bbNY

So much has changed, yet it's all the same

2011-09-11T15:55:00.000-04:00

I was shocked to see how much time has passed since my last post. I think it is the longest gap ever. Normally time away from this important outlet in my life is accompanied by guilt, but on this occasion I have to say it wasn't -- simply because I didn't have a sense of how much time had passed and how quickly.

The title of the post reflects my thinking, having been back in New York just about two months now. Having moved from my old places (NYC and Boston) into one place containing all of me -- well, at least my wordly possessions, as wanderlust remains an ineluctable part of my being (I've already been to India for two weeks, and any of my friends who happen to be reading this from interesting locations, don't be too surprised to find me on your doorstop some time soon...)

Being back under one roof, in this city that I love to live in, part of me feels as though it's taking up where I left off, from however far in the past you measure my exodus from New York. (For me, and hence for this blog, it was 2007, when I went off to London, but the Boston commute had begun as far back as 2005, although I didn't know then that it would become a feature of my life for so many years). But the other part of me feels that everything has changed. Of my best friends, only a few still live here (still many good friends, but you know what I mean - the friends with whom you feel at liberty to invite yourself over, to crash whatever they are doing, and likewise appreciate whenever they treat you the same way). With its constant reinvention, even my favorite streets and blocks have changed in their own ways (in many cases, for the better I should add).

But it does make we wonder what defines this blog, and what should define my writing efforts going forward. I started the blog as a way to record and communicate my thoughts on being an Indian living in New York dis/placed in London, and as a way to join part of a community not define by the boundaries of place. And in this we have succeed beyond all expectations. The blog itself, and all of you, have become friends, lifelines and moorings at the same time.

While I wrestle with what the next direction in my writing should be, it's also true that the Flugelbindery has welcomed me back with a double-wide inbox, if you know what I mean. I'm grateful, of course, because the one greatest pleasure of the last two months has been the sensation of waking up in the morning, knowing exactly where I am and knowing that the farthest I have to go for the day is a 15 minute walk over to the office.

Well, thank goodness for the RSS readers and e-mail subscriptions (the latter a new feature on the right). If you're not subscribed to one of these, and you're interested in updates as they come, do sign up, in case my updates become a little irregular over this period.

Even though it's not back to school for most us, it still feels that way, doesn't it? The crisp autumn air (except for our readers in the Southern Hemisphere...). Some people feel like going apple picking or grape stomping around now. Me, personally, I feel compelled to visit a stationery store. So I wish you all a great back-to-school period, and more soon...

It's how I feel these days...

xo

bb

P.S. I can't write about New York on 11 September and not note the date. Perhaps some other time I'll write about my own experiences, which were trivial compared to what was going on that day but are, as for many people, nonetheless etched in my memory. But it's a day to remember and honor the joy and the suffering of this beautiful city.

Getting there by being there

2011-07-31T15:32:00.000-04:00

It has been one of those summers where you get there by being there (if that makes any sense). My last 5 years seem to have been motivated by getting somewhere, and that somewhere four times out of five was New York. Well, now that I am here, I feel I am getting there -- There, that sense of being settled, of enjoying idleness, stillness if not quietude.

One of the renewed pleasures of this lifestyle is sitting on the balcony, drinking a cappuccino, and reading (wrestling with) the Sunday New York Times.

I couldn't resist smiling at this...

Snacks of the Great Scribblers

Sketchbook | Wendy MacNaughton | New York Times

Hope you are all enjoying a leisurely Sunday.

xo

bb

In the middle

2011-07-14T11:56:00.002-04:00

Friends,

Sorry for the long silence, but I'm in the middle of a move. Will get back with more soon...

xo

bb

Keeping it simple....

2011-06-26T16:19:00.000-04:00

Goodnight...

xo

bb

It's beautiful

2011-06-10T06:37:00.002-04:00

It's noisy.

    I walk to work.

It's grimy.

   Feels like home.

Marseille,

   It's beautiful.

xo

bb

Sportspersonship

2011-06-06T02:10:00.000-04:00

Lionel Cironneau/AP

BBC

The only sport I ever watch, and that too rarely, is tennis. But I do read up on the news of my favorite player, Roger Federer, and his great Spanish rival, Rafael Nadal. What I love about this relationship is the symbiosis: one could not be himself without the other. While it began initially as a rivalry, what you can see in these pictures is the great mutual respect, camaraderie, and that special kind of friendship which exists only between sportspersons. We fight, because we must - that is what we do, but in the end we are the ones who understand each other best.

When I read John McEnroe's very entertaining autobiography, naturally entitled "You cannot be serious", the one thing I walked away with was his admiration of, and off-court friendship, with Borg.

Perhaps sports is the most evanescent and authentic art form these days. It is performed once, with no aids, body or voice doubles, and when it's done, it is left behind, perhaps for the record books or not, living only in memory, like memories of watching Borg vs. McEnroe as a child.

xo

bb

For your Monday morning smile...

2011-06-06T01:32:00.000-04:00

xo

bb

You decide (11)

2011-06-01T04:35:00.000-04:00

The same, quite different, or similar?

Naga sadhus along the Ganges

Nude sunbathers, Englischer Garten, Munich (what's English about this you ask?)

xo

bb

Learning the facts of life (again)

2011-05-19T07:55:00.000-04:00

When you spend some time in a new country, you sometimes find yourself relearning the facts of life. No, not those facts of life, but I mean the little social conventions which if observed smooth daily interactions and which if ignored (perhaps because you didn't know) cause small frictions.

I've been to Germany before, many times, but never for quite this long. When the office offered me a month's worth of work here, after checking the weather charts I grabbed it. As I settled in, I began noticing (or was reminded of) some of these little facts of life. So in case you are ever visiting Germany here is my list so far:

Always close the door! In Germany (but for that matter in most places other than the US?) all doors don't automatically shut behind you. Or that is they do, because if you find a door closed then after you pass through you must reclose it. Simple enough. But I realize how used we are in the US to doors automatically shutting behind you. One tends to forget. No worries, your kind hosts will remind you!
To stay or take away? In the US many places automatically serve you in paper cups. But in Germany, when they ask you "to stay or take away?" they really mean it, for two reasons. First, to stay and to go may have different prices (again, the same as many countries other than the US), and second because of recycling. If you're staying in, often even at a sidewalk cart, they will serve you in ceramic or glass and with real cutlery, so everything can be washed and reused.
Stick to your lane! Most streets have designated lanes for bicycles. Pedestrians straying into these zones will be offered as much mercy as a pigeon wandering across the I-95. An important subtlety, as I've discovered, is that when bicycle lanes are on the street rather than the sidewalk they often go in the opposite direction of car flow. So you really must look both ways before crossing.
May I take your coat? It is considered impolite to sit in your coat in indoor situations (restaurants, concert halls, offices). Someone will offer to take your coat, and you give it to them.
Recycle. Every situation seems to have its own recycling code, but you must follow it strictly. At the office, it's plastic / glass and metal / other waste. At home, for some reason it is glass, paper, and everything else. In the park, it's mostly just one trash receptacle.
Related to this, bring your own bags to the grocery store. You will not be offered bags. If you are disorganized enough to shop without them (ahem), then you can buy bags, but since you are buying them as you check out you need to guess in advance exactly how many you will need.
Water is a human right. Offices in Germany all provide bottled water to their staff (I'm told, but haven't been able to confirm that it is required by law). Lightly or heavily carbonated, your choice.
The correct serving size for a beer is 1L. I was in the park with a few friends, and asked for a small beer (really, I'm a wine person). "That's for children," the bartender snorted in somehow a friendly way, and served me 1L instead. (But wait, park, beer, wine? Yes, you read correctly. Beer is apparently also a human right, which you have the right to access in the park. For that matter, in Austria I have seen construction workers having it for breakfast.)
Tipping and restaurant bills. Again, like many countries other than the US, they will ask whether you want to pay together or separately. And as such, it is quite normal, even when dining with a friend that everyone gets their own bill, rather than trying pay your share. However, you do have to remember what you had, because when your bill is being prepared, you tell the waiter what you had. After you know the amount, you add around 10 percent, try to figure out the nearest whole number to that amount, and then ask for the amount of change you need back, leaving the tip implied. Very classy, if you can pull off the math.
The hidden code of jay walking. Here I'm still figuring it out. Germans are famous for always waiting for the crossing light, and by and large this is true. But there are some occasions where I will people crossing if there is no one coming. I wish I could figure out the hidden code. It has something to do with the size of the street, but there's more that I haven't figured out.

If I think of more, I'll post them in the comments. The weather has turned fine the last day or so. I'm hoping to finish early and head out to enjoy it! Hope there's a hint of summer where you are.

xo

bb

Getting back on my feet (after being swept off them!)

2011-05-10T06:59:00.000-04:00

Well it wasn't that kind of sweeping (i.e., not the flutter-of-the-heart variety), but more sweeping the floor in an empty apartment one minute, standing on my soon-to-be balcony in New York the next day, to boarding a flight to Europe and arriving to find that my bag with two months' of clothes is lost (you read correctly -- not delayed, lost).

But I should backtrack. My original plan was to start looking for a New York apartment after returning from my European sojourn. I was touring some apartments with an agent just as a way to introduce myself to her for when I really need her in July. But she offered to show me some apartments, so I agreed. The first three were exactly what I was expecting: depressing! But I was expecting that, so I used them as a way to explain what I was looking for, and even mentioned that I might come back to New York for a few days just to view apartments. But then she mentioned something that had just become available and took me over to see it. And there it was! Apartment love at first sight: south facing, a second western exposure, an actual bedroom (recall, my Boston place was a quasi-loft my New York place a studio -- no real bedrooms), and a small balcony where I can watch the sunset (and breathe New York's wonderful pollution). I said yes on the spot. And there, by a TKO in the first round, the twelve-round apartment search was over. Even better, the lease doesn't have to start for another two months... just when I get back.

I was on this high that I landed in Europe, imagining all the wonderful ways I would spend my summer, now that I knew what I was going back to. So happy was I that I didn't notice that almost everyone had left with their suitcases and I was still waiting. I was in such a good mood that I cheerfully filed my delayed baggage claim, expecting that it would be delivered in the afternoon. That was last week. Now they have unofficially declared it lost (officially they have to wait three weeks). Fortunately, I wasn't traveling with anything I really love, but when I started to add what it would cost to buy enough clothes for the next two months, I began to feel a little wobbly.

In the end, I replaced about half the things, enough to get me through two months, albeit in a little less style than I would liked. You might imagine (as I sort of did) some kind of glorious shopping spree. Instead it was more like having blood drawn, one pint at a time. No matter, I've digested it, and am ready to move on with my summer.

Hope you are feeling summer in the air wherever you are -- I am!

xo

bb

The next chapter

2011-04-28T18:04:00.001-04:00

Chapter 1: Exile: The protagonist leaves New York and tries to settle into London. Initial nostalgia gives way to life with a new and satisfying rhythm. But then one day the protagonist confesses to London: "London, I like you. I really like you. But my heart belongs to another... [cue the Gerswin and Woody Allen's voice over introduction to Manhattan]

Chapter 2: The Grand Compromise: The protagonist makes a joyous return to New York, but in exchange accepts a grand, pragmatic compromise with these words: "New York I love you. But in exchange for weekends and telecommuting days (even months), I have promised my days to Boston." New York, used to being anything and everything for anyone and everyone, takes this in stride. The protagonist instead finds the bargain increasingly heavy.

Chapter 3: The Return: The protagonist has come to like Boston. Some days pass quickly, others slowly. [Overlay a shot here of the pages of the calendar fluttering by: 1 year, 2 years, 3 years...] But at last the protagonist has served out the partial separation for the agreed-upon period. At the appointed hour on the appointed day, packs books and bags and furniture and flies to New York with these words: "New York, I am yours. All yours."

Alternative treatment (or the Bollywood remix)
Chapter 1: The protagonist is wildly in love with New York. But the future father-in-law, who also happens to be the protagonist's boss (as happens in Bollywood films), says, "Life is not all about love. We need you, I need you, in our London office." Following duty, the protagonist settles in London, trying to learn to love the city. But arranged love proves impossible. The protagonist's heart still belongs to New York.

Chapter 2: The father-figure finally gives in, saying if it's New York you want, it's New York you'll get. But... ah the but. To prove your love of the city, you must spend your weeks in our Boston office for a period of two to five years. If you still love New York after spending all that time apart, then I'll we'll see. While growing to respect and admire Boston, love remains elusive. And every weekend, the protagonist journeys to New York and leaves with the words, "I'll come back to you one day... to stay."

