow expats mainly to share festivities, I can relate. The first Ramadan I spent away from home, I had just landed in town and had no kitchen of my own, luckily I was adopted by a bunch of Egyptian friends and fed </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Mulukhiya</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (if only airport authorities knew the amount of the serious smuggling that takes place everywhere around the globe). Smuggling indeed makes you take a bit of home with you, that's what my Tunisian friend did when he brought a good stock of <span style="font-style: italic;">harisa </span>for the weeks we spent studying in Toledo. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I tend to think of cooking as a hobby**, creative cooking is not something I can do often, and cooking for hungry individuals on a daily basis even less. Cooking is supposed to be fun that's what I always say.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Cooking with friends entails laughing over fiascoes and sharing the sweet content of a well prepared meal, then dodging the task of preparing coffee or tea (depending on where you are) after the meal.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">One of my clearest memories is going to the premiere of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Ratatouille</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> with my roomies and bringing back a poster of the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Little Chef</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> -which is still on the kitchen door till this day (the kitchen that is no longer mine in a house I still call my own). The next weekend we invited friends over for an elaborate dinner. There was some dude to impress and he was impressed - I hope I don't get killed over disclosing this one my friend!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I guess I'll never forget the endless international cooking days with my dearest friends in Madrid; ill equipped kitchens would not stop us, it just took challenging one of the guys to whisk the batter to give an electric mixer effect with only a manual whip (throwing in a couple of lines on not exercising enough helped too).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I also smile when I remember Wednesday evenings in Cairo at my friend's place and her baby daughter; while we chopped veggies she played drums with a wooden spoon and a cooking pot.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I add to my cooking memories, all the times my friend and I sang Luis Miguel in a kitchen; first in our dorm's kitchen in Toledo, then at her place when I went to visit in Morocco, the Cairo edition is due this summer inshaa'Allah (Luis Miguel would better be proud of us).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">When I travel I always take a look beyond the buildings, the contemporary culture and the socio-economics of the country are usually more interesting for me. The way dishes are served and the table is cleared tells you a lot about the culture.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Mediterraneans tend to share </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >mezzah</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> or </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >tappas</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and would also share salads, while others don't share dishes at all. At one end of the continuum, some cultures serve individual plates in the kitchen and send them out to the dinning room (sort of too </span><span style="font-size:130%;">bland</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;">for my taste) , and others eat from the same serving dish or </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >fuente </span><span style="font-size:130%;">(memories of Morocco and the delicious </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Tagines</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> come to mind), in the middle would be serving the main dish on the dinning table and having seconds and asking people to try this and that and that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">You can also find an indicator if you observe who clears the table and does the dishes. In some culture it's the host or just the women, in others it's the ones who didn't cook, in some plastic plates and cutlery are just thrown away (we love mother earth), and in many the dishwasher deprives those who would have washed the dishes from the greatest post-meal gossip.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Needless to say, in most societies suffering of large income gaps, affordable catering and delivery services (I'll never forget the expression at my friend's face when she saw the Mc Donald's motorcycles in Cairo, I totally related when I saw all the "a domicilio" signs in Latin America) and and other people relieve you of it all: cooking, setting the table and clearing the table.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Keep cooking and smile while you do, for it makes all the difference.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">----------------</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">*Egyptian and Spanish slang for "foreigner"</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">** Apologies to those who think cooking is a chore</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Photo:</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Changed this time to Carrot Cake by my friend <a href="http://sweetsninja.blogspot.com/">Sweets Ninja</a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">For recipes and more cooking flicks and and lit check the <a href="http://el-balcona.blogspot.com/2008/04/now-were-cooking.html">original post.</a></span></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-83909913454448002122009-10-22T09:05:00.000-07:002011-12-10T14:29:42.049-08:00tips on Barcelona<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH6vAUzW5B700cFs75MTqn63K4sn2HWNDoKM0KfsGPOiHhccJWRha5tJgM4J7x6LdxJdWxK-klhjBE829XNKQbgKtZ1ryge-UY9i6H_O_v2ahSgFGHe9SGwm4Ie21fCT08VMzgQmtodcc/s1600/DSC01004.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) 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large;">this comes with no story, just some recommendations:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"></p><ul><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman";font-family:";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">If you have time to see only one Gaudi then you should go to </span><a href="http://www.casabatllo.es/"><span style="text-decoration:none; text-underline:nonecolor:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Casa Batllo</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">, address: Passeig de Gràcia 43, L'Eixample - </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" width="21" height="16" src="file:///Users/macbook/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_image002.png" alt="Description: http://www.barcelona-tourist-guide.com/icon/metro.gif" shapes="Picture_x0020_1" /></span><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"; font-family:";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Metro "Passeig de Gràcia" (L3), Parque Guell is also worth a try</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman";font-family:";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The </span><a href="http://www.palaumusica.org/"><span style="text-decoration: none;text-underline:nonecolor:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Palau de la Musica Catalana</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">, a nationalistic Palais de la Musique, carved flowers everywhere and excellent sound