before thanksgiving night at bar dostrece, i hadn't seen my friend, sandra, since august. originally from the island of tenerife in las canarias, sandra was the first friend i made in barcelona. i had to catch her up on everything. on work. my spanish. my serb. about how we met and connected over three days during la mercé, and how i'm off to serbia in 3 weeks. how i'm thinking of downloading the cyrillic alphabet. just a start. just in case. is that crazy? i asked, knowing i could only pose this question to someone like me.
when i met sandra, she was dating a french guy who lived in new york and worked on wall street. they'd met at the summer wedding of mutual friends, fell in lust/deep like. one night. one month and a half later, and she was on a plane headed to new york city. i met him once. tall, classically handsome. lots of hair, spoke english and french. no spanish, at all. it was sandra who'd learned french. and with relish and relative ease. the two criss-crossed the atlantic, visiting one another every few months, until things got so steady, it was time to put up or shut up. someone would have to shift or the relationship would dissolve.
now there's long distance. this is long distance on steroids. it's not just about geography. it's country, culture, language. more of a quake than a shift. messy, messy business. though there's a lot at stake, we all but fucking light up over packing our lives up, wrapping our tongues around a new words and sounds, stretching ourselves to encompass more of the world. sandra and the paris-new yorker are over, but she's all the 'richer' for having done it. she's multilingual. knows new york, paris and munich like a native. she's rich, the serb would say, rich.
you're not crazy, sandra reassured me. this is our lifestyle. we do things. try things. it's better than if we don't, she said, in the castellano accent of las canarias. catalan soon enough, i suppose, the native language of her current love.
for me and the serb, 3 more weeks. i can picture us now, he said, me on my back, you on your stomach with one leg draped over me. telling me about all your adventures.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
hard times
café dibar. 9AM. 2 salt-and-peppered haired spaniards in serious blue suits, pouring beer into fat crystal goblets.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
sound track
we don't normally do cultural things, he said, as we approached famous barcelona nightclub/theater luz de gas. it was june, and the annual, nationwide flamenco festival 'el cajón' featured concerts in all corners. i woke up that saturday morning with the insane intention of taking a 7-hour train ride south to see legendary bailaora, 'la negra' perform. i was still dating peter-the-catalan. he called and talked me down. i suggested we see all-female flamenco group, las migas, right here in barcelona instead.
how strange, he repeated, as we bought our tickets, entered the venue. we don't do this, as we took our seats, 5th row, stage right. 'we' meaning spanish people. or catalan people, i assume. there, amidst the excited prattle of music-loving, concert-going spaniards of all generations, i knew it would never work between us.
'migas' is a traditional andalucian peasant dish of mutton and breadcrumbs fried in oil. never tried it.
las migas are una chica sevillana, marta robles crespo, and bretagne-born isabelle laudenbach on guitar, sílvia perez cruz, singer and percussionist, and the german lisa bause on violin and accordion. there's little traditional about these migas.
cruz's voice is the standout, ringing with youth and clarity. the gravity and pain you'd find in the more old school cantaores is replaced by freshness. sweetness. hopefulness.
at luz de gas that night, cruz introduced guest percussionist, carlos cortés bustamente out of cádiz, as the animalistic, earthy element that grounds their more feminine, ethereal qualities. it seemed to me she gave herself too little credit. few sights match the raw, sexy, earthiness of the moment cruz lifted the full skirt of her dress to reveal smooth white calves and a cajón, the wooden box that had previously only been her seat. with rhythmic slaps of her palms, the box became an instrument of percussion punctuating the pulse of songs like 'unas voces' and 'canto y río'. though las migas have won numerous competitions and performed at music festivals across europe, they've yet to release a full album. i managed to snag a 5-song promotional disc at the concert. i've had it on repeat for the last two days.
video courtesy of boirabcn, youtube
how strange, he repeated, as we bought our tickets, entered the venue. we don't do this, as we took our seats, 5th row, stage right. 'we' meaning spanish people. or catalan people, i assume. there, amidst the excited prattle of music-loving, concert-going spaniards of all generations, i knew it would never work between us.
'migas' is a traditional andalucian peasant dish of mutton and breadcrumbs fried in oil. never tried it.
las migas are una chica sevillana, marta robles crespo, and bretagne-born isabelle laudenbach on guitar, sílvia perez cruz, singer and percussionist, and the german lisa bause on violin and accordion. there's little traditional about these migas.
cruz's voice is the standout, ringing with youth and clarity. the gravity and pain you'd find in the more old school cantaores is replaced by freshness. sweetness. hopefulness.
at luz de gas that night, cruz introduced guest percussionist, carlos cortés bustamente out of cádiz, as the animalistic, earthy element that grounds their more feminine, ethereal qualities. it seemed to me she gave herself too little credit. few sights match the raw, sexy, earthiness of the moment cruz lifted the full skirt of her dress to reveal smooth white calves and a cajón, the wooden box that had previously only been her seat. with rhythmic slaps of her palms, the box became an instrument of percussion punctuating the pulse of songs like 'unas voces' and 'canto y río'. though las migas have won numerous competitions and performed at music festivals across europe, they've yet to release a full album. i managed to snag a 5-song promotional disc at the concert. i've had it on repeat for the last two days.