Chapter 3: One Sunday the father-figure is driving by Central Park in his limousine when he sees the protagonist seated on a park bench (I know this seems unlikely, but it is a Bollywood film after all), looking downcast. "What is it child/ trusted employee?" he asks, "It's New York," the protagonist replies. "I've done what you've asked. I've tried, but every day I love New York the same as always, more if possible." The father-in-law/boss, by now sporting a salt-and-pepper goatee, puts a hand on the protagonist's shoulder saying, "You've passed the test my child/trusted employee. You'll move back to New York this summer. And to make up for the hardship we've put you through, we'll send you to Europe for two months..." [Cue the Bollywood dancers in Central Park...]

xo

bb

P.S. Yes, loyal readers. I'm back, back in New York. Of course, I do leave for Europe on Sunday for a couple of months, but come the summer New York will be my destination, not Boston. I did really, really like my stays in London and Boston, but New York has always been where I've wanted to live, so I'm happy, thrilled really, to be home. I suppose I'll have to change the header of the blog! Now there's a task that I'll enjoy.

It's been a source of great strength having you along with me for the journey thus far. And I look forward to more adventures together in the months and years ahead...

Going to the beach and The Beautiful game, Indian style

2011-04-18T13:21:00.000-04:00

xo

bb

Sometimes on a Friday evening in Boston...

2011-04-08T20:08:00.000-04:00

... you need this

and this...

it works...

xo

bb

Becoming my father (or Paying the price)

2011-04-05T05:03:00.001-04:00

I've been back from India since Saturday afternoon. Since then I have slept a grand total of 12 hours -- over three days. I should be feeling dead tired. I'm not. Just a little dazed, but otherwise quite functional. Though I'm not usually afflicted by jet lag, this time I seem to be affected by half of the syndrome (early rising), while the other half (delicious daytime naps) remains elusive.

My early rising (5 am Sunday, 4.30 am Monday, 3.45 am Tuesday -- noticing a trend?) somehow makes me feel like my father. Like many Indian men and women he is an early riser. For him, there is nothing more spiritual than greeting the rising sun (although not from having been out all night; that's something my father never managed to see the romance of). When we were young, he would rise early (4 am or so), and work for several hours while everyone was asleep. Since he's a doctor, it wasn't his day job that he was working on, but instead coursework from classes he would take at the university. All of those early mornings eventually got him to a Ph.D.

I wonder if he felt in those morning hours as I feel now: slightly tired, but fully alert mentally. Every now and then, my father would wake either my brother or me earlier than usual (ahem, 5 am), and would make us a cup of tea (in India, even children drink it). We would chat a bit, and then both get to work. I'm pretty good in the mornings, so, although this sounds like torture, for me it was a delicious pleasure to spend those early, intimate morning hours with my father.

They say that as you age you become your parents. Well, I'm paying the price for my travels. It's happening.

xo

bb

P.S. In keeping with house rules, the flugelbindery is applying its usual 2:1 ratio: for every week I've been away (whether for holidays or work travel), two weeks' worth of work is waiting for me on my return. As soon as I dig myself out from under the mountain of work, I look forward to being back at your blogs (and back to my usual sleep habits).

A confession or Guilty pleasures or I blog therefore I am

2011-03-28T01:10:00.000-04:00

xo

bb

p.s. caught you by surprise, didn't i, in the last frame. the essence of the guilty pleasure is of course guilt. knowing me, you know the guilt is not that i didn't attempt to bake these from scratch (don't have the skill or patience), but is instead eating something from a box when i have a baker around the corner. but while the local boys are magicians with muffins and even brioches, they have not mastered the croissant.

p.p.s. speaking of guilty, i have been very remiss at posting and reading your blogs. i'll be back to it soon! the fluguelbindery made me an offer i couldn't refuse - a one week work trip to india in exchange for a week of holidays, all decided at short notice. i've just finished the holiday, and now i have to pay the bills...

If you listen very carefully...

2011-03-11T08:54:00.000-05:00

... you will hear the sound of spring tiptoeing toward us...

xo

bb

You decide (10)

2011-03-05T20:06:00.000-05:00

Disturbing or fascinating? (Don't be afraid: click on the picture for an extra-large view.) You decide.

xo

bb

P.S. Sorry for the long silence in my posts. It's been one of those periods. Busy? Yes. But the kind of busy that saps your energy to do anything. It might well have to do with gyrations of temperature that we've been experiencing.

P.P.S. Though the spirit of "You decide" is that, well, you decide, in this case it is almost an "Explain, if you can". There was something about this that fascinated me. Yes, I'll admit (to you and my shrink): there was a beauty, pathos, don't-want-to-look-but-can't-look-away. I can't quite explain it. Perhaps you can...

You decide (9)

2011-03-05T19:56:00.000-05:00

I went from this...

... to this...

Upgrade, downgrade, or apples and oranges? You decide.

The Mirror

2011-02-16T07:20:00.000-05:00

I keep having the same dream.
It seems to be forcing me to return
to the bittersweet site
of my grandfather's house,
where I was born on the table
Forty years ago.

Something always prevents me from entering.
I keep having this dream.

When I dream of the log walls
and dark pantry
I sense that it's only a dream.

Then the joy is clouded
for I know I'll wake up.

Sometimes something happens
and I stop dreaming
of the house
and the pines by the house of my childhood.

Then I grieve
and wait for the dream
that will make me a child again
and I'll be happy again, knowing
that all still lies ahead
and nothing is impossible.

from The Mirror, directed by Andrei Tarkovsky, written by Aleksandr Misharin and Andrei Tarkovsky

xo

BB

P.S. I'm on a quest. Perhaps I can plant its seed in your mind. Through Tarkovsky's films I've come to admire his father's poetry. But so far I haven't managed to find a book of Arseny Tarkovsky's poetry translated into English. If you're browsing in a used bookstore somewhere someday and see such a volume, do buy it for me.

P.P.S. My first experience of such a viral, vicarious quest was through a friend of mine, who asked me to keep an eye out for a frig magnet of a cow. Silly enough. But whenever I would see frig magnets for sale I would think of him and look for a magnet of a cow. His quest had become mine...

A moment

2011-02-08T07:49:00.000-05:00

A moment (over here) inspired me to post this moment. I felt strangely voyeuristic snapping this picture. Though it was the subway, it was so tender and intimate.

xo

bb

Brrr.... or A New York Weekend

2011-02-02T18:02:00.000-05:00

It's snowy and cold in New York. You can see some strange and wonderful sights...

Some people are too cool to button their overcoats, no matter what the weather...

Others completely wrap themselves in blankets.

To me it looked vaguely like a large single-celled organism...

But it was still Madison Park.

I couldn't agree more.

I've always enjoyed looking down between the banisters...

This weekend I'm in Boston, and the "brrrrr" applies here too...

xo

bb

I stayed in (or The Methodical Sound of Ripping)

2011-01-26T13:28:00.000-05:00

In the end I stayed in Boston this last weekend, really stayed in, leaving the house only once in the entire weekend. It was cold; there was snow on the ground; I had just bought four very nice wedges of cheese from my cheese monger and taken the precaution of buying a few bottles of red and a baguette as well. I was well stocked to wait it out.

While I was waiting, I decided to embark on the long overdue project of clearing through some accumulated papers. If I had known what I was starting I might opted for a television-induced coma instead. You see, the last time I had deep-cleaned my papers was somewhere between 10 and 20 years ago. Now I don't want to convey the wrong impression. I'm not one of those people who collects coasters, packets of sugar, TV guide, or just any old thing. Nor was it that I was living in chaos. Instead, I have perfected the art of ordered chaos. I take a chaotic situation, break it into semi-coherent pieces, put it into a box, and then forget about it for a decade. Everything looks tidy, and with some twisted logic might be.

For example, one box contained papers that used to be on the upper left corner of my desk c. 1995. Given the strange way memory works, as soon as I opened the box, I knew exactly what to expect. And despite expecting it, I was still surprised by how small things triggered such powerful memories: old address books; postcards from friends; the study calendars I used to make for myself in the month leading up to an exam; a fax I had received from a friend. Some of the memories were just small moments remembered vividly, and others were large, dramatic moments in life that had become like genies in the bottles of these little scraps.

When I said that I don't collect just any old thing, it's true. But it's also true that I do (or did) collect a few things that I thought would be worth hanging on to:

Long ago I used to keep all my correspondence. It became impossible to move around with so many papers, no matter how well filed, so I stopped doing this many years ago and hung on to just a fraction of this old correspondence. The hard part is deciding what to keep and what to discard, a sometimes random, sometimes thoughtful process.
Then after I began traveling, I would collect postcards from every art museum I would go to. Just a few each time, but it was like my own visual reference library, except that I never filed them in any way. They were just stuck in bags. So I finally took them out of their bags, and put them in a stack, like a deck of cards, appending the receipts when I had them. It was like a visual flashback -- paintings I had seen, places I had been, with whom, when, in what weather, all coming back in a jumbled but exhilarating mass.
For even longer I have been hanging onto concert programs, as a kind of personal musical archive. But again, there were so many by now (10-15 concerts a year x my age - 5 years = an impossible number). so I made the painful decision to keep only the program page from each. Suddenly 15 boxes was boiled into one. And though I didn't remember all of the concerts and operas, some came back so vividly all these years later. The process of ripping off the program page reminded me of something my father used to do every Sunday -- rip through the week's correspondence, keeping only what he needed.
And finally I had the scraps. The problem with any system is what you do with something that doesn't fit anywhere. A receipt from a café in Paris in 1997 reminded me right away of the cashier who was flirting with me (or was it the other way? or was it only in my mind?) Actually I have the spot in the Marais imprinted on my mental map, and whenever I'm in Paris and happen to be walking by I always remember that small episode. Surely that's a receipt worth keeping. And so I did, in a scrapbook, another habit I picked up from my father.

In curating all these documents of my life I realized that I stopped keeping and collecting a number of years ago, of necessity. But it's a pity. Though it took me literally 18 hours to sort through these things, it was a sample of my life -- beautiful, bizarre, happy, melancholy, sad, joyous. While I have e-mails and digital images from recent years, will those bring back feelings in the same way a decade from now? I'm not sure. Let's talk then.

xo

bb

If...

2011-01-21T12:38:00.000-05:00

from http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/3171951/Hulton-Archive

If...

Truman Capote had had his way, Breakfast at Tiffany's would have starred Marilyn Monroe and if Blake Edwards had had his way the co-star would have been Steve McQueen. Now imagine that film!
I were in London this weekend, I would go to see Breakfast at Tiffany's on the big screen.
I were in New York this weekend, I would go to a party at my friend Montse's place; she's a jazz aficionado (and knows how correctly to pronounce that word), and has invited a number of jazz musician friends and relatives who in my imagination will start jamming after suitable intoxication has been achieved.
I am unable to invent (or find some wizard at MIT who has invented) a transporter before this evening, I'm going to stay in Boston this weekend. It has just snowed another 15 cm. I planned for this contingency by buying several bottles of wine, much cheese, and a few veggies. Maybe this is the weekend I'll finally watch The Mirror and Kagemusha.

xo

bb

I was wondering why...

2011-01-16T12:50:00.000-05:00

I like this picture, even though it didn't work out as intended. Then I popped in over here (#2), and it made some sense...

A post-New Year's walk in New York

It reminds me of images, none of which I can precisely pin down.

xo

bb

I should get back to words, but...

2011-01-07T13:18:00.000-05:00

I was strolling through Central Park, the snow gone, the leaves many months away, and there was a delicate beauty to the canopy of bare branches.

...sometime images are so compelling.... I'm from a verbal (indeed, perhaps verbose) family, and since around age 14 I've inherited my family's predilection for using words to frame images, to harness emotions, and to play the beautiful game with ideas. This my excuse for the stunting of any visual talents I might have had (though truly, not sure I did).

But over the last few years my brain seems to have rewired itself so that some pathways now directly connect my eyes to my feelings, though some feelings not all, wonder (adbhuta) in particular. This has pushed my travel a little bit toward nature, and not only to looking for spectacular vistas and vastness but also toward intimate nature, cozy ambiguous light that makes things feel close.

And yes it has even begun to allow me to enjoy moments of winter, a season that I used to dread. I'm still not enthusiastic about it, but I can see that it has its moments.

xo

bb

Happy New Year!

2010-12-31T11:19:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year to friends all over the world!

Though it has nothing to do with the New Year, here are two views of a recent afternoon at MoMA...

The magic (before the nightmare)

2010-12-27T17:33:00.000-05:00

I've got to confess I don't like snow. I don't mind the verb (as in snowing), which is beautiful, but the noun, trust me, it's an ugly thing. Well almost, most of the time, but not always. Snow, the noun, retains some of the magic of the verb for the first few hours of its life...