distribution , an homage to operas (maybe the Opera is there?) </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" width="21" height="16" src="file:///Users/macbook/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_image004.png" alt="Description: http://www.barcelona-tourist-guide.com/icon/metro.gif" shapes="Picture_x0020_2" /></span><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman"; font-family:";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Metro Urquinaona (L1)</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman";font-family:";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dinner at the port, you'll see a wooden bridge and then a mall, in front of the mall, by the sea is the most exquisite restaurant called "Elx" they have a great dish called Fideua, that's a dish traditional of Alicante and the whole Valencia region, all fish and sea food at this place is great anyways (address: Maremagnum, Local 9. Moll d'Espanya 5, if you want to reserve but I don't think you'll need to </span><a href="file:///tel/93%20225%2081"><span style="text-decoration:none;text-underline:nonecolor:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">93 225 81</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> 17)</span></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman";font-family:";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">wander at night and go into any bar at Barri Gòtic , it's full of tiny bistros all with different colors and hidden behind big doors and curtains (yes curtains), you get there from Las Ramblas (that's where all the buskers and kiosks are) passing through Plaza Real (you get to see a typical Spanish main square) </span></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman";font-family:";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Shopping, up Avenida Diagonal till Plaça de Catalunya, which basically going up the Ramblas, if you go the big Corte Ingles store (don't buy there) you'll love the square it's chic with lights at night. Up there is FNAC the absolute place for music and books. </span></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;mso-fareast-font-family:Symbol;mso-bidi-font-family:Symbol;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman";font-family:";color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">artistic cinema at Gracia the Boho district </span></span></li><li><span style="font-family:Symbol;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">·</span><span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">whatever you do, don't watch flamenco in Barcelona</span></span></li></ul><span class="Apple-style-span"><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo1"><span class="Apple-style-span">f</span></p></span><!--[if !supportLists]--><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";mso-bidi-Times New Roman";font-family:";color:black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-48334188481548770992009-10-12T22:00:00.000-07:002009-10-12T22:44:50.967-07:00Cracking the egg<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">“With their tinted windows up, the cars of the rich go like dark eggs down the roads of Delhi. Every now and then, an egg will crack open - a woman's hand, dazzling with gold bangles, stretches out of an open window, flings an empty mineral water bottle onto the road - and then the window goes up, and the egg is resealed.” Balram the driver, a.k.a the <a href="http://www.themanbookerprize.com/prize/books/358">White Tiger</a>.</span><br /><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Many of us live in Cairo in </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >eggs</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, car windows rolled up, AC on, music muting the sounds coming from outside. It's a polluted city? Didn't even notice. No one inhaled the fumes nor got eye allergies, why should they care?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">and those outside the egg suffer from its fumes...</span>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-89769985377496043802009-10-06T09:42:00.000-07:002009-10-06T09:53:25.694-07:00Volunteer vacations<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2mzunAGC9k9nwWCrBbx8gqDZmWMrWaE8j89n156w8Un7XWFhUvofIQ7NnrwJaozQL3fcY2iKc8j9mBkKkmiz8CNnZ2grk88Yx-YxTqT7pSxe8qOM-22B3EuIVuDlcUd178p0w2qUxNQ/s1600-h/msf+ad+-+MSF+goes+where+photographers+dont+go.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 261px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx2mzunAGC9k9nwWCrBbx8gqDZmWMrWaE8j89n156w8Un7XWFhUvofIQ7NnrwJaozQL3fcY2iKc8j9mBkKkmiz8CNnZ2grk88Yx-YxTqT7pSxe8qOM-22B3EuIVuDlcUd178p0w2qUxNQ/s320/msf+ad+-+MSF+goes+where+photographers+dont+go.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389530853832267346" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Photo above: <a href="http://www.msf.org/">Médcins Sans Frontieres</a> Ad, as published in my fav Lonely Planet magazinde.<br /><br />My friend Veronica went to Togo and made an orphanage work, the girl can move mountains. You can read all about it at <a href="http://veronicaximena.blogspot.com/">her blog</a> and you can contribute too, Vero is spending every penny in the best way possible, none of the Aid money squandering.<br /><br />I am fascinated by stories of grassroot projects that have worked, and I have stories to tell about initiatives that have failed because people went with all the good intentions but also with their own limited frame of reference, don't get me started . Aid is a most controversial topics, I could ramble on forever, so to spare you I encourage you to read The White Man's Burden instead.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Let me know if you want to volunteer somewhere and I'll try to link you to a decent NGO there if I know one (think there are a couple of helpful links on the right too).</span></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-29022140001774820292009-09-20T05:08:00.000-07:002009-09-29T03:18:23.819-07:00Mannequin<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNkfM3tAfTkS0BcHESGvDV0l9kk6BbLrsk2ID9QCtQW-oSwkYaGFvhEKEohqZL8b_oZfOSQCRYZ3aJ_upl5RJDgbgwirsidWkFfkoTfOQ45OFT7-HayQwAepxOk8y5z20FM-EdfYSn6Wk/s1600-h/caf1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNkfM3tAfTkS0BcHESGvDV0l9kk6BbLrsk2ID9QCtQW-oSwkYaGFvhEKEohqZL8b_oZfOSQCRYZ3aJ_upl5RJDgbgwirsidWkFfkoTfOQ45OFT7-HayQwAepxOk8y5z20FM-EdfYSn6Wk/s320/caf1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383528808071289154" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">A <a href="http://zamakan.gharbeia.org/2007/11/06/192918">blogpost</a> caught my eye, it linked to an <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguardian/2001/dec/08/weekend7.weekend3">article</a> by Egyptian author Ahdaf Soueif, evoking the view from Café Riche in down town Cairo in its past and present. It reminded me of a play I watched on the American University in Cairo's stage a few years ago, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;">Mannequin</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (أو مانيكان بالعامية المصرية). The story takes us back in time and then forward again, through Noussa, a </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;">vitriniste</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> in Wist El Balad (downtown Cairo), and her boss, the shop owner. Noussa makes a living by dressing wooden (now platic) models in shopwindows. The garments change and so do our society's values, as we can hear in Noussa's monologues at night when she talks to the dummies, who are one minute donning hipster pants and floral shirts a l'Européenne and the next fully covered in Gulfy garments after returning from the oil-rich nations.<br />Oh we are a chameleon nation...