Sportspersonship

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

Little Dieter needs to fly

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."

bb

It felt good...

• 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.

bb

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

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!

1. 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.
2. 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.)
3. 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!)
4. 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.
5. 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!
6. Semi-fictional, semi-history. The writing is formulaic, but I couldn't put it down.
7. 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.

bb

Requiem for a toaster

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.

Last poem

It's Jane's fault really. Earlier this week she linked to this song from the film Les choses de la vie. If you like French "songs" (you know that spoken singing that the French manage so well -- you know one of these days I'm going to learn French and launch a career as a singer) and melancholy songs, then this is the track for you... as delicious as pressing into a bruise (sorry for that image).

That got me into thinking of other sad songs which I enjoy so much. And when I mean sad, I don't mean operatic sad, which is exultantly sad, but exactly the melancholy of chanson. Of course, some of what makes these songs so affecting is within the songs, but some is also within the listener: memories, associations, thinking about what you've been through - perhaps with a "thank goodness that's over" - but reliving it in the process. Perhaps I'll share my full list (it's actually pretty short right now, six tracks, but I'm working on it).

But for now I wanted to share this one. But be warned, proceed with caution. This melancholia is contagious!

"I Have Dreamed of You so Much"
Robert Desnos, Terezina Concentration Camp, May 1945

I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real. Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss your mouth and make your dear voice come alive again?

I have dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown used to being crossed on my chest as I hugged your shadow, would perhaps not bend to the shape of your body. For faced with the real form of what has haunted me and governed me for so many days and years, I would surely become a shadow.

O scales of feeling.

I have dreamed of you so much that surely there is no more time for me to wake up. I sleep on my feet prey to all the forms of life and love, and you, the only one who counts for me today, I can no more touch your face and lips than touch the lips and face of some passerby.

I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much, slept so much with your phantom, that perhaps the only thing left for me is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the shadow the moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your life.

(Translation from here.)

* * *

And now head over here to hear Sophie Auster sing it:



bb

P.S. Sophie Auster uses portions of her father's translation of this poem.

Impressionism

{a fine activity for a cloudy autumn day is to remember the days of summer...}

{photo credit: me! please do not reproduce without permission}


{photo credit: Tran Huu Dung via Dennis Dutton}

That it should come to this...

Last week I was swilling fiano and falanghina, was almost satiated with buffalo mozzarella and even the very fresh and wonderful fior di latte, was touring the biennale like a jaded 10-year veteran (whilst retaining my own native enthusiasm), was eating brioche for breakfast, pasta for lunch, and nice salads and vegetables for dinner (and discovered myself amazing not to have gained a pound while traveling), was sunning my... wrists* on some rocky and sandy beaches, was wandering Rome and Venice with the keys to my kind friends' apartments safely tucked away in my bag, was charmingly overcharged by a Roman taxi driver**, and was invited for a quick coffee at the late Sol Lewitt's Amalfi coast house*** and was looking at his hand-drawn wall decorations and drawing table...

Today I am bouncing in along the motorway in a Greyhound bus from Boston to New York.****

BB

* I sunburn really badly and very quickly. So personally the early 20th C swimsuits are just fine for me... from neck to ankles all nicely covered... It does dampen the sex appeal a little, but what's one to do?

** Have you ever been swindled, known it was happening, but somehow enjoyed the other person going through motions of trying to fool you that you don't object? The taxi driver has the middle seat down covering the meter. Then he mumbled something about extra charges. But he was so much like Roberto Benigni in Last Night that I didn't want to burst his buble. His patter was so obvious, but charming nonetheless...

*** Sol Lewitt is in my personal pantheons of greats. Of course, not only me, but conceptual art is a specialized cup of tea outside the art world, but when I first saw his installation at Dia: Beacon I knew it was my kind of art. Since then I have become something of fanatic. Anyway, Sol Lewitt's widow invited a friend to spend the week at their house, and he invited a friend, who in turn invited me. Lewitt had a half-dozen drawings executed on his walls. And I got to see his drawing table (pictues next time -- not much to see but so inspiring!)

**** In fairness to both Greyhound and myself I should mention that it is one of the new coaches: plugs, internet, and no dirt on the seats. What happened to Champagne cocktaisl cheap white wine on the shuttle? What happend to Amtrak? Priced itself to irrelevance sadly: 5 times the price as the bus and no internet. I'll take it on a snow day, but otherwise, unlikely.