Harmony in gold and white (or as it happened)

Central Park: the morning after

xo

bb

New York: Here and somewhere

2010-12-24T12:52:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was my first full day back in New York. I'm not counting the previous day because I managed to sleep half of that (a one-shot cure to jet lag as it turned out). I was itching to do something - perhaps go to the cinema or even the opera - and so I did.

I began with Somewhere, which I had been excited to see since Lola's preview from the Venice Film Festival. It is one of those films that I have enjoyed thinking back on even more than I enjoyed watching it. Which is not to say I didn't enjoy it in the cinema. In real time viewing I enjoyed the hazy Southern California light evoked beautifully by Coppola and cinematographer Harris Savides. I enjoyed how the shots were framed, as if by a curious, sympathetic, slightly-too-insistent observer. The first time around it was really about a mood, a slowly evolving feeling -- malaise stretching into unease, into perhaps a ray of hope. But then thinking back on it (which is my "second viewing"), behind the seemingly lazy amble of scenes and episodes there was more purpose than chance. And the eye / camera really stays in the mind as the main character in the film: not only what is observed, but how long, which how much attention, from what angle, in what light. In this the film reminds me a bit of Antonioni (many thanks to Tony Scott for making this connection). And I'm sure a real second viewing would be very rewarding.

Then I went off to the opera, which turned out to be a perfect pairing with the film: Pélleas et Mélisande by Debussy. It's also more about a feeling than very much happening (at least for much of the opera, by the end there's a murder, a birth, and a death -- after all it is opera). The orchestra takes us through a subtle, evolving shade of feelings, like a dark grotto lit up by reflections and refractions from the water. There are ambiguities, elisions, uncertainties, all of which the orchestra traverses steadily and mysteriously. The spoken and sung words never resolve anything; they only magnify and punctuate feelings. And when things happen - and they do - they too aren't climaxes or resolutions, only knots in the wood. And making the connection to film, Mélisande seems like a precursor to the impossible enigmatic heroines of French film: she never answers a question directly, doesn't hesitate to lie, causes men to fall in love, falls in love herself, all without really saying what she means. Yet she is irresistible in her shifting ambiguity.

Just to bring some certainty to my day, I ate a slice of pizza on the way home - a glorious, non-gourmet, stomach-filling New York slice. I've "known" the man behind the register for years -- we recognize each other, and he has seen me in every possible situation: with friends, parents, friends, exes, hungry, angry, funny, sad, silly, drunk, sober.... But after these two subtle works of art in one day, I felt wonderfully in balance, and of course so happy to be back in New York.

Wish you all a wonderful Christmas and New Years. Wherever you are, I hope you are with family, friends, loved ones, and surrounded by joy and beauty.

xo

bb

A life without Blogger, Facebook, and Google

2010-12-22T16:53:00.001-05:00

A bit like that Christmastime classic, It's a Wonderful Life, one sometimes wonders what life would be like if some small, seemingly inconsequential detail were changed. What, for example, would life be like without Blogger, Facebook, and Google?

I got to run this little experiment during my week in China, since these three sites are blocked there. The middle of three seems the easiest to do without. After all, you can still e-mail your friends. The last was a handicap certainly. And the first -- outright painful! Yes, dear friends, I missed you all! And not only that, but I missed myself, if you know what I mean (and I know you all do): the act of writing is not only expression, but also creation. Describing what we see or feel, our musings, helps them take shape, forces a cloud of possibilities and probabilities to condense into a particular form.

Hope you are all easing into the holidays nicely. Look forward to catching up on some missed blog reading and writing soon!

xo

bb

Changed planes in SF yesterday. This was the view. Almost makes an 11 hour flight worthwhile!

Lisztomana or Lost in Translation

2010-12-15T20:37:00.000-05:00

I feel like one of the characters in Lost in Translation. One - which one - perhaps both.

I am sitting in the airport in Hong Kong. I got up at 3.30 am today, without an alarm, left the friends with whom I was staying [I added an extra day to my work trip so I could walk around a little - the office generously expropriated only half of my day off] by 5 am, only to discover at the airport that my flight was canceled and I had to wait until noon.

I talked my way into the pre-flight lounge and found myself pondering the following after my second cup of coffee:

What do the lyrics of Lisztomania really mean?
Is it wrong to drink before ~~noon~~ 7 am? (And I don't mean when you've stayed up all night - in that case if you are still capable of drinking then I think you've earned it.) This is one of those moments where I wish I were standing at the bar in some small town in Italy in December where the old men don't doubt the good sense of getting a shot of grappa in their espresso.
What does it all mean? No, I don't mean life, but I mean my Google and Blogger tabs which have all kindly been translated into Chinese for me.

A few postcards from the last few days. Hope you're easing into the holidays. A few more days for me and then home!

xo

bb

New York Remembered

2010-12-13T09:46:00.000-05:00

One of the reasons I enjoy taking pictures in New York is that (almost) no matter where the lens points it finds something that looks instantly timeless, New York remembered as it always was and always will be. This is probably because even for those of us who live here we are more used to remembering New York through just such images.

Sitting here in Hong Kong (pictures certainly to follow!) here is the New York I remember (from last week and from always)...

xo

bb

Home away from home

2010-12-11T21:52:00.001-05:00

I know I've written about this before, but I am still always taken by it. You get on a plane, fly 7 hours, and then fly 14 hours more. You are disoriented. Sleep not enough or too much. You wake up dehydrated and with a headache. Feeling a little displaced. And you crack open your computer... and you feel at home right away. Is it beautiful, this modern virtual existence of ours, where our friends are online and where the the desktop is the home?

Yes, and a little sad as well. Because as much as these images and words bridge time and space, and as much as I believe that oldest virtual world and connection of all (ideas and images which we hold in our mind) do the same, there is no substitute for local living.

xo

bb

Not sure why I love the grime and decay of New York, but I do.

Hang on Emmy!

On the road, BB edition

2010-12-09T21:37:00.000-05:00

Friends,

I am back on the road for the next days. In some ways exciting (frequent flier miles - attempted exclamation point), in other ways not (14 hours sitting in a middle seat anyone?)

Being more flugelbindery than personal, this trip may not lead to many exciting posts, but it will lead to me being back, and more posts in that sense (if this makes sense - no it does not).

So wish you all a great week or 10 days. Will try to post from the road, but if not, then see you very soon.

xo

bb

Super sad true love story

2010-12-03T11:27:00.000-05:00

Every returning New Yorker asks the question: Is this still my city?

I have a ready answer, cloaked in obstinate despair: It is.

And if it's not, I will love it all the more. I will love it to the point where it becomes mine again.

* * *

We were walking hand in hand now along the vast grassy Sheep Meadow, which felt comfortable and familial, like a worn rumpus-room carpet or a badly made bed. Beyond it, on three sides, lay the constellation of once-tall buildings, the old ones mansard-topped and stoic, the new ones covered with blinking information.

* * *

Gray clouds bearing some kind of industrial remnant moved into the foreground; a yellow substance etched itself into the horizon, became the horizon, became the night. As the sky darkened, we found ourselves enclosed on three sides by the excess of our civilization, yet the ground beneath our feet was soft and green, and behind us lay a hill bearing trees as small as ponies. We walked in silence...

* * *

It was time to leave. We headed south, and when the trees ran out the park handed us over to the city. We surrendered to a skyscraper with a green mansard roof and two stark chimneys. New York exploded all around us, people hawking, buying, demanding, streaming. The city's density caught me unprepared, and I reeled from its imposition, its alcoholic fumes, its hubris, its loud, dying wealth....

-- from Super sad true love story: a novel, by Gary Shteyngart

Too much to work, too much time

2010-11-30T20:38:00.001-05:00

It was Thanksgiving here the past weekend. Even though it's my favorite American holiday, I'm rarely around to enjoy it. The four day weekend is normally an irresistible opportunity to travel, often to Canada, occasionally to Europe, and even India a few times. So I usually miss out on a festival that is all about gathering with friends and family, and cooking and enjoying good food. It is day on which it is all about making something (perhaps many things) and being together, rather than buying things (although that starts on day after Thanksgiving, the infamous Black Friday).

This time I decided to stay put, which necessitated the further decision of whether to stay in Boston or New York. New York was appealing, with more than one friend's Thanksgiving dinner to choose from and after all it is New York. But after a lot of road trips recently and more travel on the way, staying put after the work week seemed like the nicest possible thing. So stay put I did. A colleague invited me over, a colleague who I like, who had invited other colleagues who I like. It turns out they cook well, but I had taken the precaution of bringing a really nice cheese plate with me. And it's the one occasion when no one looks askance if you try three different kinds of cake and pie and then return for seconds. And then a friend was visiting from New York, and then another, so all in all it was really nice.

The only problem was that I had too much time on my hands. No, really I mean it. It's not that I don't enjoy a good holiday. I got up on Thursday and was mentally running around the house imagining the thrill of a day without work, while physically I stayed in bed an extra hour (or two -- it's a great combination). Then I did the same again on Friday, And on Saturday. By Saturday evening I had had so much of doing nothing that I was desperately trying to find the Netflix movies I knew were lurking somewhere in the house (The Mirror, where are you when I need you?)

On Sunday I woke early, but while I was engaged in my now habitual early morning laze the thought of all the work I had postponed popped into my mind. I realized that I had so much work to do that if I worked non-stop for the next 10 days I might just make it through to my next trip. It did take another 12 hours for me to succumb to that thought, but by evening I was working flat out, with one thought rankling me: if I had just worked two or three hours each day over Thanksgiving then that would be have one less episode of Hurling Pumpkins and a few less days of hair-pulling over the next few days.

Perhaps true, but nonetheless those four days of ~~nothing~~ everything were fantastic.

I leave you with some snaps of the last week.

A fantastically vertiginous room at the ICA, Boston

Do you spot the moon?

Follow the birdie, SoHo. NYC

Crossing boundaries, SoHo, NYC

xo

bb

Before it's too late (or is it too late already?)

2010-11-15T18:17:00.002-05:00

I have posted and confessed before about my unusual musical tastes. I often tell people that the 1980s were my lost decade, but the truth is so were the 1970s, at least musically (although at the age I was then not everyone has intense musical memories, but some do...)

I'm not blaming anyone; indeed in many ways I am grateful, because the music I listened to growing up is still the core of my listening: mostly European classical music, with some veins of North Indian classical as well. My brother was the real music lover in the family, and he quickly took to European classical music, and I enjoyed drafting off his passion. My parents were very supportive of our interest. You might think it's an easy habit to encourage in your children, but revisit that thought after listening to Richard Strauss's Salomé blasting at full volume while you try to go about your business. My parents were also very generous in letting us travel on our own at an age when you might decide to lock your children in the house for their own good. That travel led me to good places, including Toronto, New York, Vienna, and Salzburg, and was my first exposure to Europe.

I truly came to appreciate this upbringing a few years later, when living on my own I began to revisit all the music I had listened to as a child and teen. And with some transformation that is perhaps maturity or experience everything that I had enjoyed culturally I began to enjoy personally, emotionally, viscerally. A few years later I added jazz into my listen repertoire.

The one byproduct of this path, though, is that my knowledge of anything other than classical music (or jazz to some extent) is random and in some sense tasteless. When I say tasteless, I mean just that I have no coherent taste. I also have gaps in my knowledge that people my age find truly bizarre.

Sometimes I come to music so much later than everyone else that it almost bizarrely retro-cool by the time I get to it. Other times, people shake their heads in mystification when some Robyn makes it into my iPod playlist at parties. Until recently my only real salvation has come through some intense cramming sessions with Mia whenever I am in Venice. The last few months or so I have been doing more than my share of road trips, so the car radio has been keeping my knowledge updated, while doing no good to my taste though.

This brings me at last to Phoenix. I've been reading about them on the blogs (Lola, Jane). I have heard them on the radio. And I've really begun to like them. Perhaps, for once, I might be on the right side of cool to declare my allegiances? But then as I was channel surfing a few nights ago, I heard them in the background to a club/dance scene on a cop drama on network television. Then I began to think, perhaps it's too late.

Oh well, I'll always have Boulez. He's sort of trendy in a Gallic-cuddly-old-man sort of way, isn't he?

xo

bb

You can deal with this or you can deal with that*

2010-11-15T08:45:00.003-05:00

One of my favorite features over at Jane's blog is "You can deal with this or you can deal with that". It points up the essential fact: there are some things you can't avoid. And so in that spirit.

You can deal with this:

(David, the Power of Beauty, in Florence -- temporarily reinstalling a replica of David where it was originally intended to be displayed.)