<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Photo, Café Riche by Al Ahram Weekly</span><br /></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-90426840552595513492009-09-17T03:18:00.000-07:002009-09-17T04:03:47.361-07:00Staycation<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><b><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:'Times New Roman';"><div style="border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; padding-bottom: 3px; padding-left: 3px; width: auto; font: normal normal normal 100%/normal Georgia, serif; text-align: left; "><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><b><div style="text-align: justify; "><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">staying home on a vacation people feel stuck, frustrated and left-out</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">whether it's because you're stuck at work and can't leave for too long, or because you're broke, or there's no one to go with, or you were too late in planning and all the good slots are taken, or you're simply not a fan of overcrowded and hence overpriced vacation spots, or maybe you can't be bothered to plan or are too fidgetty to handle waiting at airports or train stations, you need a staycation.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Explore your city with new eyes and do things you wouldn't normally do because of traffic or because you have to book too early on. They're all gone, it's all yours now.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">It seems like 2009 is </span></span></span><a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/travel/news-and-advice/2009-the-year-of-the-staycation-1663394.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">the year of the staycation</span></span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> in many places because of the recession!</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">share your staycation ideas</span></span></div></div></b></span></span></div></div></span></span></span></div></div></b></span></span></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-27060898606103630072009-09-11T00:06:00.000-07:002009-09-17T03:40:13.517-07:00It's my way or the highway<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">A couple of days ago, my <a href="http://travellerwithin.blogspot.com/">friend</a> and I were talking about ranting on blogs, I said I mostly stay away from it (except for a couple or more bitchy posts which you can find if you scroll down), he said: "just wait till you start writing about politics and you'll write in an angry tone just like us." There are still no political discussions under my roof , but a recent "law" of sorts was imposed by the Egyptian Ministry of Interior condemning and punishing food consumption in broad daylight during the holy month of Ramadan. It made me cringe :s<br /><br />For starters, it made me question one more time the logic of those offended religious people out there who can't handle someone eating in their vicinity . Fasting is by definition an act of abstinence, of discipline, compassion and sacrifice, but "fasting in a bubble" I'm not sure about that... not eating nor smoking can't be that difficult if no one else around you is doing it, it should be fairly easy if you are not constantly reminded of it. One of the dev. pals wrote from Senegal to our NGO's mailing list, updating the group on his Ramadan in Dakkar, marvelling at how everyone respected the holy month and still carried on with life as usual, bars serving alcohol included, he wrote "The reason why I appreciated this is that faith for most Senegalese is a CHOICE and not imposed nor by the state or a marabout." If I speak for myself, I'd say fasting in Spain made more sense somehow and was completly ok. Mmm so based on this logic, really, eating chocolate while our orthodox friends are fasting should be illegal, right? and eating savoury food while someone's dieting is an unrefined attitude?<br /><br />While we're at it, let's discuss the logic of turning Ramadan into a feast of mass consumption from dusk till dawn, getting an adrenaline rush from the thought of a myriad of delicacies after hunger and thirst. And while we're still at that, let's discuss my Coptic Christian friend sacrificing meat while indulging in the finest </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;">saumon fumé & gruyère, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">with a pious look on her face. And maybe we should all take a moment to look back and consider how it is probably more useful to mankind if you have your bloody cigarette or cup of coffee and stop having this self-righteous anger because you're fasting, and perhaps focus on the task at hand, because yes, work is an act of workship too. While do we constantly feel this need to "exteriorize" that we're "on the right track" (assuming there's only one of course)<br /><br />At <span style="font-style: italic;">Iftar </span>feasts I keep on reminding myself that human beings need the notion of discipline and reward to be engraved in their minds (that much I can affirm after <a href="http://el-balcona.blogspot.com/2009/08/following-yellow-arrows.html">hiking the Road to Santiago</a>), but then again, really, why is it all about rituals now without questionning the logic, aren't rituals after all just symbolic acts of faith...any faith?<br /><br />As for the question of respect for other cultures, don't get me started, there are people out there who think they should kill the "</span><span style="font-size:130%;">infidels</span><span style="font-size:130%;">", yeah go ahead, God couldn't kill them so he definitely needs a hand in this.<br /><br />And really, all this talk just gets me more confused, chasing the elusive thread between respect for other cultures, tolerance, diversity on the one hand and maintaining one's values and culture on the other hand. Whether in the home country or abroad, what </span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">to</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"> wear, what to do, how to greet people, how to adapt, the debate is long and it would take us hours to decide: if it is ok for an American woman to wear shorts in </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;">midan el tahrir </span><span style="font-size:130%;">in Cairo on the premise that men shouldn't look at her because they are averting their gaze or that she should dress conservatively and </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;">do as the Cairennes do</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (3/4 sleeves and pants ok? that's middleground), and whether the law should or should not punish a Moroccan family living in Spain because they circumcised their daughter, as female genital mutilation is simply illegal in the country but also just necessary from the family's viewpoint. And don't get me started on the French headscarf dilemma in the land of so called <span style="font-style: italic;">Liberté</span>. Now even mono-cultural Spaniards who, thirthy years ago, would've been spanked by Franco if they were non-Catholic, communist or gay, now want to be "progressive", celebrating Europe's biggest gay pride walks and still criticizing a harmless dress code (the <span style="font-style: italic;">Hijab</span>) just like their sophisticated neighbors. Logic people, LOGIC!<br /><br />Instead of the current ban, can we work out a formula of respect</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> for differences and tolerance? Really, can't we be more grown up about this, does Mother Government always have to decide for us because we're too bloody immature?<br /><br />In the end people would still need their differences to feel that their way is the right way and that they are more "enlightened" (whether that means irrational consumption of alcohol or not talking to a member of the opposite sex).