P.S. Could someone who is wiser in such matters please explain the Beatles song "You Know My Name (Look Up The Number)" to me? I think I get it, but it requires explanation. Today I'm listening to Bach (Well-Tempered Clavier) and the Beatles, a pretty much old-school combination I must admit, but BB has more than a thread of old school in the spine...

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

Bad hair day

I'm having a bad hair day. I know it's a weak excuse for a blog post, but really for me it's quite an issue.

It's not that my hair looks terrible. It's just that I woke up today and no matter what I try my hair comes out looking like it did in 1985. I did consider the possibility that I was caught in some sort of time warp (and even more fleetingly consider that I might be getting younger rather than older), but no luck on either front.

And you know what's worse? No one noticed!

* * *

Perhaps they were being too polite to say anything? But didn't they notice this big wavy flip that has taken root on my scalp? Perhaps my new glasses were distracting them from noticing. It was one of those days when I said to myself, lucky I don't have to look nice today! But wait, don't I want to look nice every day like one of those creatures who inhabit the streets of Paris with an elegantly bored expression on their face? 

Speaking of that, I've actually gotten good at a related expression, that of looking on with interest as though I'm uninterested - you know, one of those I happen to be looking, but truly I could care less looks? The key here is that you shouldn't look bored and uninterested, but instead alert albeit disinterested. Noticing things without being curious, taking it all in with at most a slight flicker that any of it really matters. Not scowling, not pleasantly vacuous, but self-contained and neutral. It's the kind of look that is usually turned on me by someone who is too impossibly elegant to bothering looking at me. 

But even though I'm not too impossibly anything, I've been working up the look. And you know what? Sadly or happily it seems to work. I can make shop assistants come running with a glance and dismiss even the haughtiest of their species with the slightest quiver.

But of course only on a good hair day, not to mention a regular hair day, and not even to begin to think about a day like today, a bad hair day.

BB

I know... I do feel guilty

Gentle reader(s),

I know I should feel guilty about this situation, and all I can say in my defense is that I do. The situation is one you know. You commit; you make promises; you don't quite show. One party feels let down, the other guilty...

Of course I'm not talking about weddings, or business, or anything like that, but of course the little ol' blog, marching along after almost two years (wait, did I miss a birthday? are we 2 now?)...

It's a been a good summer, busy with good things. But while I've been redoubling at the gym, begun to cook more regularly (and to allow myself to be cooked for ;-) ), been working pretty hard, been drinking lots of rose and white even some lightly chilled reds, I've been letting the blog putter along without enough direction. But like a two year old, it's not quite ready to fend for itself.

But I'll be back soon with more fun and more reports on what's been up...

Hope you're all having a grand summer (which I think here has finally begun)...

xoxo

BB

Back down to earth

It is was one of those weeks -- nothing disastrous, no triumph, but a bit like the moment in the Loony Tunes cartoons where the coyote speeds of the edge off a cliff and momentum carries him forward, until he notices he is standing on thin air, pauses to reflect on it, and then goes crashing down. Well it's like that except that rather than being poised on thin air above a Grand-Canyon type cliff I've been about 30,000 feet off the ground, more or less the height of a commercial jetliner flying between cities...

I've always known that I couldn't sustain my pace of travel over the last four years. It's true that eventually I have adapted myself to it, if not to enjoy it. Champagne and films helped to cure the transcontinental blues when I was flying from London to New York and the view of New York from the Triborough Bridge dispelled any doubts about coming back to New York every weekend from Boston.

But in every dimension you can measure it (social, mental, physical, and indeed financial -- that least delicate but inescapable fact of life...) I knew I couldn't keep it going forever. It was yesterday that I had my coyote moment.

In many ways I'm glad it's come because it would do me good to be in one place longer. When I lived in Boston full time as a student, I did really love it. And even if now New York always beckons I can at least come to like Boston. I'm thinking in terms of a 10-step program, gradual reduction, rather than cold turkey. Perhaps every other week initially, until I can work myself down to once a month.