video courtesy of boirabcn, youtube
Sunday, November 23, 2008
changing status
i entered the 'revolutión erótika' party at lust barcelona last weekend, and ran straight into my boy 'c' in some tighty whiteys and nothing else, chilling by the door. now, 'c' is one fine french boy. totally gay though. anyway, we took the opportunity to snap a photo, our nude and black denim clad limbs pretzeled. once inside, i passed the crowds of men drinking and swaying to deep house. made a beeline to the silver stripper pole in the middle of the room. there, on a dance floor painted red, a steady rotation of sadomasochists in leather and less, wielding whips and chains, simulated foreplay and performed some of the coolest acrobatic tricks i've seen the summer games drew to a close. i watched, waited for things to get out of control. for someone to take a slap on the ass just a bit too seriously, an erection to protrude just a tad too far, and we'd be in a full blown porno. never happened. they kept us right on edge, my camera clicking all night. 'c' had been asking me to post the pics all week since. i hesitated. did he really expect me to post pics of him in just drawers on facebook? i mean, what would his boyfriend back in france think? i logged on to ask this very question, and noticed that he'd changed both his profile picture and his relationship status. new status? c's no longer in a relationship. he's single. new profile pic? 'c', in full tarzan mode. rocking said drawers, swinging off the silver pole. i posted the pics. turns out, i should've been more worried about myself. later that day on skype:
serb: hi. how are you?
me: good! i just came back from - - -
serb: i saw pictures of you with a naked man . . .
Thursday, November 20, 2008
barack obama and the monster's ball theory
i call it the 'monster's ball' race theory. the idea that a good fuck can end racism, like when halle berry's ass takes billy bob's defeated, racial-slurring self from walking black men down the green mile to walking a black woman down the aisle. it's a concept i've struggled with for many years, since living in latin america, the land of la raza cosmica. where racism doesn't exist because race doesn't exist (see my post perfect mix in the june archives). of course, i'd always reasoned that if that had any truth to it, thomas jefferson would've anted up and drafted some anti-slavery measures in the declaration of independence. it didn't take my whole year in costa rica to learn that even in the face of all that mixing, racism lives.
then we have president-elect obama. the first 'black' american president. leader of the free fucking world. black, kenyan dad. white, kansas-born mom. in the week's since the election, there's been nothing close to a consensus anywhere on the globe, on exactly how much the ground has shifted. even known terrorists have been quoted in heated contradictory discussions on what the hell they're really facing in an obama presidency. one says, 'he's a member of the oppressed class . . . perhaps arab-american relations can be different.' others have posited that nothing's changed. that obama may be black, but he's still american and an enemy. of course, some of us have an even gloomier (but endlessly interesting) take. for one arthur górski, a legislator from the law and justice party in the polish parliament, obama's win 'marks the end of the white man's civilization'. yes. he said this in public.
when i think of this; when i think about what a black president might mean in a world where whiteness and power are seemingly inextricably linked, i can't help but think of patrick, a young, blond, dutch boy in my spanish class. by boy, i mean he's 21. incredibly smart. one of those kids you know will never have to crack a book, but will still pass all of his classes. he'll make lots of money and enjoy a life of luxury with minimal effort. all nonchalant precociousness, youth and energy, in the way of white boys i've observed since leaving my all black public school for a predominantly white private school in the fall of '87. if there were a 'future of the white race' to be considered here, patrick would be its poster boy. except that he doesn't stop following me around.
every single day, he lingers in the classroom while i gather my things so that we walk out together. he asks me out to coffee. every single day. i come in late, he moves his things from the chair next to him, like i asked him to save me a seat. during every lull in the action, it's a personal question. 'what are you doing in barcelona?' 'do you like teaching?' or, 'do you want children?' even mention of the fact that i'm 10 years older than he is doesn't deter him. so cute and so '87, that i'd have a crush too, if he didn't make me picture górski as the disapproving dad, threatening to disinherit his son, and disowning our brilliant, beautiful future presidents.
did you know that nine months, almost to the day, after john f. kennedy was named president-elect of the united states, barack obama was born? that means his black, kenyan dad and white kansas born mom conceived him in the wake of that historic liberal victory.* jfk made america ignore his religious background. barack sr. ignored the fact that he already had a family. ann dunham disregarded the possibility of her family's disapproval, and the two made a president. if by 'white man's civilization' górski means a world where certain lines are never crossed--like, the free world is not run by a black man--then, yeah. i'd say it could be the beginning of the beginning of the end.
well-known austrian journalist, klaus emmerich, expressed sentiments similar to górski's ON AIR (!!), saying, '[i] wouldn't want the western world to be directed by a black man. if you say that is a racist comment, you're right. without a doubt.' this, after he takes the time to point out that the president elect's wife is, well, kinda hot. emmerich continues, '[americans are sending] a black man with a black, very good-looking and clever woman to the white house . . .'.
the racial lines drawn in the very creation of modern society remain. but the collapse of boundaries defines the act of sex. chalk lines melt even if temporarily. fissures abound. and you have to wonder, in that space, how many things are possible? where i used to say, mixing changes nothing, now i think, hasn't it just changed something?