<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8PFo1OMRBZprr6u9Ws_XCJD7mi1zknrwYYq6ftBZKiS5-RbAE4G8WvXjzkWBvzfKniAx01YRea5uOw3kri3wdNi2g2DGpqhaxnhh_dPjpvz1Jwlq63bkdPtyAm3jaXGIUbJwkUPaU31k/s1600-h/noflash_World_of_children.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8PFo1OMRBZprr6u9Ws_XCJD7mi1zknrwYYq6ftBZKiS5-RbAE4G8WvXjzkWBvzfKniAx01YRea5uOw3kri3wdNi2g2DGpqhaxnhh_dPjpvz1Jwlq63bkdPtyAm3jaXGIUbJwkUPaU31k/s320/noflash_World_of_children.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380137507208645986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">Let's not dwell on it and let's learn to live together. There you go, a cliché picture for you (my fav UNICEF card since I was 5) & a few lines </span><style><!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:SimSun; panose-1:2 1 6 0 3 1 1 1 1 1; mso-font-alt:宋体; mso-font-charset:134; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 680460288 22 0 262145 0;} @font-face {font-family:"\@SimSun"; panose-1:2 1 6 0 3 1 1 1 1 1; mso-font-charset:134; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 680460288 22 0 262145 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:SimSun;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <span style="font-size:130%;">I never forget:<br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 51, 153);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">“We should consider each group, racial, or cultural as a fruit: an apple, a pear, a mango. We want to make Mauritius not a marmalade, where we mix up everything and grind everything and end up with one marmalade with one taste. But we would like to have a fruit salad, where in a fruit salad each one retains its individual flavour and taste.” Monsignor Bargeau of Mauritius as quoted by Franklin Covey in the 7 habits of highly effective people.</span></span><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:13;"> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><!--[endif]--></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <u1:worddocument> <u1:view>Normal</u1:View> <u1:zoom>0</u1:Zoom> <u1:punctuationkerning/> <u1:validateagainstschemas/> <u1:saveifxmlinvalid>false</u1:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <u1:ignoremixedcontent>false</u1:IgnoreMixedContent> <u1:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</u1:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <u1:compatibility> <u1:breakwrappedtables/> <u1:snaptogridincell/> <u1:wraptextwithpunct/> <u1:useasianbreakrules/> <u1:dontgrowautofit/> <u1:usefelayout/> </u1:Compatibility> <u1:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</u1:BrowserLevel> </u1:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <u2:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </u2:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-25965079687534388572009-08-04T13:07:00.000-07:002009-08-25T14:53:22.822-07:00Following yellow arrows<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMbI_LPGNVvFpUXcnDYTxERukz0C7VOOq7fFlDlasCPHXeP4keDhzQ4o1uXxPJ2ZTKeI-hy2ycmLfUTfjhe5x39woqjWpEs09pzC6ahYIzdnzL85YGDZm5B01K1LDtRHo1XNp4QY2vkM/s1600-h/camino01.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368650216393845394" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 194px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMbI_LPGNVvFpUXcnDYTxERukz0C7VOOq7fFlDlasCPHXeP4keDhzQ4o1uXxPJ2ZTKeI-hy2ycmLfUTfjhe5x39woqjWpEs09pzC6ahYIzdnzL85YGDZm5B01K1LDtRHo1XNp4QY2vkM/s320/camino01.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">I am following little yellow arrows down the road, wishing that life had more arrows leading the way and sparing me difficult decisions at crossroads.<br /><br />The arrows mark a road, El </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Way_of_St._James"><span style="font-size:130%;">Camino de Santiago</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">, an old pilgrimage road, now equally visited by some complying with a sacred rite, others seeking a journey of self discovery, many taking a challenging hike in the pine scented air of northern Spain, some wanting to make new friends, and others seeking the healing power of mother earth in the villages that are still uncontaminated by the modern consumption culture. I was each and everyone of them.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">In this journey, I came to understand the logic of <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">pilgrims</span>, fasting and religious rites. Exhausting one's body to purify the soul, carrying one's cross in a procession (in my case a green backpack) or going to the holy city on camel back under a blazing sun. Enjoying the enlightement that comes gradually on the road and what the holy site symbolizes. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The Road left me wondering if all <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">journeys to the self</span> start with penance and if we are meant to suffer before we can rejoice. Can we really look inside for all the answers if we're constantly deciding what to wear, what to eat and what to buy? Constantly rushing to make money and then trying to buy time; building new cities everyday and then trying to escape them to hear ourselves think, it's somehow... absurd if I may say. I had to carry what I would need for the week for over a 100 km, there was no feeling more liberating than throwing away objects I previously thought I needed -my friend realized that the weight of the backpack always equals our attachment, couldn't be more right. I hope the time before Ramadan doesn't steal away this energy, as I look forward to more self discipline and reward, a clearer mind and more sharing and solidarity.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The Road is a maquette of <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">life</span>. With strangers and friends you share the agony of a knee-bending slope, seeking distraction from the pain in your feet and back in random conversations and laughing the pain away. You also share the relief of getting to a refuge and hug people you met only a few days ago when you get to the final destination. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Sharing the little food and first-aid we possessed created a bond with friends as well as strangers, reminded me of our desert trips somehow. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Sharing reflections on what The Road taught us over a cook-together or near the washing machine was more than enlightening. </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I realized that any journey has moments of solitude to savour, bonds that last beyond the journey, and sometimes just fun company or moral support for only a few kilometers, and it's ok to part at resting spots, we can't all have the same pace all the way. The <em>Camino</em> showed me that everyone has a good side which the constant fight over a job or parking space kills, everyone has a nurturing healing power, everyone has something to give. It is also true that the collective environment builds it, you want to be good when everyone around you is good, if it's just you, people mistake your giving -and the strength it requires- for weakness and try to take advantage. </span></div><br /><p align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">To have the stamina that the road requires we need frequent stops to regain our strength, it is really absurd to get to the milestones or the ultimate destinations exhausted (speaking of stops, I send all my love to María, one of our hosts, owner of a rural house and farm, who makes the best flan I ever tasted).