Or you an deal with that:

Event Horizon by Antony Gormely, which I had seen in London in 2007 and was recently displayed here in New York.

Or come to think of it, this:

The Miracle of the Slave by Tintoretto, which hangs in Accademia in Venice.

xo

bb

* Had a great time with Jane in Montréal over the weekend. Let's just say there were three people, one bottle of prosecco, and only two drinkers....

You decide (8) or On the street where I live

2010-11-09T07:26:00.000-05:00

Ugly or futuristic? Impressive or monstrous? ( I am referring to the tower with terraces and stacked levels.) You decide.

After you've decided, you can follow this link, and if you do let me know whether you changed your mind!

bb

P.S. It's the street where I live in Mumbai...

You decide (7)

2010-11-01T12:45:00.000-04:00

Cute urbanites, annoying overachievers, or just another New York couple?

Kenneth Dickerman for The New York Times

For the full details, you can read the article here. But the gist (liberally drawn from the NYT article) is as follows:

Emily Nemens, the communications director for the Center for Architecture/AIA NY:

Age 27,
Was writer-in-residence at the Kerouac Project in Orlando, Fla., where she completed a short-story collection called “Scrub.”
She contributed to a graphic novel version of Studs Terkel’s “Working,”
Played the baritone saxophone at the Montreux Jazz Festival in Switzerland, twice
She paints, she sews, she plays soccer and she is a virtuoso cook.

Benjamin Shuldiner.

Age 33,
Became the state’s youngest high school principal seven years ago at age 26 when he co-founded the Crown Heights High School for Public Service.
Ran for Congress in a district north of New York City, where his family lives, coming in third in the Democratic primary.
Was a junior state chess champion.
As a student at Harvard, the host of his own hip-hop radio show.
He’s also an ace marksman with a light rifle.

Emily and Benjamin decided to live together, but preferred to rent two apartments right across the hall from each other, "spaces so close that the two of them can dart back and forth in their underwear with little fear of being seen by the neighbors". Their apartments are in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, right near the trendy Bedford Avenue L-train stop. They spend most weekends at Benjamin's three-bedroom house in Mohegan Colony in northern Westchester County.

xo

bb

One-liners (2)

2010-10-29T09:44:00.002-04:00

Life is beautiful

but the world is hell.

-- Harold Pinter, quoted by his wife Antonia Fraser in her memoir "Must you go?"

One-liners (1) or Manifesto

2010-10-29T08:35:00.004-04:00

i
have decided
to be happy
because it
makes me
happy

bb

{I was inspired by this post by Jane.}

Off the wagon and back on again

2010-10-21T17:36:00.000-04:00

No don't worry it's not that kind of thing...

But this week the flugelbindery sent me on a flash trip to DC, and for a few minutes here and there I felt like an addict reintroduced to the drug you've learned to love and hate. Though not in the big leagues of work travelers, I've done my share of the shuttle: New York - Boston was a weekly ritual for a long while, and then NY - DC as well and of course monthly trans-Atlantics for a few years. I had the uncomfortable feeling of recognizing the old me in some of my fellow passengers: shuttle veterans who know the flight staff, regulars who know exactly what they're going to drink or which snacks they like and exactly how many. Not unlike George Clooney in Up in the Air, I quickly recovered my instincts for going through all the security screening without missing a beat. Even the slightly antiseptic, stale smell of the aircraft seemed vaguely comforting and familiar. In short, I was off the wagon.

But then this morning as I woke at 5 am just a few minutes before my alarming was going to ring (yes, that is the worst part; I get so wound up that I end up waking up before the alarm no matter what time I set it to...), the charm had worn off and I was happy to be heading home.

Actually I'm staying in Boston this weekend, and the weather is getting cold, so it could well be one of those stay at home, cook, Netflix, cheese and wine kind of weekends. A good antidote to a hectic week...

* * *

When I travel, the people I admire are those who are beautifully composed, present (i.e. not distracted or frazzled), focused, and uncluttered. The last is the one I wish I could achieve the most, because if I weren't so cluttered, I wouldn't be frazzled, and I would certainly look better composed... I always aspire to travel with nothing in hand. I did do this once on a trip to India, and it was magnificent (but I was staying at home there, so it was possible). But somehow by the time add my computer and the basic clothing, it's already too much. Perhaps one day they'll invent a way to travel with nothing in hand. No clothes, no cellphones, no travel guides or work files weighing you down. Just your hands by your side, your eyes watching, your ears listening to the sounds around you, and your mind enjoying it all.

xo

bb

You decide (6)

2010-10-21T17:09:00.000-04:00

Order, chaos, or harmony?

When the weather is grey (an afternoon indulgence)

2010-10-15T15:30:00.000-04:00

When the weather is grey, and I've almost tamed the beast of work (or let's just say worked hard enough to put it to sleep for a few hours), and I've managed to elude guilt for an afternoon, I allow myself the occasional indulgence of an afternoon at the cinema. And one of the pleasures of New York is that you get to see things before almost anyone else (except of course your friends who frequent film festivals). Clint, Matt, here I come...

xo

bb

You decide (5)

2010-10-15T14:55:00.000-04:00

Bizarre, beautiful, or both?

{from Scouting New York}

A Boston weekend

2010-10-11T10:00:00.000-04:00

A New York weekend

2010-10-11T09:54:00.000-04:00

Happy

2010-10-06T16:39:00.000-04:00

As they say in Hollywood, I am humbled.

No, what I mean is that I am honored and touched to be included in such fine company by Jude, whose blog I love reading -- I know I have a smile in store for me when I see that she has a new post up, whether it's a musing, a picture of Hawaii, or a recipe...

I am supposed to write about 10 things that I love. I'm not sure which way this list will go, but let's start and see:

1
Over the last few years I have developed a (small) obsession with (veggie) burgers. It might seem strange for a vegetarian to obsessed with burgers, but really I have my mother to credit or blame. She makes the tastiest veggie burgers: a potato, carrot, and pea patty filled with delicious Indian spices, and served on a bun with onion and green chutney. (A good reminder -- I've got to ask my mother for the recipe.) It's gotten to the point that I'll even eat the bland oat and who-knows-what veggie burgers you get in bars.

2
Over the last two months I have fallen for Toscanini's Ice Cream in Cambridge. Toscanini has been in Cambridge as long and longer than I've been here. But when I first moved here I was very much a gelato person. I still am. But recently I came to realize that American ice cream, if made by mad geniuses, can be a wonderful thing in its own distinct way. I don't go for the traditional flavors here, but their kulfi (which is Indian ice cream - somehow they transform it into ice cream exploding with cardamom flavor), green tea, black sesame, and salty caramel would probably make my top-10 list of best ice creams I've had.

3
Wine -- why deny it? -- is a happy part of my well-balanced diet. But let me narrow it down more. The love of the moment is German Riesling. Somehow as one grows in sophistication as a wine drinker, one tends to gravitate toward drier wines, but I've been on the opposite swing recently , recognizing that some sweeter wines are exploding with flavor, subtlety, and joy. German Rieslings make almost everyone happy. Initially people ask themselves, should I confess to loving a wine that tastes (varyingly) sweet? The answer for me is yes.

4
In keeping with the food theme...

5
Well, the next confession is a big one. Mad Men. Yes, it's the first television show I've allowed myself to be pulled into in years. The characters, the story, the epoch, and the visual integrity -- it is difficult to resist the combination. And speaking of the visuals, each episode is like a game of hide and seek for people who love post-war design. There's always some contemporary piece of design hiding in the frame.

6
This is quite a leap, or perhaps not, but opera is something I have loved since... well, shall I confess?... 1984. How do I remember the year? Because my brother and I became obsessed with the scene from Don Giovanni in Amadeus, which came out in the 1984 (apparently -- I would have guessed 1982...)

7
Perhaps this then is exactly the right moment to confess that about 10 years after everyone else I've finally discovered Norman Quentin Cook, aka Fatboy Slim, or more precisely discovered that I already knew his music, which is the kind of thing that you would have had to live in a cave not to know to some degree. There's something bizarre and fun in being out of cycle with everyone else (at least sometimes). (I wonder what my contemporary music adviser will make of this self-directed discovery? Mia, I hope I have not gone astray!)

8
I love 3-legged chairs. I have two sets of them. One that looks like this:

(indeed, this is my dining table in New York). And the other like this

I have been told they are a little impractical, especially by guests who tip over while seated on them... But that's why I love them (the impracticality I mean, not specifically the tipping over part). They are outside nature and just from the human imagination.

9
While I'm on the acquisitive wavelength, I recently acquired one of these:

And it's instant love. I remember as a child my father would tell my brother and me stories in which the municipal water supply was suddenly transformed into coke, or milk, or juice. Well, this machine has the same element of magic to it. I've concluded that my one true addiction is bubbly water. And I've been carting those bottles home from the grocery for years now. Forget the environmental damage, it's my back (and hands) that I'm worried about... Now I filter and chill the water and have bubbly water on tap. Magic.

10
Finally I love the Sunday New York Times. In New York, you actually get most of it on Saturday, but I am disciplined and don't read any of it until Sunday morning. My Sunday habits have changed over the years, but right now it's this. I get up, walk out in search of the weekend brekkie (usually a croissant, but having failed to find good ones recently I've switched to a brioche). Back home, I make cappuccino, climb back into bed, and the paper for a few hours.

Now there are a few good thoughts to tide me over till the weekend!

xo

bb

You decide (4)

2010-10-01T10:17:00.001-04:00

When I first began living by myself, as a student back in the 20th Century, my parents helped me to move into my place. As my parents were leaving, I noticed my father slip an envelop into my desk drawer, but was too busy saying my goodbyes to my mother to ask.

I didn't think it was money, since I had already gone through a series of big talks with my father (my parents more generally, but in general my father took the lead in these talks, interestingly even if the topic was domestic matters - something like cooking - in which he had little experience) on how to get by. I was half right, and half wrong.

It was indeed an envelop with "Emergency Cash" written on it, containing a hundred dollars. When I asked him about it over the phone a few days later, he said that I should hang on to it for one of those situations in which I lose my wallet and the bank doesn't open for another day.

The envelop remained unopened for 18 years, indeed until yesterday.

It's not that I had specifically avoided opening it, but I'm a pretty organize person. Thankfully, I've never had my wallet stolen (although someone did once pickpocket me for some poems, but that's another story). But yesterday I left my wallet at the office. I didn't feel like driving back, but I had a yearning for ice cream.

I thought about trying to offer them Euros from my leftover travel money or pooling together leftover change, but then I recalled that somewhere in my current apartment that envelop must still exist. It does. Orange-honey-ginger and rosemary ice cream never tasted as good.

Tonight I'll top up my emergency fund for whenever I need it next.

bb

You decide (3)

2010-09-27T07:43:00.001-04:00

Abstract? Or all too real?

You decide (2)

2010-09-24T07:50:00.001-04:00

Genius, evil, or evil genius?

{all images Michael Nagle for The New York Times}

You decide

2010-09-21T06:43:00.000-04:00

When I was 13 or so I told my father that I wanted (needed, really) a pair of gloves. I needed these gloves because when we went traveling every summer I would help my father with our baggage, which had an impressive mathematical inevitability: five people, two bags each, ten bags total. Add to that a European sojourn on our way to India, rolling baggage carts that had only three wheels, at least one of which always pointed in a different direction from the other two. I liked to try to be helpful. But lifting those bags would leave my hands a little raw, so I thought a pair of gloves would solve the problem.

I imagined something like leather driving gloves, something jaunty and fun, for which it's true I did expect I would find a few other uses.

My father thought it over, and told me that the only gloves he could offer me at the moment were a pair of oversize cotton gardening gloves.

So I wore these - without any embarrassment - for a few summers while we were at airports. I stopped using them after an immigration officer in Tokyo asked me to remove my gloves and to show him my hands.

You decide.

xo

bb

A confession

2010-09-18T16:22:00.000-04:00

"And at [its] ... best, [it] ... was (is) almost heartbreakingly beautiful. That accounts for the disturbance we can feel when it goes off, as if ... the order of the world had been ever-so-slightly upset. But it’s heartbreaking to watch, too, because we intuit the fragility of perfection, its evanescence."

“What matters most ... [is] the victory, but what really gives you a deep personal satisfaction is to feel that you’ve become a better ... [person] because that’s the real product of the everyday work...”

* * *

The first quote above is about someone of whom I am a fan.

The second quote above is from someone who I admire.

* * *

A confession. Both are tennis players.

xo

bb

Nine words

2010-09-17T11:08:00.000-04:00

Man

hungry

for

beauty.

There

void.