*see philip scherwell's article, will barack obama ecstasy deliver a baby boom? newsweek, november 4th.
then we have president-elect obama. the first 'black' american president. leader of the free fucking world. black, kenyan dad. white, kansas-born mom. in the week's since the election, there's been nothing close to a consensus anywhere on the globe, on exactly how much the ground has shifted. even known terrorists have been quoted in heated contradictory discussions on what the hell they're really facing in an obama presidency. one says, 'he's a member of the oppressed class . . . perhaps arab-american relations can be different.' others have posited that nothing's changed. that obama may be black, but he's still american and an enemy. of course, some of us have an even gloomier (but endlessly interesting) take. for one arthur górski, a legislator from the law and justice party in the polish parliament, obama's win 'marks the end of the white man's civilization'. yes. he said this in public.
when i think of this; when i think about what a black president might mean in a world where whiteness and power are seemingly inextricably linked, i can't help but think of patrick, a young, blond, dutch boy in my spanish class. by boy, i mean he's 21. incredibly smart. one of those kids you know will never have to crack a book, but will still pass all of his classes. he'll make lots of money and enjoy a life of luxury with minimal effort. all nonchalant precociousness, youth and energy, in the way of white boys i've observed since leaving my all black public school for a predominantly white private school in the fall of '87. if there were a 'future of the white race' to be considered here, patrick would be its poster boy. except that he doesn't stop following me around.
every single day, he lingers in the classroom while i gather my things so that we walk out together. he asks me out to coffee. every single day. i come in late, he moves his things from the chair next to him, like i asked him to save me a seat. during every lull in the action, it's a personal question. 'what are you doing in barcelona?' 'do you like teaching?' or, 'do you want children?' even mention of the fact that i'm 10 years older than he is doesn't deter him. so cute and so '87, that i'd have a crush too, if he didn't make me picture górski as the disapproving dad, threatening to disinherit his son, and disowning our brilliant, beautiful future presidents.
did you know that nine months, almost to the day, after john f. kennedy was named president-elect of the united states, barack obama was born? that means his black, kenyan dad and white kansas born mom conceived him in the wake of that historic liberal victory.* jfk made america ignore his religious background. barack sr. ignored the fact that he already had a family. ann dunham disregarded the possibility of her family's disapproval, and the two made a president. if by 'white man's civilization' górski means a world where certain lines are never crossed--like, the free world is not run by a black man--then, yeah. i'd say it could be the beginning of the beginning of the end.
well-known austrian journalist, klaus emmerich, expressed sentiments similar to górski's ON AIR (!!), saying, '[i] wouldn't want the western world to be directed by a black man. if you say that is a racist comment, you're right. without a doubt.' this, after he takes the time to point out that the president elect's wife is, well, kinda hot. emmerich continues, '[americans are sending] a black man with a black, very good-looking and clever woman to the white house . . .'.
the racial lines drawn in the very creation of modern society remain. but the collapse of boundaries defines the act of sex. chalk lines melt even if temporarily. fissures abound. and you have to wonder, in that space, how many things are possible? where i used to say, mixing changes nothing, now i think, hasn't it just changed something?
*see philip scherwell's article, will barack obama ecstasy deliver a baby boom? newsweek, november 4th.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
my block
really, i'd planned to write a proper post today. especially in the wake of the crazy erotica party i went to last night. but after my run on the beach, i returned to my flat, had fruit and a bocadillo, and stood on my balcony with a cup of coffee, staring at the sky.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
getting that call from home
my mobile rang at 1pm today. it was my dad. 7am eastern standard. too early, i think. something must have happened. i answer.
hi, b.
i call my parents by cute perversions of their first names.
ieishah . . . . he answers in a low voice and pauses.
what happened?
it's your mom.
is she ok?
i'm traumatized . . .
oh my god! what happened?
she had back spasms early this morning and i had to take her to the hospital.
okaaaay, is all i can manage. i'm in full blown panic mode. mind racing. will i have to go home today? how expensive is a last minute flight to the states? how will i contact my job to tell them i'll be away? every expat's nightmare. that something goes down, and you're not there.
b's deep, now minimally caribbean-colored tones interrupt the mind chatter.
she was in so much pain, she couldn't move. so i had to put on her underwear. and when we were leaving the hospital, no one helped me. they wouldn't even give me some gloves.
i hear my mom's subdued laughter in the background.
they gave her painkillers and muscle relaxers, so she's okay. we're at the diner having breakfast now. but . . . i don't know how i'll recover.
b. not. funny., i say. even though now i'm laughing, too.
hi, b.
i call my parents by cute perversions of their first names.
ieishah . . . . he answers in a low voice and pauses.
what happened?
it's your mom.
is she ok?
i'm traumatized . . .
oh my god! what happened?
she had back spasms early this morning and i had to take her to the hospital.
okaaaay, is all i can manage. i'm in full blown panic mode. mind racing. will i have to go home today? how expensive is a last minute flight to the states? how will i contact my job to tell them i'll be away? every expat's nightmare. that something goes down, and you're not there.
b's deep, now minimally caribbean-colored tones interrupt the mind chatter.
she was in so much pain, she couldn't move. so i had to put on her underwear. and when we were leaving the hospital, no one helped me. they wouldn't even give me some gloves.
i hear my mom's subdued laughter in the background.
they gave her painkillers and muscle relaxers, so she's okay. we're at the diner having breakfast now. but . . . i don't know how i'll recover.
b. not. funny., i say. even though now i'm laughing, too.
Friday, November 14, 2008
adventures in utopia
a man approaches me in one of amelie and i's favorite places to dance on a friday night in barcelona, shoko.
¿perdon, perdon!! vives en vilassar?
(excuse me! do you live in vilassar?)
¿donde?
(where?)
vilassar.
¿vilassar?
siiiiiiii . . .
nooooooo . . .
¿como que no? te he visto en vilassar, seguro. ¿no vives alli?