</span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">After all, it's the journey not the destination. As beautiful as the Santiago de Compostela cathedral was, it was like any other big cathedral in Europe, it's real value was what it symbolizes, that </span><span style="font-size:130%;">persistence pays off. I met a girl wearing a T-shirt featuring the drawing of feet with plasters and blisters, it read "<em>sin dolor no hay gloria", </em>as in "no pain no gain". </span></p><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">When you read this send me good vibes, anything that would reinforce the walls of light I am trying to build around me to conserve the mountain spirit from all the traffic, city lights, billboards and most of all the nervewrecking noise that the neighbours in Madrid are making as they're tearing down the walls, and soon fmore traffic in Cairo and people who don't want to do their share of work.</span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">Compassion, patience, breathe in, breathe out, imagine a protective purple light around you, send out love... <em>sigh </em>...just reminiscing over our meditation sessions in the woods... </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I hope that the little yellow arrow pin I got will remind me of the journey's peace at times when i feel like cracking someone's neck :)</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>About the Road:</strong></span></div><br /><p align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">My route was on foot, part of the Camino Francés, an orange line on the map. I heard stories about the other routes and I highly recommend biking the road if you can, you'll cover more ground and have fun if you get a high from crazy slopes. Here are the links and you can always drop me a line to know more or to get packing tips (the lighter your backpack, the easier your life will be)</span></p><p><a href="http://caminodesantiago.consumer.es/"><span style="font-size:130%;">http://caminodesantiago.consumer.es/</span></a></p><p><a href="http://www.caminodesantiago.me.uk/"><span style="font-size:130%;">http://www.caminodesantiago.me.uk/</span></a></p><br /><p><span style="font-size:130%;">Have a good journey wherever you're heading, as they say around here, <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">buen camino!</span></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 0);"> </span></p>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-79061284172533647672009-07-01T03:28:00.001-07:002009-08-11T03:33:35.892-07:00next stop...?<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify" align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">Plans form and plans evaporate, some more tempting than others. On more than an occasion I booked a trip when I found matching luggage, or planned one when I read a book, these days I get too many mixed signals.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I check flights and wish I could just go to the airport and pick my next destination on the spur of the moment, like I did in my inter-rail trip. But I can't, thank you Egyptian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. (note: just found a great <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egyptian_passport">link</a> on countries that do not require visas for holders of the unlucky green passport).</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm checking <a href="http://www.skyscanner.net/flights-from/cai/cheap-flights-from-cairo-airport.html">flights</a> now and I have three rules:</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">1.non touristic, 2.not a capital city, 3.not europe</span><br /></div><p align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">your suggestions are welcome!<br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">soundtrack: we're <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3O0nycWZnY">roamming</a>...</span> </p>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-12496552430628225312009-06-27T16:04:00.000-07:002009-06-29T03:10:38.218-07:00Take me back to Cairo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyz3dMvWLHt6yCqxzEiJy6incjaYQE2uM6BRGK25_-IWA6LwAilbcD5CC2pvQtRu_1bAWLCtbpJmNjFs208T_ZzfagrdvMBWQKMA2N6uivbI9Eu_q5Bo3PoddxUhpscrQZUyukFQsILg/s1600-h/2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyz3dMvWLHt6yCqxzEiJy6incjaYQE2uM6BRGK25_-IWA6LwAilbcD5CC2pvQtRu_1bAWLCtbpJmNjFs208T_ZzfagrdvMBWQKMA2N6uivbI9Eu_q5Bo3PoddxUhpscrQZUyukFQsILg/s320/2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352677120149633778" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Cairo is a beautiful woman who has aged with anything but grace. She has known a glamorous past...</span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />A past when it was Paris of the Middle East and the Oriental Hollywood. A time for intellectuals and activists in <span style="font-style: italic;">Café Riche</span>, for shopping for the best European fashion at <span style="font-style: italic;">Cicurel</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">for </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Beer-Snooker-Twentieth-Century-Lives/dp/0941533816"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Beer in the snooker club</span></a><span style="font-size:130%;">, for the best dinners at <span style="font-style: italic;">After 8</span> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;">(which by the way is now murky beyond repair)</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >,</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;">for dressing up to savour </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Um Kulthum's </span><span style="font-size:130%;">voice</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;">with no rush, for horse races at the <span style="font-style: italic;">Gezira Club</span>. A truly cosmopolitan city where people came to bask in culture and look for everything new in </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >wist el balad, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">down town Cairo, my favourite part of the city.<br /><br />Tonight, a Spanish man's love for Cairo woke up this beauty and told her to get ready to take the stage one last time before he leaves. So she got up, shook off the sadness, the bitterness over people forgetting that She was the Diva, the one and only, and wore her best red gown and smoothed her long black gloves and seduced us all.<br /><br />The stage was a forgotten night club, a </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">cabaret</span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"> revived especially for the Night. Once a place where stars shone, on Emad El Din Street, Cairo's Broadway, at a time where Cinema Femina required evening dresses and pressed suits. Now just one more local <span style="font-style: italic;">Cabareih, </span>those tacky drug and prostitution </span><span style="font-size:130%;">holes flashing cheap menus in horrid colors. The place was brought to its former glory, Taheya Karioka and Samia Gamal, the prima belly dancers of all time smiled again, and <a href="http://www.egypt-cairo.com/egypt_beer.html">Stella beer</a>, digged out its old ads; with maps of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Wist El Balad</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> covering the peeling orange plaster; with tables clad in burgundy and arranged in a proper </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Cabaret </span><span style="font-size:130%;">setting. Girls walking around with cigarette trays added to the retro mood.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">An Egyptian Jazz band and then a Spanish Swing band took the stage. And I felt at home between both my homes, greeting an old friend, the Pianiste of <a href="http://www.riffband.