~ Oscar Wilde

A Sunday in September

2010-09-12T18:35:00.000-04:00

Some other uses of your time

2010-09-09T22:01:00.000-04:00

I had a few extra hours to spare, so I was watching Masculin féminin and Alphaville by Godard.

I enjoyed both, but especially the former. Alphaville is, in the end, too much of a genre parody for me, and being a highly literate, referential, and genre-bending parody doesn't change this basic fact. Though it's clever, beautiful, and exhilarating, when Anna Karina utters the closing lines of the film and the music swells, the words "Je vous aime" seem to fall flat despite all that.

Masculin féminin is another matter altogether. It still feels like a fresh look at the youth of that generation with Chantal Goya as the self-consciously innocent yé-yé and Jean-Pierre Léaud as the idealistic, left-wing intellectual. It's got all the usual in there, discussions of love, sex, and politics, documentary-style interviews, and random shootouts. But in the end for me it was the young and awkward love that was most touching, and that made the ending hit home.

Now that I am beginning to appreciate, if not entirely love, some of the classic early Godard, it's probably time to venture into his films from the '70s, '80s, '90s...

xo

bb

It's happened

2010-09-04T09:30:00.000-04:00

It's happened. As always, sooner than expected. Actually, they have happened. I thought I had posted so recently, only to discover that it has been more than a week. And of course the other happening -- already Labor Day, the end of summer, the back to school time that after all these years still stirs various emotions and chemicals in me (sure some excitement, sure some nostalgia for summer, but more than that the slightly queasy anticipation and heightened awareness of someone preparing to head back into battle -- of course these days the battle is continual, but it's Pavlovian conditioning...)

So while I Labor away (ha!), here are a few images for the weekend, a grab bag of summer:

If you're a boy, girl, adult or child heading back to a desk, you might want to pay attention to this man. If you're going to be glued to a desk, it might as well look like this:

Spotted this charming and slightly disturbing pair in a park (Fort Tryon Park) a few weeks ago. It's a bit of an awwww/ ewwww depending on your persepctive:

And a New York summer tradition for me (and incidentally, is it tai chi or tennis? What balance, what strength...)

Another piece of summer I'm going to miss: lunch with fresh ingredients... and at home...

Have a great weekend and see you all soon!

xo

bb

Better living...

2010-08-24T14:22:00.000-04:00

...through good design. Repeat with me: it is possible; it is possible; it is possible...

{image from the Design History Mashup}

u-n-i-f-o-r-m

2010-08-21T19:06:00.000-04:00

I made the mistake of today of heading down to SoHo for a bit of sale shopping. (A while back, I had written about this ultimate, New York summer sport.)

Well, truth be told, the mistake began on Thursday when I headed for the legendary (but perhaps overrated?) Barney's Warehouse Sale. There used to be queues around the block for this. I took a friend with me for support and some tag-team shopping, and so as it turned out we were heading to both the men's and women's sections. The atmosphere inside is brisk and practical, but not aggressive. No two-people-grab-one-item thing going on. But lots of excuse-me's as people slide a little too close behind you.

And no need for false modesty here. Everyone has come with their sculpted abs and well-toned legs, so if you're a man and need to try on a shirt and happen not to be the t-shirt wearing type (and by large, most men here weren't), then you unpack your 6-pack and get on with the task. Women were a little more modest and far-sighted. Some had worn tight fitting outfits (like leggings and t-shirt) that allowed you to try on outfits on top. Some were far-sighted in another sense - wearing underwear that could withstand public scrutiny (shorts were a popular choice). But even the trial room (note, singular) was just a section cordoned off with a curtain that was fluttering open altogether too often.

Not to pretend I was shocked, or even discomfitted. It's just that no matter how much I am used to these things I'm from India -- there was no way I was going to be trying on any clothes here! (As with many such things, the story about when I updated my sense of fitting room etiquette is from Paris. I was at a sample sale of women's stuff, actually at the Place des Vosges. There were enough men wandering around, shopping with or for a woman. But women seem unperturbed trying on tops and bottoms. Let's just say it was a "I'm not in India anymore" moment.)

Getting back to today's blunder, I was wandering SoHo at a few designers I like. Why I chose Saturday when I could have gone mid-week, I don't know. And why I stepped into Topshop with its pounding music I truly don't know. But I realized that I seemed to be drawn to things some version of which I already had. Not surprising -- we like what we like. But what I really mean is that I seemed to be looking for staples: the kind of item that is stylish and well construct and can last you a decade or two at least, because it evokes exactly that kind of style that will never be out of style, even though it may only periodically be truly in. And this reminded me of my other quixotic quest: to have a uniform. An outfit that is so perfect for me that I can own 10 of everything and wear it day after day. An outfit so precisely me, that people will know it's me without knowing who I am.

Actually, it turns out for a few of my student and early work years, I had almost achieved this. A friend would mention me to another friend, and somehow they would be sure they had seen me wandering around. I can't really fess up to the outfit, but I will say that it wasn't bizarre, although a little unusual. They key was uniformity. I would somehow end up wearing some variation of the outfit five days a week, and I did have about 10 of everything. Of course, in those days, I also used to eat the same dinner every night for six months in a row. It's fair to say that post-student life has made (a little) more normal!

xo

bb

Cool cat

2010-08-19T11:39:00.000-04:00

{from the summer archive / my image, please do not use without permission}

The term cool cat probably brings to mind a jazz performer stalking the stage of a dim café. Though I had to look twice, there was doubt that I had encountered one cool cat in the middle of 36+ degree Rajasthan.

Paris in the summertime

2010-08-15T13:40:00.000-04:00

Perhaps, like me, you've visited Paris in all the wrong seasons. True, there is never a wrong season to visit any great city, but then there are certainly the right seasons to visit: the periods when all the people in the know suddenly descend like a flock of birds, peck at the seeds for a few days, before dispersing again (odd image that I plucked from my head... but the right people tend to have the right look, hence they tend I'm sure to peck at bird seeds whilst in Paris).

August is certainly one of those wrong seasons. Stylish Parisians and their friends are all sunning themselves in the south. Some (many?) of the more elegant spots not feeling the need to cater to hungry tourists board up for the month. But the one thing that keeps going, as I was reminded in this article by Tony Scott in the NY Times, are the little pocket cinemas where on any given day you have any kind of retrospective you might want: from silent Westerns of the 1920s to a 16 hour Rocky marathon.

"Love, sophistication, eroticism, danger, class struggle, violence, tenderness, political intrigue — any effect, theme or motif you can contemplate is likely to have a Paris address. You can recognize these local habitations even if you have never visited the city. When you do visit, you often have the uncanny feeling of walking through a movie..."

"The actual Louvre, imposing as it may be, comes alive when encountered in the sprint through its galleries undertaken by Arthur, Franz and Odile in Jean-Luc Godard’s “Band of Outsiders.”"

And every walk by every riverside in Paris is filled with cinematic possibilities...

If you'll pardon a bit of overreaching here. there was a book (Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human) by the critic Harold Bloom which argued that Shakespeare not only reflects that gamut of human emotions, but creates them. In the same way, Scott seems to argue, the cinema makes Paris Paris, and the Paris we see through our eyes is through the filmmakers lens.

xo

bb

New and old New York

2010-08-03T11:29:00.000-04:00

I have this image in my mind of Woody Allen zooming around in a car, I'm thinking driven by Diane Keaton in Manhattan. I'm not sure, and Google is really letting me down on this one. Why do I mention it? Well, living in New York, and seeing the romanticized version of Manhattan, you immediately come face to face with some key facts. Most people I know cannot afford the kinds of apartments that the characters live in. And the people I do know who live in such apartments tend not to be working in the kinds of jobs Woody Allen's characters tend to favor. No matter, for me romanticized is good. Shot in gorgeous black and white, Woody Allen makes New York seem as romantic as Paris (and of course that means bittersweet heartbreak as well, a key to Parisian romance, no?) I love watching on a big screen where I am submerged in the image, and even the generic New York street backgrounds come alive with magic and, yes, seem so romantic...

Cut to colour, and me driving in my Mini around Manhattan. It's not only the stuff of cinema. I've been parking the car here for the summer, and so when the other day the Aged P was in town, I decided to pick him up at the airport. So there I was doing the crosstown on 125th and over the Triborough (now Robert Kennedy) bridge. And the journey back! Crossing the bridge, the skyline, and above all just driving along the street like a tracking shot (filmmakers, correct me here please!), except that you're not watching a screen, nor craning your neck from the backseat of a taxi, but watching the city unfold from the drivers seat. Delis, nail salons, pharmacies, hotels. apartment building marquees, glimmer and garbage each finding their place.

Yes, I might as well confess it...

[cue the Gershwin]

I adore New York City. 
Idolize it all out of proportion. "
                 
Uh, no. Make that "Romanticize it
all out of proportion. "
                 
"To me, 
no matter what the season was, 
           
this is still a town
that exists in black and white
        
and pulsates to the great tunes
of George Gershwin. "
                
Uh... no. Let me start this over. 

bb

What might they have talked about?

2010-07-30T17:58:00.001-04:00

{From left: Andy Warhol, David Whitney, Philip Johnson, Dr. John Dalton, and Robert A. M. Stern in the Glass House in 1964. Photography by David McCabe}

{From ArchDaily.}

Fashion fast

2010-07-22T08:28:00.000-04:00

There was an interesting article in the New York Times about individuals who went on a "fashion fast" . The challenge was to live with only 6 items of clothing for one month (underwear, shoes, and accessories not counted).

It made me think that in a certain way it's what I've been doing for the last 3 months. Admittedly not just 6 items, more like 18 (ok, perhaps 24), but it was quite liberating to be limited to just the clothes I had brought with me for all occasions and weather. While I did miss many things I have at home, rarely did I feel deprived. Indeed, I must confess it was really my shoes I missed most from my full range of choices at home.

But now dear reader my fashion fast is becoming a fashion fast forward -- I'm heading home!

xo

bb

Another nutrionally balanced meal....

2010-07-19T06:03:00.000-04:00

Perhaps nature was trying to send me a message...

2010-07-12T08:51:00.000-04:00

It is an honour

2010-07-08T03:02:00.001-04:00

I was lucky enough to be given this token of recognition from the inimitable, stylish, eclectic, and always-has-such-good-taste blogger Jane on the Nearness of Distance. I am touch, honored, and thrilled.

I am supposed to - and will - tell you seven things about myself. I am never sure whether to go toward the big and important or toward the small, irrelevant, but in fact utterly essential. But of course this indecision is very much part of the award ritual since I always eventually decide on the latter. So here we go:

I am prone to food obsessions. I once ate ravioli with butter and sage four nights a week for about six months. It was delicious. Why eat anything else? Like many people (?), my breakfast is unvarying for 5-year stretches or longer.
I believe fervently in a concept known as the "fun breakfast". During the week, my breakfast is always the same: yogurt and tea. But on the weekends, I get to have the fun breakfast. The fun breakfast varies by local conditions. I think this goes back to my childhood: on weekdays we ate healthy breakfast cereals but on weekends we were allowed to eat the sweet ones. And this is important: travel breakfast=fun breakfast.
I am currently obsessed with Ricola. Not just any old Ricola. The the ones that come in a box and that are lozenge shaped (not the chewy ones that come in a small box, or the individually wrapped ones, or the small cube shaped ones).

It of course happens that this is exactly the shape that is not sold in the United States (though I've heard a rumor - urban legend? - that there is kosher deli in Williamsburg that sells them). And notice all the flavors that we don't get in the US: elderflower and sage. Notice in the picture that the pink box says salbei on it? Proof that they don't export this flavor. It's a conspiracy.
To wit, I believe in conspiracy theories. No, not the second-shooter, Elvis-lives variety. The conspiracies I see come in two types. Some fantastic product that I find abroad is not sold in the country where I live, and I must (must!) have this product, but there is just no way to get it. The second conspiracy is even more insidious. Have you ever encountered the perfect product in some category? Just to fix ideas, the perfect pair of shoes: comfortable enough to wear every day, stylish enough to wear with fancy outfits. If such a product were invented, they would have to stop selling it, because it would destroy the industry. Well, such conspiracies are real. Believe me.
I'm convinced that I've discovered the cure for jet leg. Two glasses of Champagne before every trans-oceanic flight, one glass before a shorter flight. Always follow with a glass of water. Works like a charm.
I seem to have an affinity for countries that begin with the letter I.
I am a recent but enthusiastic convert to the Kindle. I don't own the reader, but use the app on my iPod touch (which was a recent hand-me-down acquisition). I know people of my vintage (and older) always fret: it's not the same as reading a book. I agree, and in so many ways (touch, smell, heft). I love my relationship with books (indeed, relationship: first you flirt, then you're all over each other, and then there's the long affectionate after glow), but when traveling the Kindle reader is great. You flick through pages with no effort, and you don't end up carrying around two volumes of Proust with you (which is what I in fact have been doing for the last two months)...