(what do you mean, no? i've seen you in vilassar. don't you live there?)
i'm confused. i say, que no! disculpa.
when he walks away, i turn to amelie. so weird. that guy thought i was from vilassar. where is . . . wait, we went through a pueblo called vilassar del mar like, 2 weeks ago while we were walking up costa brava, no?
her answer sounds like a question. yeees? utopia! he must have seen you?
this is vilassar del mar, a little catalonian pueblo on the coast, north of badalona but south of mataró. separated from the beach by railroad tracks. separated from barcelona by less than an hour by train. separated from modern city life by about a century.
on saturday afternoons, the streets are empty, as families congregate in their dining rooms for elaborate lunches, the smell of meat and spices wafts into the streets.
on saturday nights, homes are empty. streets are full. every living generation is in the square. the adults are sipping on wines and cortados, the young ones are playing and running. the latter outnumber the former by at least 2-1. no one's hovering, worrying, or yelling for them to stay out of the streets. there's no danger; no need.
now that i look at these pictures again, the bars on the ground floor windows are completely anachronistic. much of catalonia is utopia. so utopia that every other shop is a toy shop. people leave their doors open. everyone knows everyone. and everyone else sticks out like a sore thumb.
¿perdon, perdon!! vives en vilassar?
(excuse me! do you live in vilassar?)
¿donde?
(where?)
vilassar.
¿vilassar?
siiiiiiii . . .
nooooooo . . .
¿como que no? te he visto en vilassar, seguro. ¿no vives alli?
(what do you mean, no? i've seen you in vilassar. don't you live there?)
i'm confused. i say, que no! disculpa.
when he walks away, i turn to amelie. so weird. that guy thought i was from vilassar. where is . . . wait, we went through a pueblo called vilassar del mar like, 2 weeks ago while we were walking up costa brava, no?
her answer sounds like a question. yeees? utopia! he must have seen you?
this is vilassar del mar, a little catalonian pueblo on the coast, north of badalona but south of mataró. separated from the beach by railroad tracks. separated from barcelona by less than an hour by train. separated from modern city life by about a century.
on saturday afternoons, the streets are empty, as families congregate in their dining rooms for elaborate lunches, the smell of meat and spices wafts into the streets.
on saturday nights, homes are empty. streets are full. every living generation is in the square. the adults are sipping on wines and cortados, the young ones are playing and running. the latter outnumber the former by at least 2-1. no one's hovering, worrying, or yelling for them to stay out of the streets. there's no danger; no need.
now that i look at these pictures again, the bars on the ground floor windows are completely anachronistic. much of catalonia is utopia. so utopia that every other shop is a toy shop. people leave their doors open. everyone knows everyone. and everyone else sticks out like a sore thumb.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
a day for crazy
as my new yorkers will attest, in the big apple there are always crazies screaming or preaching or talking to themselves in public. i hadn't had the pleasure of meeting up with a spanish crazy before this evening on my bus. old, short, skinny, screaming and hollering and brandishing a cane--
todavía puedo correr!!
(i can still run!!)
uh. right. no, no. please don't get up to show us.
yo soy TORERO!!! TORERO DE ESPAÑA!!
(i'm a bullfighter. THE bullfighter of spain!!)
one by one, passengers shifted towards the back of the bus, like it was the jim crow south.
it was a day for crazy. i came home to my first certifiable anonymous poster who was all, 'you're racist!' because i said italians are crazy. shit. want more stereotypes? i have tons! british people drink too much. french people think they are the shit. americans have big fucking mouths and a curious sense of geography. dutch people are boring (says the serb). serbian men are INSANELY macho. and italians are, um, passionate. which in my very unscientific shorthand, is 'crazy'.
anonymous writes,
'Fact--blacks kill 7 times more than whites kill . . . blacks kill whites 20 times more than whites kill blacks . . .'
ok, buzzkill. if you lived in europe . . . fuck that--if you lived at all; if you replaced the mindless recitation of facts with experiential knowledge, you'd get it. is 'italians are crazy' a stereotype? hell, yes. but that's what i'm here, and writing, to explore through the prism of my engagement with life.
as for my post lingering questions and the new york times article about italian premiere berlusconi's 'suntan' comment: if you've spoken to any actual italians (not italian-americans, but italians) you'd know that so many hate berlusconi and think he is a disaster of george bush-proportions. am i about to quote a fucking study? no. this is what i've learned from having actual real life interactions with my crazy italian friends and ex-lovers.
what the fuck do the 'black men are criminals' statistics have to do with the price of pasta in palermo? totally apropos of nothing. i'm interested in what the point is of this numerical tirade. is your point that black men are inherently evil? is that the point? okay. good. now what do you have invested in 'proving' that? of course, anonymous, i'll never know. what i do know is that you love numbers. so crunch on these: i'm living in my 4th european country in 8 years. and contemplating what (and who) to discover next.
*by the way, i reposted the anonymous' original comment. it's amazing.
todavía puedo correr!!
(i can still run!!)
uh. right. no, no. please don't get up to show us.
yo soy TORERO!!! TORERO DE ESPAÑA!!