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Riff Band </span></a>of</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Cairo before he went on stage, and screaming </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >otra! otra! </span><span style="font-size:130%;">with the Spanish crowd, asking the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><a href="http://www.divinas.cat/">Divinas</a> </span><span style="font-size:130%;">to give us one more song before they call it a night. And the girls obliged, coming back on stage with their 50s dresses, hats, sunglasses and scarves and those round travel bags, before they board the train.<br />It was a perfect night, tap dancing, <a href="http://www.pinkmartini.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">pink martinis</span></a> and a crowd that just fit in. The lead vocalist of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Riff, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">and Cairo's <span style="font-style: italic;">Frankie</span>, Ahmed Harfoush, told us all beforehand to wear our best 50s wear. I was there hairdo, swinging skirt, red lipstick and all (and you know me I never wear red lipstick). The audience made one feel part of a black and white movie (and wonder when will <span style="font-style: italic;">Ahmed Ramzy </span>come through the door?), they danced the Swing so well on the piste in the middle of the Cabaret that it was hard to focus on the stage alone.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBG_xcApeGMhyHZ73HKj1YZZaFL_NwVks3Pn3p-twiV6UBrQdDNOs7uV2aNsFO4LZNT0zNt4WOK8eLFIc6EAu-ZGCubKc9CMxMFOekJG7WV9TbdJmVwg393qafbwdvuKXPHJC8k4hkX8/s1600-h/red.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 191px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOBG_xcApeGMhyHZ73HKj1YZZaFL_NwVks3Pn3p-twiV6UBrQdDNOs7uV2aNsFO4LZNT0zNt4WOK8eLFIc6EAu-ZGCubKc9CMxMFOekJG7WV9TbdJmVwg393qafbwdvuKXPHJC8k4hkX8/s200/red.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352409397549538834" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">I asked Ramón Blecua, the Cultural Counselor of the Spanish Embassy (the man who loves Cairo, remember?) if this project would give us more nights like this, he says it is just those 3 nights, just an affair</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-size:130%;">not a marriage (pointing to the tickets that read <span style="font-style: italic;">"a musical affair")</span>. This was his </span><span style="font-size:130%;">last cultural activity, his <span style="font-style: italic;">finale</span>, a rare </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >tour de force,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> and I was lucky to witness it.<br /><br />I thank all those who took us back in time and let my Cairo shine one more time before the August tourists hit the city to escape their stifling societies. I also thank the brave owner of <span style="font-style: italic;">Cabaret Scheherazade</span> </span><span style="font-size:130%;">for letting them, who knows what his current customers would think of such an act of cultural debauchery!<br /><br />About:<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">-For non Egyptians, the title comes from an old song</span>, <span style="font-size:130%;">maybe a little cheesy but it just grew on us.<br />-Picture1: balconies down town, Mohamed Azab's lens<br />-Picture2: 50s advertising "prepare your lips for kisses, with Baiser lipstick" (I know for a fact that the same people who banned Cabarets on the basis that music is immoral ,banned ads like this too)</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">-Accompanying song <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KKsVhyiISY8">Copa Cabana</a></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">-Article worth reading about the show and the downtown revival project from the <a href="http://www.thedailynewsegypt.com/article.aspx?ArticleID=22651">daily news</a><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 102, 102);font-size:130%;" >"The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeing new landscapes, but in having new eyes.</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);font-size:130%;" >" </span><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102);font-size:130%;" >Marcel Proust.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-61918733333110041452009-06-24T08:35:00.000-07:002009-06-29T02:37:47.392-07:00simply Alex.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnBFNieF3NbbOIdFKszH5jiu-PO369YAqzS-w78cGL7zkZGyyW2ZIJAhA02mSYz05UMRAly_rDbqrrVpuYYV39yQCUb6FBiScN9fuKZXs0Fubk4ShFLg1tWssu894S-gbO6MUwbtT-T8M/s1600-h/Alexandria.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnBFNieF3NbbOIdFKszH5jiu-PO369YAqzS-w78cGL7zkZGyyW2ZIJAhA02mSYz05UMRAly_rDbqrrVpuYYV39yQCUb6FBiScN9fuKZXs0Fubk4ShFLg1tWssu894S-gbO6MUwbtT-T8M/s400/Alexandria.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352680665440670674" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">You may see them on the train from Cairo to Alexandria, thinking they are in a tea party. Dinning at the Greek Club and promising that they would come to Alexandria more often. Having coffee at Délice and imagining another era. In all those moments and whenever life throws one of them among very alien -a little too practical- souls, each of the ladies would be thanking God for sending the others her way.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">They call themselves, <span style="font-style: italic;">Ladies of the Order of the Bubble</span>.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >It is at times like this that I am certain that people make the place.</span><br /><br />Photo: Alexandria, Mohamed Azab's lens<br />For some Alexandria breeze read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Out-Egypt-Memoir-Andre-Aciman/dp/1573225347">Out of Egypt: a memoir </a><br /><br /></div><br /></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-60584990961857203902009-06-20T15:18:00.000-07:002009-06-25T03:48:59.688-07:00Cardamomo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisp1b71jkRwlQcGZHh34T398z_SDhgBByVz3R2vzCBZI9g2suAsdyjclkqgMLaOmOG1mX8tj2Jh1iGotxa4mHqFEW37_PuafEqht2F11Pg9E_SQuAw2h84wmCl4nKGRdipRJouPD9LVLc/s1600-h/teleferico.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisp1b71jkRwlQcGZHh34T398z_SDhgBByVz3R2vzCBZI9g2suAsdyjclkqgMLaOmOG1mX8tj2Jh1iGotxa4mHqFEW37_PuafEqht2F11Pg9E_SQuAw2h84wmCl4nKGRdipRJouPD9LVLc/s320/teleferico.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350599602998763762" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">From time to time, nostalgia hits like a baseball bat on your head, and you realize there are things you miss.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Like drinking Lemonade with Cardamom in the sunny living room while counting the blue cable cars flying from Rosales to the zoo, and always loosing count when one of us shares his views on love</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Dancing to the gypsies' beat at the bar <a href="http://www.cardamomo.es/">Cardamomo</a> and impersonating famous Flamenco dancers, Olé! We were a crazy bunch</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Taking coffee breaks which end up in full breakfasts, with <span style="font-style: italic;">pan con tomate</span> and all, taking time to pour olive oil on perfectly toasted bread without a care in the world - as if this wasn't just a class intermittance, but a morning we decided to spend in the sun.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Spending a Sunday wandering barefoot in the park or reading by the pool, then going home to prepare a decent <span style="font-style: italic;">merienda </span>for friends.