* * *

The problem is giving up New York weekends. Many of my weekends here are quiet, neighborhood weekends, which I really enjoy. But that is the kind of sustaining pleasure which you think would be just as fine every month rather than every week. But now and then I have a weekend like this:

- Thursday arrive in New York. Join my friend Nuria at jazz club.
- Friday work from home. Join my friend Max for a quick bite, followed by an uptown jazz club, followed by a late night jam at another jazz club.
- Saturday, overdose on Chelsea galleries. Evening catch up with my friend Flo at a new place downtown. Just as I'm heading home my friend S calls and we decided to catch up over a quick drink. Just as I'm heading home my friend A calls and decides we should catch up since he's leaving town.
- Sunday morning, delicate. By the afternoon though I'm ready to hear the visiting orchestra from London, and then catch up with a friend who's in the orchestra. But then it's time for dinner with 5 friends who I haven't seen for a few months.
- Monday morning get up at 5.30 am, catch the shuttle, and in my Boston office by 8.15.

This was last weekend. Now before you think I am mad, I should note that this isn't an utterly atypical New York weekend, although nor is it typical. When I lived here full time, I would have these kinds of weekends every now then (once a month?), one of those weekends when you plan on it being quiet, but everyone you know is suddenly calling, and everyone decides to hold a party or a dinner on the same evening... These are the kinds of weekends where you feel yourself living on every dimension -- artistic, cultural, social, culinary, and of course having fun.

* * *

But then perhaps I'm getting a little too old for all of this. I really do love my quiet weeks, sitting at home with a book, a glass of wine, a film waiting in the DVD player...

* * *

But then I've just been noticing that if I use Amtrak, and time my trains correctly I could probably still manage to be here every week....

Will the coyote live again?

BB

Friday morning in New York: Watching people work

There are days when New York seems to me a magical place, when I recover that sense of wonder that I used to have when I was visiting rather than living here. There are days, now that I live here, when it seems like a sad, lonely place. And there are days like today when it is both.

I wasn't in the best mood this morning.* Nothing too serious, but, you know, one of those grey days in my mind at least. I decided to go the gym around 10 am. It was a sunny, mild day. Most office workers had already rushed off to work, but everyone on the street still seemed purposeful: movers, the local grocers, restaurant food deliveries. But then as I look again I saw others talking their strides more slowly. A woman walking her dogs. An older woman being rolled a long in her wheelchair by her nurse. Some tourists with a camera.

And my eyes open a bit wider . I breathe in the mix of commerce and charm of the New York street, and I am happy to be here.

* * *

* I wrote this post a few Fridays ago, but didn't get a chance to post it until now.

I've realized that time is flying by these days. I post and then tell myself I'll put up a new post in a few days and then I realize that a week or more has gone by. Perhaps it is the days of undifferentiated grey we've been having recently. But that's not true, since Friday it was beautifully sunny. Perhaps it is that feeling of late winter, when you wish spring would come. And it comes for a day, teasing and tantalizing, only to disappear again and be replaced by the cold disdain of a late winter storm.

Perhaps it's the realization that the break I've been longing for - some travel, time away from work and without always worrying about the next work message to land in my inbox with a thud - will not come any time soon.

Perhaps it is existential. [Insert and delete lengthy ruminative paragraph here.]

* * *

But then any city, any place, has its rhythm, the ups and downs, the lulls and doldrums, and the peaks and thrills. And if I am waiting for the sun, then I am happy to wait for it here.

BB

The doctor dude will see you now

It seems to be my moment for these things, but I have been having some computer trouble. Why mince words? Right now I'm computerless. I do love my MacBookPro. It weighs a ton, but we know better than to judge someone by his or her weight, especially when he or she has style, lots of style.

But in any case, as I was waiting at the Apple Genius Bar, as I was overhearing other people describe their computer problems, I realized (the obvious) : it is identical to describing your symptoms to a doctor. You try (or at least you should) to be concise in describing the problem, but provide enough on the key moments when you think the problem developed and when the problem is experienced or not. And of course you edit out the embarrassing details. Exactly like being at the doctor:

Doc, I hear noises in my head. It started six months ago, maybe a year, but I've been ignoring it. I think it may be because I took too many flights in economy class . You should also know that I was smashed last night I don't drink enough water. I'm like a camel really. I wonder if that could be the cause instead?

Dude, my computer is acting up -- keeps on rebooting. It started two months ago, but I've been ignoring it. I think it may be because I took my computer on too many flights in economy, where there aren't any plugs. You should also know that I use my computer while in the bath except on planes, I always keep it plugged in. I'm like a leech really. I wonder if over-charging caused the problem instead?