(i'm a bullfighter. THE bullfighter of spain!!)
one by one, passengers shifted towards the back of the bus, like it was the jim crow south.
it was a day for crazy. i came home to my first certifiable anonymous poster who was all, 'you're racist!' because i said italians are crazy. shit. want more stereotypes? i have tons! british people drink too much. french people think they are the shit. americans have big fucking mouths and a curious sense of geography. dutch people are boring (says the serb). serbian men are INSANELY macho. and italians are, um, passionate. which in my very unscientific shorthand, is 'crazy'.
anonymous writes,
'Fact--blacks kill 7 times more than whites kill . . . blacks kill whites 20 times more than whites kill blacks . . .'
ok, buzzkill. if you lived in europe . . . fuck that--if you lived at all; if you replaced the mindless recitation of facts with experiential knowledge, you'd get it. is 'italians are crazy' a stereotype? hell, yes. but that's what i'm here, and writing, to explore through the prism of my engagement with life.
as for my post lingering questions and the new york times article about italian premiere berlusconi's 'suntan' comment: if you've spoken to any actual italians (not italian-americans, but italians) you'd know that so many hate berlusconi and think he is a disaster of george bush-proportions. am i about to quote a fucking study? no. this is what i've learned from having actual real life interactions with my crazy italian friends and ex-lovers.
what the fuck do the 'black men are criminals' statistics have to do with the price of pasta in palermo? totally apropos of nothing. i'm interested in what the point is of this numerical tirade. is your point that black men are inherently evil? is that the point? okay. good. now what do you have invested in 'proving' that? of course, anonymous, i'll never know. what i do know is that you love numbers. so crunch on these: i'm living in my 4th european country in 8 years. and contemplating what (and who) to discover next.
*by the way, i reposted the anonymous' original comment. it's amazing.
Monday, November 10, 2008
mama africa's daughters
if you've read this blog at all, you know that i'm particularly prone to emotional, tear-filled, revelatory, 'spiritual awakening' type moments. it's not that i look for them, or that i'm some kind of drama queen. i blame it on the stars. i'm a cancer; a moonchild. i'm super-sensitive and cry real easy. so far, i've talked about how chanting with paid monks in thailand changed me and how salsa/mambo molded me.
now, miriam makeba.
i've been intrigued by the world beyond my doorstep since i was about five, when i used to play 'the cambodia' game in lieu of falling asleep. but i really fell in love with the globe in the late 90's, thanks to an anthropology professor called guthrie and the world music video channel on satellite tv. it was there that i discovered cuban artists bamboleo, german soul singer joy denalane, and my favorite, the belgian-zairoisë vocal group, zap mama, headed by the wildly cool and creative, marie daulne. mizike mama, a documentary about the life of marie daulne and the music of zap mama, would play on a continuous loop. i watched over and again.
i loved the old pictures of her parents, her african mother and belgian father, and the accompanying tales of how the family took cover in war time zaire with the country's pygmy population. i loved her progression, from traditional, largely acapella music, to electronic music with traditional vocals. her ideas about hybridization emboldened me. her concept of afropea was like a call to arms.
daulne mentions her love of miriam makeba more than once in that documentary. on the album seven, zap mama covers makeba's 'african sunset'. it was my favorite. the kind of song you play early in the morning. of course, i knew who miriam makeba was, from my dad's old hugh masakela albums, and later his paul simon discs. but daulne, this woman, whose music, life, and outlook had inspired me so much, i wanted to really, intimately know the woman who'd inspired her.
when i heard makeba would perform at city center in new york in 2000, along with a host of other south african artists, i knew i had to go. i kept thinking that perhaps le zap would make an appearance at the concert, perform a duet with makeba. i'd fully convinced myself of this even though zap mama were not on the program.
i went to the concert by myself, because it is the sort of thing i still do unselfconsciously. from my nosebleed seats, i remember enjoying every minute, reveling in the rich sounds.
makeba performed last. her band and back-up singers took the stage and began playing an introduction to what i recognized as 'african sunset'. then i heard what could only have been a flesh and blood woman channeling the voice. of. god.
wehhhhhhh! il lang-ha li-shwa-niiiii-leh-ba-fa-na-ma-zi-bu-yez-in-komo-zo ba-baaa*
i lost it. she had me at 'weh'.
what follows is the god's honest truth.
after the concert i headed down broadway, through times square towards 36th street to meet friends for a party. i was in a daze. did everyone at the concert leave feeling . . . blessed, i wondered. as i passed the virgin megastore, i noticed a lightskinned-ed woman had stopped and was staring up at a billboard across the street. i opened my mouth to say, 'excuse me'. i took a good look. it was marie daulne.
she hadn't performed at the concert, but there she was. in front of me. and everything i'd thought i would say to her, if i ever had the chance the meet her, flew out of my head.
overwhelm and a language barrier only allowed me to say, i saw miriam makeba tonight because of you. thank you.
*i know the song phonetically. this is not meant to be a translation, only what i hear.
now, miriam makeba.
i've been intrigued by the world beyond my doorstep since i was about five, when i used to play 'the cambodia' game in lieu of falling asleep. but i really fell in love with the globe in the late 90's, thanks to an anthropology professor called guthrie and the world music video channel on satellite tv. it was there that i discovered cuban artists bamboleo, german soul singer joy denalane, and my favorite, the belgian-zairoisë vocal group, zap mama, headed by the wildly cool and creative, marie daulne. mizike mama, a documentary about the life of marie daulne and the music of zap mama, would play on a continuous loop. i watched over and again.
i loved the old pictures of her parents, her african mother and belgian father, and the accompanying tales of how the family took cover in war time zaire with the country's pygmy population. i loved her progression, from traditional, largely acapella music, to electronic music with traditional vocals. her ideas about hybridization emboldened me. her concept of afropea was like a call to arms.