I'm not going to tag anyone yet. But I know you're out there, and I'll tag you soon!

xo

bb

Simple facts

2010-07-01T10:02:00.001-04:00

I'm a little frazzled and edgy today, the reason being that I'm not sleeping well. And the reason for that in turn is simple: sunrise. I'm always caught a little off-guard at this time of year by the long days. They are wonderful aren't they? But long days imply either early sunrise, late sunset, or both. Early sunrise can be a great thing if you're a farmer readying to milk the cows, a hiker wanting to make as much progress as possible during the cool early daylight hours, or possibly a rodent eager to gather nuts. Late sunset of course means long leisurely nights out.

Less extreme than sleep deprivation, but more insidious, is confusion and disorientation. With years of habits we come to associate certain feelings and activities with certain levels of light. You wake up feelingly like you've just gone to sleep (and you have) -- it should be dark. You're out having far too many drinks after dinner and stumbling home -- it should be dark. You arrive at your first appointment for the day -- it should be light.

One of my vivid memories of my year in London was waking up to broad daylight, feeling tired, and then discovering it wasn't yet 5 am. These are the simple facts as of 1 July:

City	Sunrise	Sunset	Daylight hours
New York	05:29	20:31	15:02
London	04:47	21:21	16:34
Paris	05:51	21:58	16:07
Mumbai	06:05	19:20	13:15

It explains everything, doesn't it? In New York, nights out are dark at this time of year, and I wake up as the sun is on the rise (I'm afflicted with a serious case of early rising.) In London, sun rises at 4.47 am. How does one cope with this? Are drapes heavier? Are sales of eye masks one per man, woman, and child? And Paris, sunset almost 10 pm, with dusk taking you to almost 10.30 pm, those long endless evenings. They were not just figments of your imagination. They really happened. (Well, at least the light. For the rest, I can't say.) And Mumbai, sunrise 6 am. Memories of being woken by the parents as they make their way to play tennis, and deciding since I'm awake and won't get back to sleep I might as well go. Listening to the morning birds. Watching (being blinded by) the rising sun as the game plays out.

It all makes sense.

xo

BB

Postcards

2010-06-28T04:33:00.000-04:00

Hey friends!

As you can see I'm not in the south anymore... Goodbye sirens and hello Rhine maidens... Last night was the Germany vs. UK match. The horns blasting the whole night long! Thinking of you...

xo

bb

* * *

I'm guessing that all of us are old enough to remember postcards. It was a wonderful ritual of travel. You would browse around for something typical, or beautiful, or funny, or ironic (or all of the above). You would find a nice cafe table and scribble away. Then you would wander around looking for the right postage. First you would look for a post office. But then you would recall that tobacconists sold postage as well. And you would then apply postage, and in the final stage hunt around for a postbox.

And of course there was the other side of the ritual. Getting them in the mail! Sometimes a relative (parents - wish you where here!), a friend, or occasionally someone or the other who you had a crush on (or even who had a crush on you). Back in the days before Facebook and e-mail and Skype, that was all we had to engage in long-distance flirtation. Of course if the flirtation got serious you could also take it up to the next level. And back in the day that meant a letter (not wink-wink texting as it might mean these days).

I'm not judging or ranking. Today's methods have their own thrills. But the older style did too.

xo

bb

The problem with the view

2010-06-25T02:37:00.000-04:00

This is one for the kvetch committee if ever there were one. Take a look at the views below, taken at breakfast on various days this week. You'll see the problem immediately.

You see my point? No one is willing to believe that I have been working hard this week. I tell them about my offsite, and they sound sympathetic for a moment until I tell them the location. And if I make the mistake of sharing the view, then sympathy seems to go out the window. Why?

Is there anything more maddening than to be locked into a darkened room and forced to talk about flugelbindery when you know such a view is hovering at the window? Is there anything more painful than breathing the stale air of a meeting room when you could be inhaling the fresh breezes rolling in from the sea? Is there anything more cruel than being forced to hear the cheers of the boys and girls watching the Italy versus Slovakia in the neighboring room, but not being able to watch?

When I'm finally done for the day, I'm supposed to catch up with a day's worth of office e-mail since apparently and in fact I am working. And of course then you're coping with a slow internet connection (imagine trying to suck a block of ice through a straw -- that's roughly how it feels).

And then you stumble from the building just as the sun is setting and some of the boys from accounting want to take you out for a drink. And then they won't stop talking about the latest office gossip. And then it's dark and late, and you've had too many drinks and too little food. You stumble off to sleep, wake up feeling groggy, and start the whole thing again...

All right, this is probably the moment to admit I've exaggerate a bit, a wee bit -- I did sneak off for a few hours yesterday and stroll down to the sea. But you get the idea: there's no sympathy for hard working folks...

bb

Goodbye Naples, Hello India (Goodbye India, Hello Basel)

2010-06-16T01:40:00.000-04:00

Friends much travel since we last were together on these pages. My time in Naples came to an end, then I went off to India, and now before I know what's what I'm back in Europe, in Basel. The good news I'll get to see some of Art Basel while I'm here. The bad news is that the holiday is over.

I'll try to post some pics of India soon. But in the meanwhile two parting images of Naples...

xo

bb

Jumpology

2010-05-24T18:32:00.001-04:00

In case you haven't seen this in the NY Times, scoot over there now. You'll smile. Really you will.

{image link from the New York Times}

xo

bb

For all you with World Cup Fever

2010-05-22T13:42:00.000-04:00

And I know who you are ;-)

bb

Slowing down, speeding up

2010-05-21T13:09:00.000-04:00

The whole idea of accepting the assignment in Naples was to slow down a bit. When I'm in Bos-NY, the days spin by so quickly, with work and then getting home (whichever one that is) and then keeping myself busy. Here I imagined I would stop to smell the flowers while nibbling on some cheese and sipping white wine, if you'll pardon that very badly mixed image (especially since Italians don't really believe in food on the move -- standing at a bar yes, moving no). I have actually managed two of those three, but that's another story.

(But can't resist one of those stories. My neighborhood cremeria gets mozzarella from Avellino every morning. And I'm not being a snob here or anything, but truly it tastes heavenly just for the day. Even the next day the flavor diminishes.)

But slow down? Not really. Here it seems as though are blowing by. I've met friends, seen art, worked hard, had fun, but not really slowed down. Perhaps that's just not meant to be me?

Well, I leave you with two images then from a recent exhibition I went to by Mat Collishaw. Any guess what these are? I'll tell you below...

It is a lithograph on Corian...

bb

Food for the stomach and mind

2010-05-14T10:18:00.000-04:00

Am I little embarrassed by my food obsession? I am. But not too much. An Italian friend of mine worked for a while with a travel agency in Boston which arranged guide tours of Italy. She the most common question that she would get is: what will we eat? It can cut both ways. I have known Americans who must travel with their Oreo cookies (and not just to single out Americans, Gujarati's - my people - are known to travel with their own snacks, dry chutneys, and if they can afford it their own chef) and those who are more excited about the food they will eat than what they will see.

For me Naples has been mostly about work (sadly, but the Flugelbindery is paying the bills) and meeting friends (much happier -- and the nice thing is that this a small town in the end - you meet people everywhere - crossing the street, in cafe, walking home late at night...). But I can't deny a thrill when I go to the local cremeria and see little balls of mozzarella floating lazily like fat fish in a tank. And I won't deny the thrill of seeing a cheese platter when I'm invited to dinner.

But for me also food for the mind (less fattening, you know?). Below a picture from Rita McBride's latest exhibition in Naples. Can you guess what the shapes are?

The neon versions were constructed by an aged neon master in Naples who I had the chance to meet.

Though I haven't read them before, Rita McBride is famous for her "faux" novels. Her first was a faux museum catalog / romance. She has also done faux science fiction. Very cool woman.

Thursday lunch box, Naples

2010-05-06T05:08:00.001-04:00

I have no nostalgia for the lunch box. Lunch hour at school was a difficult experience for me. I was a finicky eater and was usually stuck with food that I didn't really like (Is it really my fault though? Is Havarti really the best cheese for a child's lunch box?) or that I liked but that was so bizarre that the other kids made fun of me (I recall one really great day when my mother gave up and gave me a piece of cake for lunch -- I realize now that my classmates were probably jealous, but that's not the way it came across then -- and in case you are worrying about my health -- don't -- my mother did that only once).

In any case, here at the Flugelbindery in Naples we have a pretty basic cafeteria. But basic in Naples includes at least three freshly cooked contorni and fresh mozzarella on offer. Oh, and a coffee bar manned by Pepe (who smokes while he draws the coffee and who is constantly rolling up the sleeves of his half-sleeved t-shirt even further, but I digress).

But one of the boys (ok - I mean older gentlemen) brought in some nice pasta and an apple for lunch. So I got to thinking, perhaps I should bring my own lunch with me. You have Exhibit A above: olives, arugula, fresh tomatoes, mozzarella (hidden underneath, you can't see it), olive oil that put at at the bottom of one of the cups, a piece of bread, and in the bag a small little cake).

My mother doesn't read my blog, but you can bet that I'm going to send her this picture!

xo

bb

This morning in Naples

2010-05-01T10:49:00.000-04:00

Cappuccino 1.30 Euros
Cornetto con crema 1.00 Euros
1 glass water gratis
Total 2.30 Euros

bb

P.S. Approximatley US$ 3.05. Starbucks, where is thy sting? Dunkin Donuts, where is thy glory?

P.P.S. When I first started the blog, way back when (oh, it's been a while), I intended this to be a regular feature. Only my second installment. Let's see if I can do a few more while I'm here.

Back on the ground (or The summer adventure begins)

2010-04-29T03:51:00.001-04:00

The boys at the flugelbindery have been kind enough to let me do a few traveling gigs over the summer. Normally this isn't my kind of thing -- you know, the sleeping alone in a king size bed at the Double-8 Motel on route 182 routine, the bad coffee and stale muffins for breakfast lifestyle, the zombie channel surfing in the hopes finding an episode of Seinfeld, Friends, or Frasier that you haven't seen twice in the last two weeks. But this is different. This is the kind of on-the-road flugelbindery that will take me to Naples for month and Germany for another month with a few weeks in India to recharge BB's cells.

(You notice that it's Naples and Germany, not Italy and Germany, or Naples and Cologne. No Germany seems to be state of mind, whereas Italy is a specificity of lifestyle.)

Maybe this the ultimate revenge against all those boys and girls about town who I tried and failed to emulate. (Did I mention an off-site in Ischia? Take that you white-wine sipping, sockless loafer clad*, impeccably dressed, and already-well tanned boys and girls about town...)

In any case, I'll keep you posted as usual!

More soon...

xoxo

bb

* Summer gives you many footwear options, both open and closed. But the one combination I just cannot pull off is wearing shoes without socks. I admire those who can and do. I envy them. But I just can't emulate them. Perhaps it was the way I was raised

The other half (or Boy/girl about town)

2010-04-22T12:28:00.000-04:00

I've recently and persistently been telling my Kvetch Committee, "I want to be be a boy/girl about town." Well, some background is required for this.

First, I have a kvetch committee. Don't you? If you don't, you need to get one. After all, one must share one's petty complaints with someone on a regular basis. But any one person would be overwhelmed. Hence form a committee.

Second, yes, I really would be happy being either a boy or girl about town, as these are often different but can overlap. A boy about town is nicely dressed (either casual or preppy - I'm fine with either) and not doing much (strolling through the park, sitting sipping white wine or an espresso, walking along the street with a folded newspaper or some other not too bulky accessory).

A girl about town comes in many varieties: with child or without (and within with-child the two variants: one's own or someone else's); young or not so young (and note here, un/fortunately age is not a factor in making you a boy about town - young and old seem to do it in the same way; for women it does seem to affect what how they go about it -- but don't worry in my books young doesn't stop at any particular age -- it's more a mater of attitude).

So getting back to the girls about town. The ones with their own babies have that look of dressed-down luxury, and as the day proceeds tend to have more and more packages piled up on their strollers. The ones with other people's babies look a little bit busier (after all, they are working). The younger girls about town are usually doing something: window shopping, sitting and reading, chatting with a friend. And I must confess, I haven't yet figured out what older girls about town are up to.

And working back to my complaint. Now that it's spring, I've been whining that I want to be a boy/girl about town. But the only occasions I can find are to run errands around town. Don't get me wrong - so lovely to walk across the park on the way to some work, or bicycle along the river. But it's that I want to be one of those boys/girls about town (see above), not someone out running errands.