Well, the dude in question was a very knowledge young man with interesting tattoos on his arms, and disgusting facial hair (disgusting because it was clearly deliberate, not just sloppy; let's leave it at that). He tested it for a few hours last night, while I was waiting. Let me tell you, malls are no better places to wait than hospitals, especially when your poor little computer has all kinds of pins and needles sticking into it. In any case, after the diagnostics, he said that my computer needs a new prefontal cortex hard drive.

The reason I am not (yet... fingers crossed) pulling my hair out, other than the fact that thin hair runs in the family and I really shouldn't encourage this situation, is that I have backed up my data by my count 6 times in different places. But what I also did before letting them operate was to mirror the computer. Now I don't want this to get too technical (since I don't understand the technicalities), but it copies everything from your computer onto an external hard drive and you can run your computer from there with everything on it (including software) and eventually copy it back on to the computer when the new hard drive is installed. In other words, in the best of all possible worlds, it will be like transplanting my computer's brain and then copying everything back as it was. That's the best case of course. The worst case is this...

(I was looking here for a link to the story about the man in Texas who had his pet bull cloned. The original bull was huge, but sweet as a puppy. The cloned bull looked identical but had the nasty habit of impaling his doting owner on his horns.)

In any case, I would like to conclude this rambling post with a word of advice to all you Mac users out there. You must not only back up your computer but mirror its contents to a firewire hard drive (note this is crucial -- must be firewire, cannot be usb). In principle time capsule can do this for you, but you need to set it up right...

Now I must get back to sleep work.

BB

Is there a baker on board?

Everyone's parents do something. Some people's parents are bakers. So growing up you take for granted that at dinner there will be good bread every night and on special occasions very nice pastries (I know that the boulanger is not the same as pâtissier but they are connected, if you know what I mean. If your dad is a boulanger then his golfing or tennis buddies must include some pâtissiers, no? Just as if your father is an allergist then knows more than a few surgeons.)

You grow up not giving it a second thought. And probably your childhood friends take it for granted too. And then one day, later in life, much later in life, it hits you -- everyone didn't grow up the way you did, with this special luxury.

* * *

Well my parents aren't bakers, though that would be nice. They are doctors, which is also nice. The last time I went to see a regular doctor before this week was in 2002, when I suddenly decided that I need a checkup, since my regular phone calls home did not qualify as such. So I went to see one of my father's medical school friends from his days here in New York. His friend, who I remember when we used to visit NYC as children, is very nicely set up in an East Side brownstone, with his office on the ground floor and living above. Anyway, I went to see him and we chatted for a bit. He used his stethoscope, took my blood pressure and sent me on my way, pronouncing me in excellent health and "say hi to your father..."

* * *

Once I was on a flight when the stewardess actually came on the announcement system and asked "Is there a doctor on board?" I was only 6, but I had seen this on television so I waited and watched my parents. They didn't reach for the call button. I nudged them a bit, and still nothing. It's not that they were going to let a patient die or even suffer. All of this infinite waiting really only lasted a second. They had already motioned to a stewardess and were in consultation. It turns out there several doctors on board and everything was under control.

Some time later, I had a dream (or was it a day dream?). I was on a plane and the stewardess came on the intercom and asked "Is there a baker on board? A gentleman in first class is having some trouble with a crusty bread roll."

* * *

Well this week I realized what it's like to grow up without fantastic dinner rolls every night. I need to see a doctor regarding a problem I've been having -- nothing terrible really, but very annoying. And when it's been going on for 3 months (or is it 6?) you think it might be time to see a doctor. By my parents are in India at the moment, and for immigration reasons I can't travel right now. So I finally (after 3 years) chose an official doctor from my health insurance and went in, in the need of seeing a specialist (or so my father told me I needed).

The doctor wasn't available for 3 weeks, but there was an assistant (resident?) who could see me within 10 days. So I went to see him this week. Initially I was suspicious. I don't want to see the assistant, I want to see the real doctor. Actually it turned out he was really, well there's no other word, cool. Looked a bit like the kid on Scrubs. He agreed that I need to see a specialist without much fuss.

* * *

Imagine if you grow up, begin to live on your own, and then finally realize that most people are in 4-10 week wait lists to have some really nice dinner rolls. Well, there it is, and there I am. I have never waited more than 1 week to see a specialist and now I am told that if I'm lucky they can get me in March. I'm not complaining (well, yes I am), but not in a presumptuous way that I somehow deserve better. But truly I had no idea that the whole world doesn't eat eclairs for breakfast if you see what I mean.

