sobre el amor

Just finished reading On Love, a novel by author Alain de Botton. His comic and writing style reminds me of that of Woody Allen, especially the chapter on Marxism, in which he recalls the famous quote of comedian Groucho Marx, "I would never want to belong to a club that would have someone like me for a member." (Same quote conjured by Allen's character in Annie Hall.) Despite the comparisons to Mr. Allen, I thoroughly enjoyed the novel (maybe because I've always been a Woody Allen fan). The story weaved philosophical thought with creative details. I was touched by the author's thoughts on relationships, which I often found relative to my own experience. I prefer not to review books, because I think people should make up their own minds about whether or not they like a certain style of writing. So instead, I give you Alain de Botton's own words on love:

I found myself falling victim to romantic nostalgia, which descends whenever we are faced with those who might have been our lovers, but whom chance has decreed we will never properly know. The possibility of an alternative love story is a reminder that the life we are leading is only one of a myriad of possible lives, and it is the impossibility of leading them all that plunges us into sadness. There is a longing for a return to a time without the need for choices, free of the regret at the inevitable loss that choice (however wonderful) has entailed.

la bamboula will always be la bamboula

I have not learned any more about the unique language of the Alicante region of Spain, because I have been too busy drinking Rioja and Ribera del Duero to learn anything beyond the presence of the many spray-painted street signs.

My dad brought us to a beach he knew of on Friday. He obviously wasn't wearing his glasses the first time he went to the beach because he didn't realize it was a nude beach. Not that that would be a problem. We are open minded people. However, it was THAT kind of nude beach, the kind where creepy men linger. This old guy with no teeth and sporting the shirt-no-pants look decided to pose for my dad. It was enough to make us cut our outing to the beach short and head off for a good laugh and cocktails at bar that overlooked the Mediterranean. Nice alternative.

The party crew trickled in over the weekend. Anthony and Audrey arrived on Saturday from Luxembourg. We prepared a feast at the villa, and between Anthony, my dad and I (Young and Suta barely drink and Audrey only likes white wines), we finished off two bottles of Ribera and one bottle of Rioja. Anthony and my dad agreed upon the lack of haute ciusine in Espana, whereas Suta tried to argue for the case of the tapas. I tend to agree with my dad, not just because he's my dad, and not just because I'm a francophile, but because I fell in love with French food because it tends toward the scrumptious and unforgettable. It seems like most Spanish restaurants serve similar menu items--ham, potatoes, olives, fried fish, paella. Don't get me wrong, the paella is delicious, but there's an art to French food, and the Spanish food seems to be something to keep you going in between bottles of vino.

We picked Sheila up from the Valencia train station on Sunday afternoon. She was happy to report that Barca won the footie game the previous night. We headed off to a paella restaurant, where we had some seafood paella which was delicious, paired with a Rose. The loud and family-style ambiance reminded us all of dim sum on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon in San Francisco, and we all kept expecting the carts to roll around with shrimp dumplings at any minute. After a filling meal, we lazily strolled the harbor to check out the America's Cup boats. Unfortunately, I won't be around long enough to see any of the races, but it was fun to see the boats, and learn about the history of the event.

On the way home, Suta was finally initiated as a true Tieche when we sent her off to steal oranges and lemons from the orchards lining the sides of the roads. My dad always made my brother and I do this when we visited our relatives in Fresno. It seems logical though, since so many of the fruits were lying on the ground going to waste. Young got some photos of my dad and I stealing loquats the day before, and commented that a family that steals together stays together. So, passing her final milestone, we thereby anointed Suta with the new name Sujata la Xara.

When we returned to the villa, Anthony and Audrey made tapas and we drank another bottle of Rioja. Since Anthony and Audrey were returning to Luxembourg the next morning, we were determined to find the bamboula (our code name for party) in this sleepy retirement community of what my dad calls fat Brits and fat Germans. Sujata la Xara joined us (she needs to be prepared for when she comes with us to Paris in 2 weeks). Anthony noticed some spotlights so we followed the light, so to speak. We ended up at a lovely outdoor terrace, but inside was a giant disco ball and dance floor. These local guy showed up and put on a break dancing show, spinning on their heads and all. Sujata la Xara and I finally decided they need to share the floor and so we took over from there. The four of us stayed until they closed the place, and Senorita la Xara earned the position of la princesa de la bamboula. Let's see how she fares in Paris!

But tomorrow is off to Barcelona for the girls, and Senor Tom, or as Young calls him Mr. T, will go back to being Citizen Kane in his castle, and the European adventure for all of us continues.

se habla espanol.... NO!