So I was out today to get my suitcase repaired for an upcoming trip (for an upcoming trip!) I had to cab it over there, but decided to walk back across the Upper East Side and through the park. And there they were, that not so rare species of boy/girl about town, sipping their coffees, looking leisurely and fabulous, tall and lean.

One day, I said to myself, I too will be a boy/girl about town. That day, I hope is this today. An update next time!

bb

The Big Boys' Corner

2010-04-20T08:48:00.000-04:00

The corner of 18th Street and 11th Avenue has become the big boys' corner in New York. Frank Gehry's IAC building looks across at Jean Nouvel's 100 11th Residences. When the IAC Building first went up I must admit I didn't like it. It was probably part of an anti-Gehry mood brought on by among other things the documentary I saw about him. (Or was it being told that a piece of crumpled metal on sale at Tiffany's cost $30,000, because it had been crumpled by Gehry?) I used to disparagingly think of it as Casper the Ghost. But it has grown on me over time, and I think it's one my favorite buildings of his. The fact that the sculptural shape is part of the structure and not just an afterthought metallic add-on is appealing. And the whole shape captures the sense of rippling sails, appropriately enough for a building right on the river.

{image from here: http://www.thealarmclock.com/mt/archives/2007/04/iac_gives_forme.html}

In any case, Novel's building has gone up directly opposite. And I cannot but think of two dogs squaring off at a dog run in Riverside Park. First they glare at each other. Then they sniff each other. Then tails start wagging. And soon enough they are playing. Nouvel's building reflected in Gehry's:

Nouvel's building on the right, playfully reflecting light on Gehry's:

What makes the corner even more interesting is the new building by Shigeru Ban going up right next to Gehry's. You can't see it too well here, but it's really very interesting as well:

And you know what? I think the two big boys have found a new little friend to play with...

xo

BB

Little Dieter needs to fly

2010-04-15T02:40:00.000-04:00

Watched a while back, but never posted on it (could it be? Am I repeating myself?) It's shocking, inspirational. (I know, this sounds like a movie blurb, but it's true....) You watch an older man, with a slight German accent, recounting his horrifying experiences as a prisoner, even reenacting them, with an incredible energy and determination. Even putting his feet into stocks, his hands into handcuffs. It's only a film he says, but you are wondering, inside him, it must revive a learned fear.

Only once do we see him - not break down but - pause to gather himself, to describe how alone he was in the jungle after his fellow escapee was killed. There was only this bear that would follow him around:

"When I think about it, this bear meant death to me, and it is really ironic that's the only friend I had at the end was death."

The only friend I had at the end was death. And hovering above it all is Werner Herzog, with his dry probing narration: "How Dieter Dengler has been able to cope with all this remains a mystery. He hides behind the casual remark that this was the fun part of his life."

Dieter took early retirement and became a test pilot. He survived four more crashes. "Death did not want him."

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Grilling

2010-04-08T10:25:00.001-04:00

I don't know if this is only an American (/ Canadian) thing, but summertime and warm weather makes many people think of grilling. (By the way, it was 33 C in NYC yesterday.) In summer the traditional balance of kitchen power shifts from women to men: women hang up their oven mitts and aprons, and men take out their tongs and charcoal and head to the grill.

Growing up we were not a grilling family. In part this was the perception that grilling was really a non-vegetarian activity. This isn't entirely fair: grilled veggies (and for that matter fruit!) are great. But it is true, you don't see men buying multi-thousand dollar grills all for the sake of some nicely browned eggplants. It also has something to do with the fact that we're from India. Indian husbands don't typically cook (don't want to offend the Indian men out there, but you know that this is usually true). Lack of cooking skill does not however imply lack of cooking knowledge. Ask an Indian wife how to cook some fantastic dish you've just tried, and more often than not the husband will take over the reply and give you detailed instructions on how to make a dish he himself has never tried. (But in fairness to the Indian man, this kind of backseat cooking is a skill in its own right...)

In any case, I discovered not so long ago that my gas oven has a broiler underneath. I'm not sure if you've ever looked below your oven, but if you haven't do so know. A broiler in is basically an oven in reverse, placing your food centimetres from powerful gas jets. Your food is warmed, browned, and crisp in minutes.

Despite this felicitous discovery, my broiler was mainly used to finish omelets, until yesterday that is. For some reason I bought haloumi cheese, not entirely certain what I would do with it. Somehow it remind me of the "grill" and 40 minutes later I was marinading, skewering, and grilling away. (Haloumi, like paneer, is great for grilling.)

Of course, there is a reason why men grill outdoors in the summer. Indoors, in a small apartment it gets hot. But aside from this small detail, it was delicious: tasty and satisfying, while light enough to satisfy my stringent diet.

If you're not already perspiring by reading this, you can find the recipe here. Surprisingly my kebabs came out looking pretty much like this:

{from JamieOliver.com}

And now, you guessed it, I can't stop grilling. I'm still not sure whether or not to tell my parents what I'm up to.

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The flowers that bloom in the spring

2010-04-06T06:58:00.000-04:00

It's springtime. The sun is shining. The flowers are blooming and singing their siren song to me, as I try to focus on the flugelbindery. It looks something like this.

Every day I tell myself the same thing: today I will be that person about town I always yearn to be. You know, the one sipping white wine with lunch a sidewalk café in SoHo. The one reading a book and sunning without a care in the world at 11 a.m. on a weekday. The one calmly doing groceries at 2 pm in the afternoon rather than doing the after-work frantic-pile-up-in-your-arms routine. The one discreetly sipping rosé wine from an opaque plastic cup and having an early dinner of roasted and marinated vegetables in the park.

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It felt good...

2010-04-02T17:03:00.001-04:00

Spring has finally arrived in New York. Everyone is smiling. It feels good.
After the time change and in spring and summer, I have direct light streaming into my apartment at 8 am. But I'm an early riser so this is not a problem. In fact, it felt good.
Last night sat on Boat Basin Cafe's terrace overlooking the river and having a (veggie) burger and beer. It felt good.
Went to gelateria Grom and had their extra-dark chocolate ice cream. It's the closest ice cream has ever come to actually being chocolate. It felt good.
Ran a few errands on my bicycle today. It was sunny and the breeze was cool. It felt good.
Bought my first bottle of rosé wine for this season. It felt good.
Will drink (part of) it tonight. It will feel good.

The American Look

2010-03-28T17:00:00.000-04:00

Many thanks to our friends at Mid-Century Modernist for bringing this short film to attention. It's a mesmerizing paean to modern design. Without any voice over or apparent plot, it feels like idealized, voyeuristic time-travel, tinged with melancholy because we are looking to the past and the present isn't as optimistic.

After you've seen the video, you may want to view the full segment (which is about 30 minutes) here:

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=9118785157777261461

I love seeing my dining chairs around 5'25". The voice over changes the entire tone. While the designs have stood the test of time, the words seem dated ("Improved styling constantly adds to the ease and grace and gaiety of American living..."), though beautiful as such, and seem to elide the fact that while some of the designs featured are American some are not. Nonetheless, I'm hypnotized by this melange of the nostalgia for forward-looking optimism (if that makes any sense).

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* A confession. I first intended to write about this way back in November 2008. But better late than never. I would never foist the "I've been busy" excuse on you... No, for you gentle reader, only the truth. I'm down with a case of the late-March, topsy-turvy weather blahs... And then I helped two friends move. And then I decided to clean out my closet. And then I began to wonder, might I really be a shopaholic? I'm not ready to confess that yet, but more some other time...

Autumn Sonata, Ingmar Bergman

2010-03-17T09:00:00.000-04:00

I worried that you wouldn't like my appearance.
I was ugly.
Skinny and angular, with big, round eyes and fat lips.
No eyebrows.
My arms were too thin and my feet too big.
I thought I looked disgusting.
Once you said, "You should have been a boy."
Then you laughed, so I wouldn't be upset. But I was, of course.

from Autumn Sonata, Ingmar Bergman

P.S. Bergman has a way of finding the universal - pain - in any relationship, but also the universal beauty.

P.P.S. I believe this was the only time Liv Ullmann and Ingrid Bergman worked together, and certainly the only time that Ingrid worked with Ingmar Bermgan.

Last night I...

2010-03-10T12:21:00.001-05:00

Marina Abramović: The Artist Is Present

L'avventura

2010-03-03T12:16:00.001-05:00

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P.S. It is dificult to add much to this... The almost-final frame of L'avventura... And the sequence leading up to it... breathtaking.

New York blue abstractions

2010-02-28T15:58:00.000-05:00

Homemade, reconsidered

2010-02-23T12:33:00.000-05:00

Though some might brand me cynical, unpatriotic, hard hearted, and an all-round party pooper, let me just come out and say it: I don't believe in Homemade, and for that matter I'm pretty skeptical about homemade too.

I don' t recall when exactly it began, as it crept up insidiously, but there are so many things described as homemade - things you can buy in restaurants, stores, even supermarkets, places that clearly are not homes - that being Homemade doesn't mean much anymore. It just means it was at least partly completed on the premises. It could have arrived frozen and ready to thaw or bake and it can be called Homemade.

So having gotten that off my chest, what, you ask, is my problem with real homemade? Something truly made from scratch in a home?

It's just that most homemade isn't really very good. The whole progress of civilization, modernity, urbanity has been taking us to the point where people specialize in doing things, and learn to do them well. So the baker bakes. The butcher, butchers. The pâtissier makes pâtissierie. You go to the chocolate shop for chocolate, and don't really need to mess with tempering chocolate at home. And if you want a glass of wine or beer, really, don't bother to make your own, because someone out there has figured out how to do it better.

Two qualifications here. First, I am lucky enough to live in New York, so you really can get people who have all of the above skills and more. But you can in many other cities as well. If you live in one of those cities where you can't get these services, then I admire you for trying at home. Second, some people, a few, a very few, are really good at some of these things. I imagine that the baker goes home and with fresh rolls for his family (I would like to imagine... in reality, I'm sure he/she goes home dead tired of the smell of fresh bread.) So again if you're one of these, then congrats (and invite me home soon!)

(And a quick aside on bread machines. I was given a secondhand one as a gift. The bread is not bad, but I'm not really a bread person and I only use it when someone wants to have some exotic variety not locally available...

And a surprisingly different view of ice cream machines. I actually have had a few good homemade ice creams. I wouldn't mind one of those machines that has its own freezer, as a long as it comes with an apartment large enough to contain the noise of the compressor.)

So there it is. I really don't believe in homemade.

* * *

Which is what makes the next confession difficult. I made (ok - I watched / helped as a friend made) mayonnaise. I was skeptical; even though the store-bought varieties are insipid, who really wants some creamy goop inside a perfectly good sandwich? Another issue is that I am allergic to one of the common ingredients (prepared mustard), so the idea was by making at it home I could be sure it was safe. I had to be dragged to the kitchen. I complained. I pouted. (And you know, it's not that I don't like to cook -- I was just convinced this was an exercise in futility.)

And now... I am addicted to the stuff. Homemade mayonnaise is spiritual. Indeed, using it I made a sandwich with my own hands that I would rate as one of the 5 best sandwiches I have ever eaten...

* * *

So if there is anything I can say to redeem myself at the end of this post, it is this: Yes, sometimes (often) I arrive at situations with strong prior views and opinions. Sometimes I need to be convinced to give things a try. But I'm always open to trying and unashamed to change my mind.

And now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go and make a sandwich...

bb

Cozy moments (Friday night) or hibernation

2010-02-22T09:45:00.001-05:00

I hope you had a lovey weekend -- some of us I know did!

It must be a sign of my advancing years, but I spent Friday night at home, without the slightest urge to head out. It was cold out, with the peroration of winter threatening to become a full and unexpurgated volume 2. But fear not, I was not alone...

* * *

Yes, I was shacked up with an American, a French, an Italian, a Swiss, and a bottle of wine.

* * *

Yes, I was shacked up with four pieces of cheese and a bottle of wine.

* * *

I know they say age changes you. And I suppose this is the irrefutable proof: really, I missed nothing. There was soft, runny, and gloriously smelly cheese (an American cheese -- really, the Americans are making some very good cheese these days). There was the always-reliable Gruyere, and the never-modest Ubriaco. And not to leave the French out of it, I had a very satisfying wedge of Tomme de Savoie. The wine was nothing revelatory. Actually, since I'm in confessional mode I'll admit it. I drank one (make that half) of those bottles that someone brings you for a party that you would never buy for yourself or even take to someone's party. But, you know, it wasn't half bad.

