Sometimes on a Friday evening in Boston...

... you need this

and this...

it works...

xo

bb

If...

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

Too much to work, too much time

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

A Boston weekend

BIG CHEESE little cheese

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

The other B

Gentle reader,

You've been wondering where I am and what I've been up to. I've been wondering the same.

I'm still not sure, but I'll take a stab at it. I'm in the other B. Not the BB B, the other one, Boston. Growing a little weary of summer in the city, I decided it was time to visit my country home (also known as my little apartment in Boston). The same flight from summer had the beneficial byproduct of reminding my employers that I still exist. Of course, I've been working the whole summer long from New York, but in these days of automation an employer might begin to suspect that all the files I'm posting and reports I am producing might somehow be the byproduct of an automation scheme. A little face time with the boss, not a bad thing really...

On the plus side, I've got a little more space here in Boston than New York, so I've been cooking (yes, and being cooked for). I've got my car, so little half day trips out to the coast or the shore are all feasible. All in all it's been nice.

I'll have a few pictures and a more detailed update soon.

In the meanwhile, hope you're all having a summery summer.

xoxo

BB

Hello cutie pie!

I can't help it, but this is the phrase that pops into my mind whenever I see my car. I don't drive every day, indeed sometimes once a week if at all. When I'm walking toward where I know it is waiting in the parking garage, it is usually hidden from view behind other longer cars. So after I pass the giant SUV that often parks nearby there it is! Staring out at me like a cute puppy.

Since my last gushing post about my car, I have not yet had to refill the gas / petrol / benzine... So since October 1st, I have filled the tank only once.

(Needless to say, that isn't actually my car, but I've only every taken one picture, which I've already posted.)

All this leads to the very natural question of why I own a car. It's true, I imagined I would have more places to go. But at the moment, I drive it to work, which is a 8 mile round trip drive. Now, if you're sharp on your maths, then you'll have figured out by now that I don't drive to work everyday. That's because, in the manner of a modern flugelbinder, I work from different office on different days. Some of those are walking distance from where I live, others require a plane ride, occasionally but not often I work from home. So I suppose on average I make the trip less than twice a week.

I suppose I could cab it everywhere. But taxis are expensive in Boston, closer to London prices than New York prices. So I had figured that it was roughly break even between cabbing it everywhere and owning a car. But this misses two important facts. First, I still end up taking more than a few cabs, especially to and from the airport. Second, as they say, I have option value. Or to put it my way, if I had somewhere to go, I would be there -- and in style.

Actually I did use the car a bit yesterday. I drove to Symphony Hall. On a nice night I might have tried to walk, but it was too cold and it is difficult-to-impossible to get a cab after the symphony. Initially I used to use the car to buy groceries, but that struck me as undignified in my own I-wish-I-were-living-in-a-cute-European-town but-am-not but-will-continue-to-behave-as-though-I-am sort of way. Does Hannah drive a car for her groceries in Venice? No. Did I when I lived in London? (Lola, what about you?) No. Do I when I am in New York? No. And what about Lucia in Rome, and Clementine in Paris, and G in Berlin? No, no, no. (Nancy, tell me you walk to the traiteur on the corner and return with a baguette tucked under your arm...)

As I digression, I must confess that I do use a car for groceries when I'm Bombay. But that's just because friend, relatives, neighbors, and bystanders on the street think I am mad to do otherwise. It's really quite walkable if you don't mind breathing pollution and dodging buses, which really I don't.

So back to the car... Why do I have it then? I suppose after all is said and done, it's that puppy-in-your-face look it gives me after I've been away for a few days. Priceless, really.

xoxo

BB

Puppy love

I've had my car since October 4th - just over two months now - and I'm in love. Fun to be with, modest, not very demanding, stylish but not preening, always brings a smile to your face, nice with your friends and makes them laugh... Wish I were talking about the species homo sapiens sapiens rather than my car...

Yesterday I filled the gas tank for the first time. It cost me about $26.00, even though I splurged on the higher octane fuel (no idea what this means or does, but the idea of "super" sounded, well, super.)

My only problem is the soundtrack... I'm finding that my usual musical tastes don't really match with my car. So if you have any suggestions for music that goes well with a ride in a Mini then please let me know!

xoxo

BB

Having given thanks

For our European friends, this is the Thanksgiving weekend, my favourite American holiday. Unlike festivals which have been commercialized ( you know the drill: Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day, Mothers' Day, Fathers' Day... summer), Thanksgiving remains about family and friends, about cooking rather than buying, although the day after (Black Friday as it's called) things take a turn in the more natural commercial direction and Americans being their Christmas shopping. (My father would be proud of that sentence, though not my English teacher: he likes them long and multi-claused.)