I've always intellectually understood that even for the fortunate health care is a struggle and a matter of anxiety here in the United States, and probably in much of the world, because after all can you really trust a doctor as much as your parents?

Today I resolve that I will never, ever take my dinner rolls for granted again.

BB

Is there a baker on board?

Everyone's parents do something. Some people's parents are bakers. So growing up you take for granted that at dinner there will be good bread every night and on special occasions very nice pastries (I know that the boulanger is not the same as pâtissier but they are connected, if you know what I mean. If your dad is a boulanger then his golfing or tennis buddies must include some pâtissiers, no? Just as if your father is a doctor then knows more than a few surgeons.)

You grow up not giving it a second thought. And probably your childhood friends take it for granted too. And then one day, later in life, much later in life, it hits you -- everyone didn't grow up the way you did, with this special luxury.

* * *

Well my parents aren't bakers, though that would be nice. They are doctors, which is also nice. The last time I went to see a regular doctor before this week was in 2002 (and before that 1980-something), when I suddenly decided that I need a checkup, since my regular phone calls home did not qualify as such. So I went to see one of my father's medical school friends from his days here in New York. His friend, who I remembered when we used to visit NYC as children, was very nicely set up in an East Side brownstone, with his office on the ground floor and living above. Anyway, I went to see him and we chatted for a bit. He used his stethoscope, took my blood pressure and sent me on my way, pronouncing me in excellent health and "say hi to your father..."

* * *

Once I was on a flight when the stewardess actually came on the announcement system and asked "Is there a doctor on board?" I was only 6, but I had seen this on television so I waited and watched my parents. They didn't reach for the call button. I nudged them a bit, and still nothing. The clock was ticking, at least in my mind. It's not that they were going to let a patient die or even suffer. All of this infinite waiting really only lasted a second. They had already motioned to a stewardess and were in consultation. It turns out there were several doctors on board and everything was under control.

Some time later, I had a dream (or was it a day dream?). I was on a plane and the stewardess came on the intercom and asked "Is there a baker on board? A gentleman in first class is having some trouble with a crusty bread roll."

* * *

Well this week I realized what it's like to grow up without fantastic dinner rolls every night. I need to see a doctor regarding a problem I've been having -- nothing terrible really, but very annoying. And when it's been going on for 3 months (or is it 6?) you think it might be time to see a doctor. By my parents are in India at the moment, and for immigration reasons I can't travel right now. So I finally (after 3 years) chose an official doctor from my health insurance and went in, in the need of seeing a specialist (or so my father told me I needed).

The doctor wasn't available for 3 weeks, but there was an assistant (resident?) who could see me within 10 days. So I went to see him this week. Initially I was suspicious. I don't want to see the assistant, I want to see the real doctor. Actually it turned out he was really, well there's no other word, cool. Looked a bit like the kid on Scrubs. He agreed that I need to see a specialist without much fuss.

* * *

Imagine if you grow up, begin to live on your own, and then finally realize that most people are in 4-10 week wait lists to have some really nice dinner rolls. Well, there it is, and there I am. I have never waited more than 1 week to see a specialist and now I am told that if I'm lucky they can get me in March. I'm not complaining (well, yes I am), but not in a presumptuous way that I somehow deserve better. But truly I had no idea that the whole world doesn't eat eclairs for breakfast if you see what I mean.

I've always intellectually understood that even for the fortunate health care is a struggle and a matter of anxiety here in the United States, and probably in much of the world, because after all can you really trust a doctor as much as your parents?

Today I resolve that I will never, ever take my dinner rolls for granted again.

BB

Another weekend

I am on the train. Sitting by myself. I am next to a noisy group of 4 co-workers, who are telling rude jokes and laughing. One of them has a wheezy laugh.

Which inner BB should I channel? The stoic or the feisty?

They are now checking their Blackberries. Hmm… Blackberry=BB (though I myself don’t have one…)

I’m going to let them off tonight… (though they don’t know it….)

* * *

I've just made it back to my apartment in NYC! (10 second pause)

That was the sigh heard across the world.

* * *

Just had dinner at my usual neighborhood spot. I was sitting next to a very severe woman who looked liked she didn't want to talk. But this is NY... Eventually we were chatting away.