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Staring at the perfect column in Café Juan Valdéz in a restored old building overlooking La Almudena and then get back to the typical Mediterranean gossip.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Solitary walks near the Palacio or deep conversations in the Plaza de Oriente</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Remembering the way to Casa de Campo and wondering, have they fixed the Manzanares yet? Will my adopted home have a proper river now, and when I'm there I'll miss the Nile less?</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Comparing <span style="font-style: italic;">fiestas </span>in my friends' houses in Cairo to Wednesday nights of <a href="http://www.madaboutmadrid.com/guide/2005/09/caf_madrid_madr.html">Madrid Babel </a>chattering away in a zillion foreign tong</span><span style="font-size:130%;">ues and hybrid phrases.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Indy movies at the <a href="http://www.golem.es/">Cines Golem</a>, and watching that slightly odd Chinese movie with my most cultured couple.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Going for drinks at Malu's, at the foot of the bridge, and remembering the year before with the most loved ones, and then wondering if it's all about people or places?</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">It ain't painful, it's just <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saudade">Saudade...</a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Photo: counting blue cable cars, view from apartment in Principe Pío Madrid.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">What Lonely Planet says about my adopted city:</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-style: italic;">No city on earth is more alive than Madrid, a beguiling place whose sheer energy carries a simple message: this is one city which really knows how to live.</span></span></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-38267742512121314382009-06-19T11:13:00.000-07:002009-06-29T02:29:35.296-07:00Cairo Kitsch<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTuUtFb76dRGCPJ7ZJJOA7ghFRyt2yQWf5TC7iDWC0BTdaGklPTJBD2kwxg715BqBhta5NnpR3FG49QpjXOGKcxwdsV82G2lsoSDxelq1o8AkV4bWSVx9WTdk1tNpDodLegqLvEgI66L0/s1600-h/nilecolors.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTuUtFb76dRGCPJ7ZJJOA7ghFRyt2yQWf5TC7iDWC0BTdaGklPTJBD2kwxg715BqBhta5NnpR3FG49QpjXOGKcxwdsV82G2lsoSDxelq1o8AkV4bWSVx9WTdk1tNpDodLegqLvEgI66L0/s400/nilecolors.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349441856005971634" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">The Cairo Tower with tiny glowing pink lights, against a navy blue sky (for it never gets darker in the city that never sleeps).</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Crystal chandeliers in ever single floor of Abu Tarek's Koshari place</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The endearing slow service in </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >Wist El Balad's </span><span style="font-size:130%;">restaurants</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">by fancily dressed waiters who have known a better era</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Walking through a supermarket to reach a once-elegant now-faded and dusty bar</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Styrofoam coffee cups at the Gezira Club</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">, </span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">a place that once served tea in the finest china to a postcolonial society</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Red and yellow plastic chairs on El Gam'a bridge enjoying the same view of the Nile as the Four Seasons Hotel</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">A hand warding off the evil eye on the back of a truck</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">This is the city I love and I would die if our tower were to imitate the mono-colour Tour Effeil lights one day (and I love the Tour, don't get me wrong)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Photo: reflections of Cairo lights on the Nile, view from Kasr El Nil Bridge (the Lions Bridge)</span>, <span style="font-size:130%;">Francisco Fuentes' lens</span><br /></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-20646818974124531642009-05-24T06:04:00.001-07:002009-11-10T10:05:53.348-08:00Retiring in Asilah<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm thinking about my own retirement those days (maybe related to my slow productivity with summertime).<br />I think I'll be going off to a town on a hill somewhere, maybe Asilah in Morocco.<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">Now, when I swing from euphoria to stupor to just plain pain, cling on to things and then never get to keep them, my consolation is that one day I'll be an old lady. An old lady with a full life and stories to tell in a house on the hill where I would cook for those who escape the city for the weekend and tell them not to take life too seriously. To reassure them that nothing matters but the small moments, like this moment when we are sipping coffee on my balcony and truly bonding.<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">I'll tell them that at times where I risked breaking my neck or at times when gold dust slipped through my fingers, I cried, but that I know only remember the thrill of the chase and how I didn't crack under all the pressure. I'll tell them that at times when I worked my ass off and sprained my ankle running, I got there, but the euphoria lasted about 15 minutes after crossing the finish line.<br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">That all throughout, what mattered was a mars chocolate bar from his backpack, a day at the beach with the girls, a hand in the small of my back while we're dancing the night away, the making-up after the fights, friends' consolation after loss, the no-number on my phone's screen and then time after time the familiar voice, communicating without words, analyzing drawings, singing at the top of our lungs, conversations on the train that last all the way from Cairo to Alexandria, guessing that someone will like a song or a movie and finding they already do, a call from a friend sharing updates on their new crush, starry nights on my friend's rooftop smoking mint slims, cooking a good meal for the family, surprise birthday parties, cards we make for tearfull farewells, 2 page emails, epiphanies, planning a new trip and above all, a good cup of coffee on this Balcony on a Saturday morning.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;">I think that more than retirement itself, I long for the wisdom that comes with retirement. </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://looklex.com/morocco/asila.htm">This is the place</a> where I will tell my story (Asilah, Morocco).<br /><br />Note1: the story of the old lady is inspired by a real old lady who lives in the hills near Alicante, I never met her, C&M did.<br /><br />Note2: the moments are best described by my friend K.R. in a new year email he sent to all of us, wishing us more similar </span><span style="font-size:130%;">moments.<br />Also my friend J.D. describes herself as "a collector of moments". </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />Note3: After writing this, I watched the movie <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0243017/">Waking Life</a>:<br /><span class="postbody"></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">-"I keep thinking about something you said.<br />-- Something I said?<br />- Yeah.<br />-About how you often feel like you're observing your life...from the perspective of an old woman about to die.