In any case, I usually travel but this year I had some friends from the Flugelbinder Academy visiting me here in Boston, so I joined them at a local Thanksgiving dinner. Wine was had, turkey eaten (by others - I'm a vegetarian), pie consumed, children entertained.

Now they've all gone home, and I'm here watching Breakfast at Tiffany's and wondering what to do next. I must learn how to answer that question in here in Boston.

BB

Love (material and spiritual), continued*

I'm not really an espeically materialistic person. I do love beautiful things, but can afford only a few them. But having moving recently (twice!), and had the chance to refurnish my apartments, I have come to realize that a well designed object, by its very materiality can become something that evokes pleasure, admiration, and even affection. Though perhaps not spiritual per se, a beautiful everyday object helps to evoke a sense of calm in me.

Here are two quick snaps of my Boston apartment. At the back is my table, designed by Gudme in period unknown (1950s is plausible). Not a super-famous designer, a clean expression of the circle in the square. More importantly it plays nicely with my chairs. These are Wegner 3-legged dining chairs. When pushed in, they tuck beautifully under the table. But somehow these chairs remind me of a Picasso goat (no accident that Wegner designed a bull chair with direct inspiration from Picasso).



I have come to love this sofa. It's a George Nelson daybed. They are still made, but none of the new ones have the wonderful floating arm on the left. The armrest tilts to become a headrest in case you're ready for a nap. And behind my bookcases. I had to organize the entire move and apartment around finding place for 80 feet (25 meters) of books. I know people who have more, but I don't know how they manage.

But there is something wonderful in possessing books. Of course the pleasure is not as deep as reading per se, but the physical relationship is different. You look at them, they stare back at you. The spines, the colors, the sizes, the lovely titles that sparkle back at you.


End to my materialistic outburst (for today).

xoxo

BB

* This post was inspired by a picture of PH's bookcase over on her blog.

P.S. The longer I look at this, the more I think this picture is revealing altogether too much about me! The coffee table is also be Wegner, the canvas chair and footstool are Nii's NY chair.

Sed fugit interea fugit irreparabile tempus

Even with the help of Wikipedia this all the cleverness I can manage for the morning...

So I'm back in New York and in Boston. How can one return to two places? Many people ask me this, and a few understand, but nonetheless it is difficult to explain. It's not like you mirror your life, with two of everything. Because each side of the mirror is different. For a long while the Boston side had a work life and spartan living, and New York had my apartment and life. I've recently moved the flat to Boston, so what's left here in New York? A camp-like sublet, while I'm waiting on a more stable place in New York. And of course life!

New York in summer is a bit like a hyperactive child on Ritalin -- it is quieter than usual, though only a loving parent would notice. But it's true. You can actually get into a restaurant of your choice on 5 minutes' notice, and at a decent time (8,9,10 are prime time depending on your age and nationality) rather than phoning 10 days ahead to be told gleefully that "we can offer you 5.30 or 11.30". It's true none of the usual celebrities are hanging out, and the famous chefs are probably away too. But that's fine with me -- I don't care for the former and I'm sure the latter are pretty handy with a whisk as well.

Of course, some things you do have two of -- toothbrush, for example. But for everything else you end up either wishing you had the things from one city in the other, or worse forgetting where everything is, or even worse losing things in the back and forth.

But what I feel most strongly is indeed that time flees. The promised summer came and went (note the past tense, sadly). And yes, work was done, meals cooked and enjoyed, friends well met, concerts attended, all washed down with whine.

Perhaps a little more grit, earth, sand, friction, texture would slow things down, and if they went slower then I could savor every moment a little more (extensively, if not intensively, because if nothing else, life is intense).

Perhaps a little more idling would allow dust to gather, seeds to sprout, and the joys of life to settle around me, like a flock of birds coming to rest, rather than me like a hound in pursuit.

Tempus fugit. (And indeed why not that other over-used but profound phrase?) Carpe diem.*

BB

P.S. I usually blog about my musical follies, but here's my soundtrack for the morning and a solid start if you're feeling autumnal in late summer.

** Horace, Odes, 1.11

Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi	Leuconoe, don't ask — it's a sin to know —
finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios	what end the gods will give me or you. Don't play with Babylonian
temptaris numeros. ut melius, quidquid erit, pati.	fortune-telling either. It is better to endure whatever will be.
seu pluris hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam,	Whether Jupiter has allotted to you many more winters or this final one
quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare	which even now wears out the Tyrrhenian sea on the rocks placed opposite
Tyrrhenum: sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi	— be smart, drink your wine. Scale back your long hopes
spem longam reseces. dum loquimur, fugerit invida	to a short period. While we speak, envious time will have {already} fled
aetas: carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.	Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.

(Thank you Wikiedia for this bit of cleverness. Absurdly I "read" the Odes when I was 17. Sometimes it might be better to leave some pleasures to later in life when one can appreciate them.)