daulne mentions her love of miriam makeba more than once in that documentary. on the album seven, zap mama covers makeba's 'african sunset'. it was my favorite. the kind of song you play early in the morning. of course, i knew who miriam makeba was, from my dad's old hugh masakela albums, and later his paul simon discs. but daulne, this woman, whose music, life, and outlook had inspired me so much, i wanted to really, intimately know the woman who'd inspired her.
when i heard makeba would perform at city center in new york in 2000, along with a host of other south african artists, i knew i had to go. i kept thinking that perhaps le zap would make an appearance at the concert, perform a duet with makeba. i'd fully convinced myself of this even though zap mama were not on the program.
i went to the concert by myself, because it is the sort of thing i still do unselfconsciously. from my nosebleed seats, i remember enjoying every minute, reveling in the rich sounds.
makeba performed last. her band and back-up singers took the stage and began playing an introduction to what i recognized as 'african sunset'. then i heard what could only have been a flesh and blood woman channeling the voice. of. god.
wehhhhhhh! il lang-ha li-shwa-niiiii-leh-ba-fa-na-ma-zi-bu-yez-in-komo-zo ba-baaa*
i lost it. she had me at 'weh'.
what follows is the god's honest truth.
after the concert i headed down broadway, through times square towards 36th street to meet friends for a party. i was in a daze. did everyone at the concert leave feeling . . . blessed, i wondered. as i passed the virgin megastore, i noticed a lightskinned-ed woman had stopped and was staring up at a billboard across the street. i opened my mouth to say, 'excuse me'. i took a good look. it was marie daulne.
she hadn't performed at the concert, but there she was. in front of me. and everything i'd thought i would say to her, if i ever had the chance the meet her, flew out of my head.
overwhelm and a language barrier only allowed me to say, i saw miriam makeba tonight because of you. thank you.
*i know the song phonetically. this is not meant to be a translation, only what i hear.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
lingering questions
. . . to those who would tear the world down, we will defeat you . . .
why did it not occur to me that the prez-elect might be talking to terrorists and NOT the bush administration? seriously, why is everyone so sure he's not talking to the ruling class that has all but brought america to its knees?
and have you seen this?
obama joke by premier has italy in an uproar
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/08/world/europe/08italy.html?partner=permalink&exprod=permalink
why am i not at all surprised? for months i've been telling y'all about the shenanigans of ital-i-enz.
why did it not occur to me that the prez-elect might be talking to terrorists and NOT the bush administration? seriously, why is everyone so sure he's not talking to the ruling class that has all but brought america to its knees?
and have you seen this?
obama joke by premier has italy in an uproar
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/08/world/europe/08italy.html?partner=permalink&exprod=permalink
why am i not at all surprised? for months i've been telling y'all about the shenanigans of ital-i-enz.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
the view from there
the serb: so what's new over there? how are you?
me: seriously?? how can you ask me that?
the serb: wha-
me: i have a new freaking president!! that's what's new!!
the serb: oh, right! congratulations! it's really great!
me: damn right.
the serb: all of serbia is happy. we are all for barack obama.
me: really??
the serb: of course . . . but . . . we are a little bit scared of his vice president.
me: joe biden?
the serb: yes, yes, yes! that's his name! he hates serbia.
me: seriously?? how can you ask me that?
the serb: wha-
me: i have a new freaking president!! that's what's new!!
the serb: oh, right! congratulations! it's really great!
me: damn right.
the serb: all of serbia is happy. we are all for barack obama.
me: really??
the serb: of course . . . but . . . we are a little bit scared of his vice president.
me: joe biden?
the serb: yes, yes, yes! that's his name! he hates serbia.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
the view from here
by the time it was official, spanish newspapers had already been printed. but the editors of el periódico had a good feeling.
the headline reads: Pending Dream. underneath it: 45 years after the historic speech of dr. martin luther king, the citizens of the united states vote in record numbers to decide if obama will become the first black president. at about 6 this morning (my time), new mexico's governor bill richardson told msnbc that spanish president zapatero had called him to offer congratulations to president-elect obama and the democratic party, adding that he was 'ecstatic' about the election result.
the headline reads: Pending Dream. underneath it: 45 years after the historic speech of dr. martin luther king, the citizens of the united states vote in record numbers to decide if obama will become the first black president. at about 6 this morning (my time), new mexico's governor bill richardson told msnbc that spanish president zapatero had called him to offer congratulations to president-elect obama and the democratic party, adding that he was 'ecstatic' about the election result.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
expectation 2
i certainly didn't expect barcelona to have a rainy season, that's for sure. but it does. right now. i'm also sure that when cuban american visual artist, jorge rodrigues girada decided to construct a 10,000 square meter sand painting of barack obama's face, he wasn't thinking about rainy season either. judy mcgowan of democrats abroad warned me before i headed out to the forum, located at the southernmost end of the barcelona beach: 'it's a wet, muddy, mess. wear shoes you don't care about.' everyone i talked to said it would never be finished in time for the election results.
but at the site yesterday, i walked through the gate, and down the muddy driveway and was immediately surrounded by the 6 or 7 people lurking around. they were all relaxed, in no rush, and had all afternoon to tell me all about this 'muddy mess'. alex giménez imirizaldu, the project director (3rd pic, seated in the car), was the most full of energy: 'see', he says, 'we're in today's barcelona metro-' he runs off to the car, mid-sentence, to get another file. it's a mock up of the finished product. see, we have to put a little more yellow in the forehead and finish the black of the jacket . . .'