I had the same experience in Boston recently, sitting next to a severe woman. But after I tried to speak with her, she took out a crossword! I know you Europeans don't talk to strangers while eating your dinner at bars, because you don't eat your dinner at a bar and you don't talk to strangers! But it's one of the pleasures of New York. I have my "bar buddies" -- who I know by first name and nothing else: Mark, the gay food stylist for Gourmet magazine; Yvette, the Texan woman who loves to have weekends in New York (but she emphasizes, and I quote her, "New York is just fun and nothing else. There's no choca-laca going on while I'm here"); Sam my Hawaiian bartender; Amy, the aspiring actress who has sadly moved on to other gigs.

Bar buddies aren't a substitute for well-loved friends, of whom I have a number in New York, but they are their own wonderful thing. And in a place like Boston where I don't know too many people, it could have been a nice way to get to know some locals. Could have been...

But I've got a weekend in NYC ahead of me!

* * *

I saw a film, Revolutionary Road, and went to a concert (the now venerable Italian maestro Ricardo Muti), which we followed by two glasses of champagne and slightly dizzy conversation. It was wonderful.

* * *

I'm back in Boston now, Sunday evening, watching Renoir's The River. An imperfect but wonderful film. As Renoir says in his introduction to the film, "[India] is one of the least mysterious countries there are. For a Frenchman, India is very easy to understand. People there have just about the same reactions as people here do." So profoundly true, and so profoundly wrong. Exoticism is what most filmmakers want to find when the look abroad for their stories. But exoticism is exactly the failure to see oneself in others. At the same time, there are real differences in how different countries look at the world. The irony and beauty of the film is that Renoir both succeeds in rendering India utterly exotic and utterly quotidian at the same time. It is beautifully observed (in the background -- the village scenes) and above all the colours, so intense! characters, both English and Indian, are more than a little cliched, but it didn't matter..

I am also enjoying a risotto I just made with a vulgarization of a procedure the Mia passed on to me a while ago. I added oven-roasted curried acorn squash and tomatoes, and adapted it to a red-wine risotto recipe. Truth be told, I over cooked it by just two ladles of stock, but nonetheless it turned out very nicely.

Hope you've all had a wonderful weekend.

BB!

In Search of a Midnight Kiss or New Year's Eve Movie Marathon

My New Year's eve was spent flying back from Bombay to New York. I left at 1.30 pm on the 31st, changed planes in London, and flew into Newark. In Mumbai, I was told that my outgoing flight was delayed and that I would miss my connection. The airline, Virgin, transferred me to an earlier flight on Jet Airways, which would allow me to make my connection in London. One thing that Virgin and Jet Airways (India's second international airline, and the first private airline from India to fly internationally) share in common is an excellent on-demand video system in all classes of service. So I had a lot of films to choose from. The flight was 9 hours and 20 minutes. As they say in the movies, "you do the math": 9 hours / 2 hours = 4 films.

First up was, "Vicky, Christina, Barcelona", by Woody Allen that I had missed in the cinema. It's as good a Woody Allen film as you'll see these days. Next up, "Mes amis, mes amours", a fine illustration of the fact that French cinema can be as clichéd as Hollywood, yet be more stylish. Number 3 was "How to Marry a Millionaire" -- a classic, not much more need be said (though as an aside, I love films set in New York where I get to see street scenes). By then I had exhausted all the films I really wanted to see, so opted for "Hellboy 2". I can hear the eyes rolling out there (if you'll permit me to mix my metaphors). In my defense, it is directed by Guillermo del Toro, but that's pretty much all I can say. Indeed, I fell asleep at some point and didn't bother to try to see the rest of it.

I landed in Heathrow and sprinted through security to make my connection. Fortunately, I'm well trained in the 2k terminal dash and had time to spare. Even more fortunately, I discovered an upgrade, a warm shower, two glasses of champagne, and a friendly bartender waiting for me. (I like to believe it was the dignity with which I conducted myself at Mumbai while negotiating my rebooking that led them to upgrade me -- more realistically I think it was the miles I logged last year on my London-New York runs -- no matter, take the upgrade and run).

I had hoped to see at least two more films on the second flight, and with 7 hours it should have been possible. But I was so tired. But I didn't want to sleep (all part of the anti-jetlag strategy). I spent most of the flight dozing and fighting sleep. I did manage to watch "In Search of a Midnight Kiss", a charming, low-budget black and white film from last year. It's about a down-and-out would-be screenwriter looking for a spark of hope on New Year's Eve. He puts up a personal ad under the heading "Misanthrope looking for misanthrope". A girl calls in, and, well, it goes from there.