* * *

They sometimes say that ageing is learning to make do with less. Sometimes perhaps. But sometimes it is learning to make do with more.

bb

P.S. And it is true that I knew I was going to a speakeasy night on Saturday. Two friends of mine. Twins: composer and architect. And an amateur, evangelical mixologist. For the rest, I am sworn to secrecy.

7 things I love... (free-style tag)

2010-02-04T08:01:00.000-05:00

We've all done a tag or two (or n, n large) tags in our days, but Marion has invented a new form, which I picked up over at Jane's place and which I'm going to call free-style tag. In this version, rather than tagging 7 specific people, you just let anyone who feels like it join in. Think of it as a big jam session, or even better those drummers in the park (bring your drum and join in!), rather than a symphony orchestra.

So my version of it, like Marion and Jane, will be 7 things I love right now... If you're inspired, please do join in!

Kurosawa's Ran. No surprise given my last post, but I was waiting to be transported back into a world of heightened feeling and sound (I've probably been missing going to the opera), and this film did it.
Gorgonzola cheese. These days I can't get enough of it (which is why I take care to buy very little -- you know, little cheese.)
The art of my friend Lee Etheredge. I'm lucky enough to own a few of his pieces (and so are MoMA and the Whitney!) But I caught up with my friend recently and was delighted to see him doing new and exciting work (not yet on his blog, but keep an eye on it!)
Cappuccino. (You can see there is no order to this list.) Of course we all love a good cappuccino. Italics here will mystify our Italian friends who are used to a good coffee from a bar no more than 100m from where they stand, but in these parts you have to go looking for one. (But this takes me back to a young bb discovers the world anecdote. When I first began drinking the stuff at Italian restaurants outside Italy, I would enjoy the foam but then find the coffee just too bitter. Some years later I discovered the coffee I was having was too bitter, not that perfect marriage of coffee and foamed milk. And can I get one more pet peeve off my chest? If the president of Starbucks or any other chain is reading, please not that it is coffee and foamed milk not coffee, milk, and foam. The problem here is you get coffee with warm milk and mound of topiary foam on top. Done right the milk itself takes on a light foaminess...) Anyway, I 've had a decent espresso machine at home for about 8 years, but recently I have begun using it to make myself a cappucino every morning. As good as my favorite coffee bars? No. But better than 95% of most others? Yes.
The laptop computer. OK, I guess this really dates me. But even though I had a laptop, my "real" computer until 3 years ago was a desktop to which I was tethered. But now everything is on my laptop (don't worry, duly backed up), and I can roam free. And you know good ol' bb likes to roam!
Semi-fictional, semi-history. The writing is formulaic, but I couldn't put it down.
And finally this picture:

I suppose most of you are asking yourselves: who? It's Roger Federer who just won his 16th Grandslam Championship, with his father. (Just to be clear, since I sense most of my readers aren't sports type, I'm talking about tennis). Some of you may be shocked to discover that I watch any sports at all. The truth is not often, but sometimes tennis. I think this is because we watched it growing up (unlimited television during Wimbledon!) And some of you may be shocked then to discover that I admire a sportsman. But friends, there is much to admire here. First, how he plays. It's more like ballet than today's physically grinding game. Second, there is the impossibility of it. He sees angles and openings no else can. In that sense, I think he is like an artist, creating and orchestrating movement and visual possibilities. And also if you look at his tall, slim frame and his muscle-bound opponents, you can't understand how this man can stand a chance. Third, he has been doing this for about 6 years. Six sports years are like 30 normal years. He has somehow operated at a the highest level that long, maintaining his body, his mind, and above all his freshness of spirit -- the desire to excel, to win, and the pleasure of doing what you do. And finally, you've got to love this picture! Look at his delight, and look at the father's delight. And look how delighted they are to be sharing the moment. Even the greatest champion, artist, scientist must have these moments, when he or she is a child again basking in his or her parent's love and admiration.

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Kurosawa's Ran: A Master's Take on a Master

2010-02-03T08:09:00.000-05:00

Usually I recommend a film to others after I've finished watching it (and the way things are usually after everyone else has already seen it, possibly decades ago...)

Though I'm only part way through Kurosawa's Ran (unfortunate English association with this word, which translates as chaos from Japanese), I feel myself keeping the DVD a week longer to see it again. It is Kurosawa's adaptation of King Lear. There are so few instances in which the master of one medium successfully adapts a masterpiece from another medium. Verdi and Otello come to mind. In that case, some have argued that Verdi even slightly improves on the original. I wouldn't go that far. But I would say that when one master hold's another gem in his or her hands, he may shine light on some facets of the original that were in the shadow (Iago in the case of Otello / Othello.)

To modern eyes, watching Kurosawa is both easy and challenging. The easiest way in is through your eyes, but the the style of acting and story telling, particularly in the epics, takes some time to adjust to. (Many rewards to doing so, of course.) But here the very operatic quality of the subject matter makes this intuitive. We are ready for stylization and heightened reality.

The moment (thus far) when it dawned on me that Kurosawa had done more than adapt Shakespeare, and create his own masterpiece, deals with the fool. In Lear, he is a central figure, but never quite becomes a character. Indeed, would I be going too far to say that is true of many of the characters in King Lear? They are striking, violent, moving, piteous, heartbreaking, but more stylized than human. This probably applies to the Lear character in Ran, Hidetora. But many of the others are built up out of human impulses, even the fool, who wonders at one point whether he should stay with Hidetora, whose nurse says he has been his entire life. Moving to see behind the fool's mask, a moment that Shakespeare doesn't give us.

This film is both an epic and a closeup -- the tragedy both large scale and tragic/heroic and very personal.

bb

BIG CHEESE little cheese

2010-02-01T19:34:00.000-05:00

Somehow, somewhere two weeks have slipped since my last post. I thought this next post was going to be about some films I've seen (the next one maybe...) but this one is a about:

BIG CHEESE and little cheese.

So what's it all about? There's no way to pretend the following will be coherent, so I'm not going to try:

* In London I lived next to a cheese monger (love that occupation name - monger, iron monger and cheese monger being the two I continue to see - it's not used in American English). Well, I thought of myself as living next to La Fromagerie, though in reality it was a 4 minute stroll away. It's a gem of place, and most things cost just about as much as gems. But getting back to the cheese, they have their own cheese cave. I should say "cave", because it's a wonderful room that the customers can walk into, to be surrounded by the smell of ageing cheese. What a smell! And the cheese monger himself will give you a tour, with some suggestions and tastings thrown in. Looking back, I don't know why I didn't buy more cheese. For one thing, you could get unaged raw milk cheese, which we can't here. For another, it's irresistible! So just for the record, it's not that I could resist, it's just that somehow I went shopping on Sunday, market day, and tended to buy my cheese there...

* In New York, I live next (in the same sense as above) to a very fine, quite reputed cheese section. Indeed, one person liked it so much he asked - and was given permission - to get married there! (No, not me, though not a bad idea for the future...) The only problem here is they have many cheeses pre-cut and pre-wrapped. Good cheese, but usually hunks (don't like that word, but it's the right word...) Of course, you can get them to cut piece for you, but you have to endure the competitive sport called New York grocery shopping. Some people move too fast and knock you over. Some run their shopping cart into you Achilles' tendons (there's a reason ancient mythology picks this as Achilles' weak spot...) Even more taxing is weaving your way through the crowd. Overtaking the slow walkers and the indecisive, while yourself being flanked by a shopping cart and a baby stroller. In this kind of high-risk situation, you don't really want stop to to ask for your bespoke slice of cheese. You grab what you can and run.

* In Boston, I now have my own cheese monger. Actually it's a wine store and provisions store. The wine store is great, if like me you enjoy good wine but don't enjoy the sticker shock of buying wine outside continental Europe (sorry UK -- same problem there as here....), and I'm sure at some point I'll write about how this has changed my life. (But that phrase sounds bad no? At the least, a bit tricky...) But the cheese monger... Life changing... My local grocery options here basically consist of overly expensive, overly large, pre-packaged cheese. Now instead, I pop in for somewhere between $2-$4 worth of cheese. A thin sliver of Gorgonzola here, a brick of Robiola there, and even better a great selection of American cheeses. (For the doubters out there, American cheese isn't only Kraft slices. There's good stuff there. Right now I'm nibbling on a American raw cow milk's cheese...)

I wish there a were a more philosophical peroration to this line of thought. But really, that's it for now. Big cheese, little cheese.

bb

2010-01-14T15:09:00.000-05:00

Passion may be

the subject,

but the method

is reason.

{A.O. Scott on Eric Rohmer in the New York Times}

Requiem for a toaster

2010-01-10T17:56:00.001-05:00

My parents bought me a toaster in 1992. At the time I was still at an age where my parents would buy me things, but all ready of an age where my parents would buy me such things, things I needed more than things I wanted or desperately desired. We were the kind of family that when we went to the movies didn't buy popcorn or sodas. It's not that my parents didn't want to spend the extra money, or that they were trying to save our appetites for a dinner that would follow (or - except for a few unmentionable years - were trying to protect my waistline). It's just that we didn't believe in these things. Popcorn was nice, and soda was nice, and I never lacked for these things. It's just at the movies we didn't believe in them

(Strangely, all these years later, I still don't believe in popcorn at the movies. I am so absorbed in the film that even the basic process of shoveling food into my mouth is too distracting -- although perhaps this is the time to confess that for few years I used to take pasta to the movies. I mean if you are going to eat, then why not eat really good food?)

In the 18 years that have followed, I have taken that toaster for granted. For, you see, I am not really a toast person. Toast has never been a breakfast food for me. Nor do I take toast with an omelet at lunch or brunch. And when I eat bagels , I eat them untoasted. Nonetheless, it follows my blindly and loyally wherever I go.

I have from time to time used the oven feature. But really when I use an oven I need a real oven for baking. And I don't eat much frozen food. But still sometimes the oven has come in handy.

My parents bought me the toaster because they thought I needed one. There is a pretty lengthy list of things my parents bought for me, generous as they are, and most of the items on that list proved to be pretty useful. (The one item that stands out as less used than the toaster was an electric can opener. I got rid of it years ago. Not because I don't open the occasional can, but just because the mechanical variety seems to take just about the same effort and take up less space. I still don't understand why someone would need an electric can opener. I'm not being judgmental here, or, I hope, unappreciative of a thoughtful gift. I'm just trying to understand.)

In any case, after a long gap, and for some random reasons, I bought a loaf of toasting bread the other day, popped two slices in, and depressed the button. Nothing. I was taken a back. There are few certainties in our world, but this is one of them. When you depress the toaster button, the heating wires turn red, and the two slices are on their way toast heaven.

It stood there, inert, mute, cold, lifeless. My toaster was no more.

* * *

I miss my toaster for all these reasons, except the toast. But I am gleefully, and guiltily, thrilled to recover the counter space, the one most precious ingredient in my kitchen. And I have plans for that space, such plans! But more on that some other time.

For now I would like to remember the toaster that my parents bought for me 18 years ago, and the 18 years we have lived together since then.

bb

Update

I had better just confess this now. I've become a toast addict.

A peek from behind the screen

2010-01-05T11:32:00.000-05:00

{images of Fatehpur Sekri by yours truly}

If I were prone to peeking from behind screens, then I might be tempted to do so from these.

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Di Chirico meet Maharaja Jai Singh II

2010-01-03T11:03:00.001-05:00

{pictures from a recent trip to jaipur}

xoxo

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Indian Institute of Management Ahmedabad, Louis Kahn

2009-12-22T21:09:00.000-05:00

And before I lose my wifi connection, a few pics of the the IIM campus designed by Louis Kahn. I haven't seen too many of his buildings. I had mixed feelings about the film My Architect, a documentary made by Kahn's son in which he comes to terms with his father's architecture and personal life (turns out that Kahn had two families and that neither knew of the other until Louis Kahn died...) Leaaving the personal angle aside, the buildings were lovely. It's a modernism that rises from the earth rather than being like a UFO landing from outerspace... It fits its place and purpose without needing any shallow tokens of Indianism or modernism. Must make it a point to see more of Kahn's work...

Don't you want to take one home with you?

2009-12-22T20:49:00.000-05:00

Spotted the new Tata Nano in Ahmedabad yesterday. Billed as the 1000-dollar car, it is meant to carry a family of four. I wouldn't mind one of these some day. Last year I drove a grand total of 600 miles or 50 miles a month or 12.5 miles a week. Hey boss, in case you're reading this, it's not that I'm not going to the flugelbindery regularly... It's just that I like public transportation. I wish I had a picture of the way that the Indian family of four gets around now... I'll try to snap a picture and post it soon...

And apologies for the delay in posting. I've been on the road in India. And gotten a year older. And a year wiser. And certainly a year more fabulous...

xoxo

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