like a little rain ever stopped anybody.
titled 'expectation', the massive scale of the project represents a reflection of the hope obama has inspired all over the world. you couldn't see shit from the angle i was on yesterday. but standing on it, was like standing on a freaking field of dreams.
i returned today, and though pics from the nearby hilton are only possible if you are staying in the hilton, the pics from the nearby overlook give you an idea. fyi, they're upside down. the painting is meant to be seen from google earth.
for more information and better angles, check out www.artjammer.org and google earth
Monday, November 3, 2008
the heights of men
my first 3 days in barcelona: i walked into my shared flat for the first time to find my landlord's bald, portly papa sitting in the living room in an open bathrobe; i stood motionless as a man in blackface entertained crowds of tourists on the city's most popular street; and one of barcelona's much hyped pickpockets hit me up for 1300 american beans and a passport.
needless to say, i hated barcelona. somehow on the 4th day, i ended up at a bachelorette party at the very pijo club sutton with a friend from madrid and her university friends. i met my first barcelona guy there. he was a dutch field hockey player; a veteran of the national team who'd competed in the '92 olympic games. he won a gold medal, fell in love with the city, and stayed. he's since become fully bilingual and started a successful sports marketing business. it still makes me chuckle when the blondest guy in the club makes a beeline for the blackest girl, but he was actually so smart and tall, i let him separate me from my friends for a drink in a quiet corner. he was with an equally blond and beanstalk-ish friend who was interested in my canarian friend, naomi. so, emphasis on the 'stalk-ish'. thank god. because she barely kept her panties on.
oh my god! he's so handsome! he's so beautiful! what about his friend . . . coño! he's so handsome! he's so beautiful! are you going home with him?? are you gonna get his phone number??
i introduced them. they made out like teens at the prom. in the end she did indeed manage to keep her drawers on. but even on the taxi ride back to the flat where i imagined porno papa lounging on my twin bed in a smoking jacket, naomi still wouldn't shut up.
i'm sorry, but your guy wasn't even that cute. his face . . . wasn't that cute!!
i don't care. he was tall and blond. you know how often you see a guy like that in spain??
yeah. never. she had a point. especially about the tall thing.
did you know the dutch are the tallest people on average in the world? the danes are the second, and americans, in recent years have fallen to third. yankees used to be number one, but anthropologists put our shortening down to poor diet and food regulation practices. according to one article, the dutch government 'coddles' its citizens and their youth with stellar healthcare provisions and social services. and they eat a lot of chicken and stuff. apparently, dutch communal wealth dates far back to the 17th century; they were the tallest then, too. even the influx of historico-genetically shorter peoples in recent times, from, like, north africa, doesn't slow their roll. as immigration to the netherlands increases, height averages dip a bit at first. but studies show that within a generation or so, the shorties sprout to match the heights of their blonder countrymen. there's an argument for the consciousness of biological cells if i never heard one.
the average height for dutch men is just over 6 feet, and women measure in at 5'7. building codes now regulate for higher ceilings and door frames, and airlines have 'tall people' clubs, offering extra leg room for the extra leggy.
this status, however, has not gone uncontested. some say it's montenegro, located on the southern mediterranean end of the former yugoslavia where you'll really find the world's tallest people. newly independent, 'baby nations' by today's economic and infrastructural standards, it may be that the men (and women?) of the balkan countries, including serbia and especially montenegro, stand head and shoulders above us all, as unofficial stats measure the average height for men at about 6'3. those numbers may remain unofficial for as long as the nations of the balkans remain outside of the european union.
as for me and the gold medalist, well, he's when i started thinking this city had potential.
needless to say, i hated barcelona. somehow on the 4th day, i ended up at a bachelorette party at the very pijo club sutton with a friend from madrid and her university friends. i met my first barcelona guy there. he was a dutch field hockey player; a veteran of the national team who'd competed in the '92 olympic games. he won a gold medal, fell in love with the city, and stayed. he's since become fully bilingual and started a successful sports marketing business. it still makes me chuckle when the blondest guy in the club makes a beeline for the blackest girl, but he was actually so smart and tall, i let him separate me from my friends for a drink in a quiet corner. he was with an equally blond and beanstalk-ish friend who was interested in my canarian friend, naomi. so, emphasis on the 'stalk-ish'. thank god. because she barely kept her panties on.
oh my god! he's so handsome! he's so beautiful! what about his friend . . . coño! he's so handsome! he's so beautiful! are you going home with him?? are you gonna get his phone number??
i introduced them. they made out like teens at the prom. in the end she did indeed manage to keep her drawers on. but even on the taxi ride back to the flat where i imagined porno papa lounging on my twin bed in a smoking jacket, naomi still wouldn't shut up.
i'm sorry, but your guy wasn't even that cute. his face . . . wasn't that cute!!
i don't care. he was tall and blond. you know how often you see a guy like that in spain??
yeah. never. she had a point. especially about the tall thing.
did you know the dutch are the tallest people on average in the world? the danes are the second, and americans, in recent years have fallen to third. yankees used to be number one, but anthropologists put our shortening down to poor diet and food regulation practices. according to one article, the dutch government 'coddles' its citizens and their youth with stellar healthcare provisions and social services. and they eat a lot of chicken and stuff. apparently, dutch communal wealth dates far back to the 17th century; they were the tallest then, too. even the influx of historico-genetically shorter peoples in recent times, from, like, north africa, doesn't slow their roll. as immigration to the netherlands increases, height averages dip a bit at first. but studies show that within a generation or so, the shorties sprout to match the heights of their blonder countrymen. there's an argument for the consciousness of biological cells if i never heard one.