I arrived in Madrid yesterday morning, having hardly slept a wink on the plane. The Madrid airport was thankfully quite easy to navigate, and I found the customs officials to be friendly (flirtatious, even!), which is quite a difference from our Department of Homeland Security. After having received my luggage, and taking 300 Euros from the cajero automatico, an equivalent of 418 US dollars (ouch!), I took the Metro to the Atocha train station. Again, extremely easy to navigate and very clean! The only train that was available to Valencia was the omni, so it took 6 hours, and I wondered to myself why I didn't book a flight all the way to Valencia. After several hours of sitting on my arse, I finally met up with Suta, Young and my dear old dad. We drove about an hour to the villa in Javea, which indeed has fabulous views overlooking the Mediterranean.

Which brings me to my main observation since arriving here. Apparently, the Spanish don't really speak Spanish among themselves. It's either Catalan or whatever language they speak in Valencia. Here in Javea, people have spray-painted over all the street signs, re-writing the names in the local language. So Javea is Xabia, and I'm finding that I have a lot of learning to do! More on this topic during my next post! Ciao for now!

mix tapes

I've made a mix tape for my 18 year-old cousin Laurel. She likes Justin Timberlake. I had a hard time picking music that I think she might like. I was ambivalent about putting Björk on there (wasn't sure if Laurel would like her or understand her), but decided that she should hear her music anyway. Here is the list of songs I burned her already:

Lloyd, I'm Ready To Be Heartbroken, Camera Obscura
Sunshowers, M.I.A.
LDN, Lily Allen
Lo Que Pidas, Julieta Venegas
Wraith Pinned To The Mist And Other Games, Of Montreal
Earth Intruders, Björk
All Is Full Of Love, Björk
Swimmers, Broken Social Scene
Make-Out King, Eleni Mandell
That Teenage Feeling, Neko Case
The Bleeding Heart Show, The New Pornographers
Sénégal Fast Food, Amadou & Mariam
Solta O Frango, Bonde Do Role
If I Ever Feel Better, Phoenix
Nothing Really, Kinky
Once In A Lifetime, Talking Heads

Basically, it's a combination of songs that I think teenage girls can relate to, and some of my favorite songs that I think she should be exposed to.

She left me a couple more cd's for me to burn since she needs new music. So I burned her Feist and the Teddybears as well. I have one more to burn, and I'm trying to decide between Manu Chao and the Postal Service.

Yesterday, we had party on the beach. The boys and men of the McCann clan played wiffle ball as I took photos. Laurel even had her at bat. It seemed symbolic to me, as she is about to begin this new game of college, with life throwing her all sorts of curve balls and sliders in the years to come.

dis-moi que ce n'est pas vrai!

I saw this item (#2) on the menu at a restaurant in Jacksonville, Florida and was shocked!


I thought it was a myth, but apparently Bill O'Reilly isn't the only in this country one who perpetuates this sheer madness!

gabriela

My friend is completely nuts. Here is the proof.

the difference between here and there

Late last night, I arrived in Jacksonville, Florida. My 18 year-old cousin Laurel graduated from high school today. I believe this is the first high school graduation I have attended since my own in 1988 and, of course (silly me, how could I forget), the graduations I attended as a teacher in Mississippi.

My cousin is adorable. She has long blond hair, is very slim and wears a ton of black eyeliner. She is a typical teenage girl in that she speaks in stream-of-consciousness and segues into new topics without even taking a breath. She even speaks in text. For example, today she was running out to a friend's party, and said to me, "BRB!" Okay, I know BTW, TMI, FYI, BFE, NFW and a few more, but it pains me to admit that I am not cool enough to understand what she was trying to say to me. "Be right back," my 21 year-old cousin Tim had to explain.

The graduation ceremony itself was typical. A lot of "climb every mountain" and "when one door closes, another door opens" and "follow your dreams" type of talk. The valedictorian had a 4.86 grade point average, which I did not even know was possible (God Bless America! What will we think of next?). The experience of being at the high school ceremony brought me back to my own graduation, where our valedictorian urged us, jokingly, to "Stay in school. Don't graduate! That would mean you have to get a j-j-j-job!" And another kid decided he would kiss the principal, and it wasn't just a kiss on the cheek. I mean, he dipped her and planted one right on her mouth, tongue and all. She was a good sport, or just finally used to Tam's eccentricity by the end of her first year as principal.

Naturally, I couldn't help but compare all these graduations. Today's graduating class was about 450 students. Because of the high dropout rate, the graduating class of the high school in which I taught was about 40 (as opposed to a freshman class of about 200), and there were no 4.86 grade point averages. Over 90% of the kids today were going to 4-year and 2-year higher education programs. Many of the kids at my high school went on to Yale, Stanford, Berkeley, Penn, Harvard, MIT, and the like. The kids at my cousin's school are largely staying in Florida to pursue their college degrees. The kids in Mississippi barely left their county. Today's experience reminded me of how different we are as Americans and young Americans.