This was tricky viewing matter for me, given that I was probably going to spend my New Year's in the airport at Newark or in a cab on the way to Manhattan. But we landed 40 minutes early at 10.50 pm (winds be praised!) I had exchanged e-mails with my friend Till from Bombay and knew that he and his girlfriend were planning a quiet New Year's -- hoping to catch the fireworks from an uptown office building where Till works -- and had kindly invited me along -- if I could make it. I was out by 11 pm. My car service took only two minutes to arrive. At 11.15, I was entering the Holland Tunnel. At 11.30, I was at my apartment dropping off my computer and picking up a hat, because it was -7C outside. At 11.54, I met up with Till and Julia, and at 11.59 we were on the roof in blistering wind, with a half-bottle of ice-cold champagne, and in excellent company. The fireworks in the distance were wonderful.

There’s something magical about seeing fireworks but not hearing them. It makes you feel like you're in space looking down on earth - you can feel the cold, you can see, but you can't hear. But also (yes Till -- here goes my attempt at greeting-card philosophizing) it makes you feel like you are looking at arm's length on your life. You too are now a witness to the year's trials, tribulations, joys, and triumphs. You are a character in a play that you co-wrote, but where there were other actors reading from their own script. I would say that all in all 2008 was a good year; it had many surprises, many transitions, but I would have to say that it was also a year in which I was reacting to events as they occurred. There was no grand plan, no resolutions, no roadmap. It's not that I have any of those for this year. But having aged another year, it's not that I feel old, but I do feel that I have glimpsed the curvature of life. The earth is not flat, nor is life, nor is time, though it is easy from moment to moment, from step to step to feel that it is.

So for 2009, I have no grand plan, but in addition to living well, thinking well, and feeling well, I hope to find some hint of the path ahead.

Wish you all the very best for 2009!

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

Weekend exertions

It was a brief but intense weekend for me here in NY. On Friday I caught up with a friend at a wine bar downtown. Somehow a one hour-one drink evening ended at 2 am and after a bottle and half between the two of us.

Saturday was an opera marathon - truly an extreme sport version of the art. First I saw Tristan at the Metropolitan opera, the matinee, which normally beings at 1 pm but on this occasion began at 11 am since the opera is 4'30" long. Tristan contains two very famous bits - the prelude and Liebestod - two glorious, achingly romantic pieces of music filled with overwhelming longing and desire (indeed! hot stuff!) But to hear the 4 hours of music that is between these was rewarding. You approach the end in a kind of delerious hyponosis, and when Tristan and Isolde die you cannot but shed a tear (and honestly be a bit relieved -- it takes Tristan about 45 minutes to die after being stabbed). Then I came home, napped, and went to hear Elektra, which is another 2'15" without interval. This opera is a lurid, expressionist masterpiece, and leaves you a little dizzy at the end. A few drinks with friends downtown cured that nicely.

Today I went to Port Authority to pick up a piece of furniture that had arrived for my apartment via Ebay and Greyhound. Port Authority is a crazy place. When you enter, you are transported into some bizarre world that exists by its own laws -- you feel like you are at a spaceport in a science fiction movie. The fact that there was a naked man - apparently changing his clothes - near the entrance doesn't bother you or him or anyone else one bit. Then I descend two levels into an underworld where lost American and European tourists are wandering to and fro -- trying to leave every manner of luggage at the counter.

But into this world my mover manages to make it and get my piece home. A word on the movers. For small moves like this I've used a company called NYCityVan. The first time I used them the mover was an Israeli who was into technoraves and offered (several times) to hook me up, with what he never specified. The second time the mover was a raffish American who tried several times to get the phone number of a friend who was helping me move. This time the mover was a would-be filmmaker who moves by day and goes to lectures by night.

After all of this I finally managed to set up my divider, which is shown below, and my dining table, also below. The divider is designer unknown, from the '50s or '60s. The table is by Bruno Mathsson and the chairs by Hovmann Olsen.


(The table may not look special, but it quadruples in length, from the 3' above to 12' if needed.)



Thus ends my weekend -- tomorrow back to flugelbinery.

Hope you've all had a lovely weekend.

BB