the average height for dutch men is just over 6 feet, and women measure in at 5'7. building codes now regulate for higher ceilings and door frames, and airlines have 'tall people' clubs, offering extra leg room for the extra leggy.
this status, however, has not gone uncontested. some say it's montenegro, located on the southern mediterranean end of the former yugoslavia where you'll really find the world's tallest people. newly independent, 'baby nations' by today's economic and infrastructural standards, it may be that the men (and women?) of the balkan countries, including serbia and especially montenegro, stand head and shoulders above us all, as unofficial stats measure the average height for men at about 6'3. those numbers may remain unofficial for as long as the nations of the balkans remain outside of the european union.
as for me and the gold medalist, well, he's when i started thinking this city had potential.
the year of the dirty half breed
yesterday in sao paolo, brit racer lewis hamilton became the youngest and first black/biracial man ever to win the formula one world championship.
in anticipation of this historic fucking moment, racists worldwide went apeshit.
back in june, at a formula one race right outside barcelona, some stupid spaniards showed up in blackface and afro wigs, calling themselves hamilton's family. former rival, spain's fernando alonso, defended the racists, not even calling them racists. he, instead, opted for the more optimistic and obtuse 'fans showing support' and 'revelers having some fun'.
everybody was mad. but we let it go. that was a mistake.
in the days leading up to the championship a website called 'pincha la rueda de hamilton' or 'burst hamilton's tire' materialized. they called him a dirty half breed, and a monkey, wrote how they wished he would run over his daddy, and threatened him with voodoo. i'm pretty sure nothing says 'blackness' like voodoo, but i guess racists aren't the most logical bunch. some even talked plots and strategy, brainstorming scenarios in which a nail or something materialized on the track and caused hamilton to suffer the most tragic accident possible.
according to kevin dowling in today's uk telegraph, 'the website at the center of racist attacks on lewis hamilton is owned by the world's biggest advertising agency, TBWA. the spanish branch of the new york-based, [TBWA], which is part of omnicom, has now pulled the site after hundreds of abusive messages about hamilton were posted . . . a spokesman in the new york office could not explain how the site, designed and owned by its interactive marketing branch in spain, had not been monitored to stop racists using it to abuse him.'
i left TBWA's apple-d out, youthfully posh offices this afternoon, where i teach a weekly company class, smiling at the synchronicity of things. how. crazy. hamilton's like the obama of racing.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
expectation 1
conversation between me and a drunk blonde spaniard at a street party. perhaps, not so drunk, though.
why barcelona?
well, why not?
random blonde spaniard comes closer, looking me in the eye . . .
come on, now. why are you here? what did you expect to find here?
well, i've lived the majority of my adult life in europe. i prefer it. and i've always wanted to perfect my spanish, really be bilingual. so after leaving belgium, spain seemed like--
yes, yes, yes, the language the culture . . . but why. are. you. here?
and the way that he looked into my eyes, i knew what he was getting at. yes, i guess i came here for love. but not in the, 'i'm going to find me a spanish man' way. not in the vicky christina barcelona kind of way that woody allen skewered on screen. the stereotype of the ultra passionate, macho, fiery, guitar-stroking, latin MAN does not exist in catalunya. and the vicky christina profile of the earnest, cornfed american girl gone abroad to spice up her milk toast life and get her socks blown by a javier bardem look-alike, doesn't exist in me. even if that's what i wanted, perhaps i would've ventured south to andalucia or granada. i chose barcelona because it isn't a spanish city. it's a european city. a meeting place for cosmopolites. a global nexus; you can experience everything here, in a new york kind of way, times 20, if you're really engaged.
i came virtually running from heartbreak. i came for love of my damn self.
i feel like i should take this sunday to say that i have found almost everything i was too afraid to expect. freedom, language, culture. and i found some things i didn't really expect to find at all, like love.
and rain. lots of freaking rain.
why barcelona?
well, why not?
random blonde spaniard comes closer, looking me in the eye . . .
come on, now. why are you here? what did you expect to find here?
well, i've lived the majority of my adult life in europe. i prefer it. and i've always wanted to perfect my spanish, really be bilingual. so after leaving belgium, spain seemed like--
yes, yes, yes, the language the culture . . . but why. are. you. here?
and the way that he looked into my eyes, i knew what he was getting at. yes, i guess i came here for love. but not in the, 'i'm going to find me a spanish man' way. not in the vicky christina barcelona kind of way that woody allen skewered on screen. the stereotype of the ultra passionate, macho, fiery, guitar-stroking, latin MAN does not exist in catalunya. and the vicky christina profile of the earnest, cornfed american girl gone abroad to spice up her milk toast life and get her socks blown by a javier bardem look-alike, doesn't exist in me. even if that's what i wanted, perhaps i would've ventured south to andalucia or granada. i chose barcelona because it isn't a spanish city. it's a european city. a meeting place for cosmopolites. a global nexus; you can experience everything here, in a new york kind of way, times 20, if you're really engaged.
i came virtually running from heartbreak. i came for love of my damn self.
i feel like i should take this sunday to say that i have found almost everything i was too afraid to expect. freedom, language, culture. and i found some things i didn't really expect to find at all, like love.
and rain. lots of freaking rain.
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