Later on, at dinner, my cousin told me how much she loves George Michael, and she has saved his song "I Want Your Sex" as her ring tone, and her mother can't stand it.

Then again, maybe we're not so different after all.

moving

I have to leave for the airport in seconds, literally. Just got word from Jon that the apartment in the Upper Haight is mine, so it looks like I'll have a new furry white roommate in July.

I just ran out for last minute supplies and a cup of coffee here in Noe. In the independent bookstore on 24th, I impulsively bought Walks Through Lost Paris by Leonard Pitt. I irrationally and impulsively love Paris, and so I couldn't help myself.

I haven't heard from Alexei in 3 days. I think he took a trip to the eastern part of the island with his friend, so that would explain why. Three days doesn't seem like much to some, but when a daily e-mail is all the love you have to cling to, it's an eternity. And so, as I'm walking down Church Street, listening to the beautiful sounds of San Francisco--the J-line passing, stroller wheels rolling, birds chirping in their nests--I miss Alexei. I want to hold his hand, all the while my heart breaking for someone else, and with every step along the sidewalk, a heaviness overcomes me, and I can't wait to get on the plane and fly into the clouds above.

hoax or no hoax?

I had lunch with my friend Chloe today at Samovar Tea Lounge at 18th and Sanchez. Very cute place. We were talking about Judi Dench's outstanding performance in Notes on a Scandal, and she mentioned an article that she read in today's Guardian by Michael Billington about Laurence Olivier's brilliance in acting. So while searching for Billington's article, I found a blog posting about Danish film director Lars Von Trier. Apparently he is depressed, and he has announced that his filmmaking efforts are on hold while he seeks treatment. The author asks whether or not his depression is a hoax to garner publicity. This posting ushered in a wave of comments, mostly in support of Von Trier.

My opinion? I agree with many of the commentators to this blog posting. I think Lars Von Trier is a complete freak and anyone who is masochistic enough to put himself and other filmmakers through the grueling production process he insists on (see The Five Obstructions) must be a looney-bin. I do, however, LOVE his films, and hope he gets better soon.

the very hungry...

This morning, I was editing the promo for the film I'm doing with Jessica. I propped my computer onto the dining room table, so I can look outside at the trees and birds that fly by. I was startled by two turkey vultures who were circling the back yard, and very close to the window. These birds usually never visit our yard. I usually see robins and jays and blackbirds. I wondered if there was something dead back there that they were scavenging.

On the ironing board inside the house, I found a tiny caterpillar. Seeing as there was nothing for it to eat on the ironing board, I quickly brought it outside and placed it on my mom's begonias. She'll hate me for that, but it's such a cute fuzzy caterpillar. Its coloring and design remind me of a Persian rug. Bon appétit!

jessica/bernal heights

A photo from one of our shoots:

philosophizing cat

When I was growing up I had a cat named Panther. He was a stray cat who adopted us. For the most part he was an outdoor cat. He hunted. He left gifts of birds and mice and even one time a snake on our doorstep to show us his appreciation for providing a lair for him. He was my cat. I was the one that fed him and put him out at night, and cared for him. My brother took care of the dog, but Panther was my pet and best friend.

He was also a philosophizer. Or at least, that's how I interpreted it. He would spend hours staring at a wall with a happy grin on his face. I knew he was not just a dumb, fat and happy kitty (well maybe fat and happy, but certainly not dumb). I thought he was pontificating life, and in his little cat language in his head, he was solving life's mysteries, seeking answers to the great questions.

In high school, instead of taking French class at Tam High with the rest of my classmates, I enrolled in a night course at the community college because I thought our high school French teacher was useless. I was the only teenager among a group of 20 or so adults. Near the end of the semester, we decided to have a potluck dinner party so we could socialize en français. So I offered my house (well, my mom's house) as the location. When I told my mom that I was hosting a party the following week, and making crepes as the main course, she nearly flipped her lid, but she knew me well enough to be sure that I would pull it off sans problème.

Which brings me to the point of this post. The group came over. I made mushroom crepes, which were delicious. I don't think I was a wine drinker at the time, but I'm sure some of the adults brought a few bottles over. And of course baguettes and fromage. We all sat around the living room on pillows on the floor in front of the fireplace and conversed about films and books and travel. All of a sudden, Panther walked into the middle of the circle and sat down in front of one of the men in the class, and began to stare, with that same happy grin on his face. Panther's gaze made the man nervous, and he finally looked at me and asked, "What does he want? What should I do?" I laughed, and wondered if Panther had been following our conversation all along and somehow wanted to partake in it.

I found this picture through a link on my friend Libby's blog. It reminded me of that evening and my philosophizing kitty.