<br />-- You remember that?<br />- Yeah. I still feel that way sometimes.Like I'm looking back on my life. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Like my waking life is her memories.</span>"<br /><br />Note 4: few weeks after writing this, I came upon a <a href="http://marymourad.com/column/?p=174">blogpost</a> where a girl is telling her stories long before retirement, made me smile :)<br /></span></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-65285314002203632282009-05-22T14:52:00.000-07:002009-05-28T03:49:51.340-07:00Snapshots from Rome<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1awDgqLS5G3UvS8I5RvBTmlJGyVq8_aBG3myNDC8K8Cz7Hnpk9hyphenhyphen6mRFAjdx1MvYHa7TxFxQarHM2gDjqQT-m_kUcppBsBBofRwWP6Ft3-4WZeThrDscvwhzj7QXxMxAbzybnlLLbb4/s1600-h/italian+fashion.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1awDgqLS5G3UvS8I5RvBTmlJGyVq8_aBG3myNDC8K8Cz7Hnpk9hyphenhyphen6mRFAjdx1MvYHa7TxFxQarHM2gDjqQT-m_kUcppBsBBofRwWP6Ft3-4WZeThrDscvwhzj7QXxMxAbzybnlLLbb4/s400/italian+fashion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338951977180073202" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:130%;">Remembering Rome I pass two red lights on my way back home. Charming, sensual and elegant like its citizens, grandiose like their ancestors. The city of seven hills.<br /><br />Feet pounding the cobble stone I roamed the city looking for a poster of the Godfather for my beau who was in a mafioso phase at the time. Explaining in broken Italian "foto ... Il Padrino". After flipping through Sophia Lauren's black and white pictures and posters of old Italian movies I can't recognize, at dinner time I finally find It. I go home with the unique father and son <a href="http://images.google.com.eg/imgres?imgurl=https://eu.movieposter.com/posters/archive/main/37/MPW-18695&imgrefurl=https://eu.movieposter.com/poster/MPW-18695/Godfather.html&usg=__qTC9Hrzfczjl-r1KISNqFrUFDdo=&h=446&w=350&sz=21&hl=en&start=15&sig2=3GMJ1f7RYIJHyez7nuffiQ&um=1&tbnid=iTQ5vE9rfyGBwM:&tbnh=127&tbnw=100&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dgodfather%2Bscene%2Bfather%2Band%2Bson%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-GB:official%26hs%3DldJ%26sa%3DX%26um%3D1&ei=_jEXSqruOc-NsAaW7tikCg">scene</a>, only to find that a friend has gotten him the same picture in a glossy postcard format conveniently </span><span style="font-size:130%;">purchased </span><span style="font-size:130%;">from the United States (and that's when I scream "damn the supermarket culture").<br /><br />The kiosks display postcards from Roman Holiday, Audery Hepburn and Gregory Peck at the Fontana di Trevi, La Bocca de la Verita, at the Coliseum, at the Piazza di Spagna, sipping coffee, eating gelato, speeding away on a motorino. Simply romantic in black and white... as the movie ends, Audrey Hepburn, when asked what city she liked most in her tour around Europe, casts all political correctness expected of a young princess like her, and says "Rome...by all means Rome"<br /><br />ALL this build-up to find a piazza di spagna that is filled with tourists clad with shapeless shorts, armed with cameras and sipping fizzy drinks, people selling cheap imitation designer bags, flowers with colors too bright, and a huge Bvlgari ad behind the Obelisk. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">I simply hate the pictures I took that day.<br /><br />Yet all this, plus the queues for the hop-on hop-off tourist bus (which by the way I don't recommend, go on foot), and the plastic neon miniature monuments, Pakistani carts selling fruits and juice, plus all the pick-poketing, and the commercialization of elegance (see photo above) do not devoid Rome of its charm.<br /><br />I can still recall</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> my first breakfast, delicious bread, zucchini, eggplant and goat cheese, at a bistro two blocks down from my hotel. Years after, while reading <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.anthonycapella.com/pages/books/food_of_love/intro.asp">The Food of Love</a>, </span>I imagined the place as its setting and its owners as the people who run the restaurant in my book.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />I remember fewer times when I have enjoyed walking by myself like I did when in Rome. </span><span style="font-size:130%;">Feeling the Roman Empire in the stones of the Aqueduct, and in the carved marble of the street sign of Via del Corso.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> Treadding</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> narrow streets, following the sound of water at night, to find a vast piazza and a sight that takes my breath away, the Fontana di Trevi (not recommended by day). Wandering around to find I've come to the same exact spot (the plateau up Piazza di Spagna) but from the top of the hill, and looking at exquisite little balconies transformed into little family owned restaurants.<br />Feeling like a celebretiy while sipping a coffee that costs 5 euros at the renown Café Greco (that's in 2004, when coffee elsewhere cost 90 cents).<br />Doing the leche-vitrines*, to find that everyone -but myself and other tourists- is out of Vogue. (* French for window shopping, yes I'm being pretentious here)<br />There are few cities which I fail to describe in words, Rome is one of them.<br />Wait for my next trip, maybe that will let me depict it better.<br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><br /></span></div>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2277551659681995767.post-88057285432187365962009-05-21T16:51:00.000-07:002009-05-23T04:06:58.394-07:00Clinging on...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwq1n7zDpWzAxiq5aLUS4GKmYhkOkZOzV7loTtCc_4Co9BXYzhPSVJ-bHQZtLT2floU_cNn9Zjptwy1N1GPntwmKgeEUBCjKoSioILf2VDRaYnIhBRhK6wS-KmGIsXhsF7tHvyDH-W_N0/s1600-h/asilahbluedoor.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwq1n7zDpWzAxiq5aLUS4GKmYhkOkZOzV7loTtCc_4Co9BXYzhPSVJ-bHQZtLT2floU_cNn9Zjptwy1N1GPntwmKgeEUBCjKoSioILf2VDRaYnIhBRhK6wS-KmGIsXhsF7tHvyDH-W_N0/s320/asilahbluedoor.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338437505516014930" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />To perfect moments that will never come back again<br />To <a href="http://el-balcona.blogspot.com/2008/07/going-back-to-places.html">places </a><a href="http://el-balcona.blogspot.com/2008/07/going-back-to-places.html">where we've found happiness</a> and had a collection of perfect moments (which by the way require the presence of the same set of people, the same mood, conversations, songs and perhaps the same weather and food)<br />To people that fit us like old pears of jeans or comfy worn out shoes yet that are soo out of fa</span><span style="font-size:130%;">shion (or to those jeans we've outgrown since the last time we tried them on)<br />Going in circles, trying to smell old breezes instead of breathing fresh air<br />Struggling to recreate memories instead of making new ones<br />It's just so pointless to cling on, I wish I could let go...</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Song:<br />You've got to get yourself together<br />You've got stuck in a moment and now you can't get out of it<br /></span></span><em></em><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">(<a href="http://www.goear.com/listen/f4b94fe/Stuck-in-a-moment...-U2">U2</a>)<br /></span><br /><br />Photo: house in Larache, Morocco - <span style="font-style: italic;">w</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">hen God closes a door, he opens a </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" href="http://treadsoftlyupon.blogspot.com/2006/06/when-god-closes-door-somewhere-he.html">window</a></span>Injihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10227226115421725290noreply@blogger.com0