I've gone on and on about how hard it is to get used to so many things in a foreign country. The pedestrians still baffle me, the supermarkets are a laugh, the ervice is embarrassing, and on and on . . .
One of the most frustrating has been the nifty little washer-dryer units that everyone in London has intheir kitchen. It is a single unit that serves both functions. I have referred to the machine as a permanent wrinkler. It has a little drawer on the top with three compartments for soap, bleach, etc., and only holds a small amount of clothes (2kg). We learned quickly to wash a very small number of items and have the washer STOP at the end of the wash cycle, so that the clothes could then be taken out, shaken and placed back in for drying, instead of having one ball of cloth attempt to tumble-dry in 75 minutes.
There are a couple drawbacks to these machines. You can only wash or dry at one time, you cannot wash one load while another is drying; the drum is really teeny; once you have started the unit, it is complicated to stop it; it is easy to set it to wash a second time when you intend to dry; the final rinse cycle seems to leave an inordinate (not a lot) amount of soap suds upon completion; the controls are a series of buttons and switches, most of which are heiroglyphic at best. None of this is insurmoutable, but it is all frustrating.
The worst part has been removing the freshly dried clothes, especially jeans, and seeing just a mass of wrinkles that no amount of ironing seems to remedy. This has gone on for months.
I actually enjoy doing laundry. It's not a problem at all for me. Anne, however, seems to have much more luck with this machine. When she completes a load, the clothes though wrinkl-y are not a solid mass of wrinkles; and it is soft, not crunchy.
The other night, I got home form the office early at 8:00 P.M., and decided to start laundry. I loaded the clothes, opened the drawer and accidently poured more liquid detergent thatn was necessary; about half again as much as usual. I decided that I would rinse a second time, if needed.
I did a pre-wash cycle, in hopes of eliminating some of the soap, and I checked the soap drawer near the end of that cycle. I was rather dismayed to see that very little soap was used in this cycle, and I would probably have to do a second rinse anyhow.
When the wash cycle was through, just prior to the rinse cycle beginning, there was still soap left in the drawer, and I feared that I might have to do an entire wash again, not just a rinse. When the whole thing was finished, and I was taking the clothes out to shake and reload, there was quite a bit of soap suds remaining. I sighed, shook out the clothes, put them back in, set the dials and buttons for a full wash and watched through the glass front as it all got started. Imagine my surprise when the wash was really soapy. At the end of this process, I decided to rinse one more time. Hours have passed at this point! Anne was home and, lovingly, not making fun of my dilemma and frustration.
At last, it was bedtime, the laundry had been folded and put away, and I continued complaining about the machine. Anne was kind. I admitted I had poured too much soap into the middle compartment and it dawned on me: why would the middle (second) compartment be used for soap? I asked which compartment she used: left (first)! For months, I have been putting the detergent into the fabric softener compartment and the clothes were 'rinsing' with a full complement of soap!!!
You try pressing the wrinkles out of jeans that have been rinsed in liquid detergent!
At least it's not raining.
Cheers!
The rantings of an unrepentant old leftist, and his friends.
Monday, June 18, 2001
Sunday, June 10, 2001
Names names names!
It's remarkable how important our names and monicker are to others.
I have used many names over the years. Most have been made up by me, some have been made for me by others, some I borrowed. I used them because of lifestyle or politics or mental illness. Whatever the reason, process or result, I have had to suffer the ramifications of those many names: using the wrong name at the wrong time, having different groups of people who call me different names collide in a social situation, forgetting what name you know me by, etc. These days, I am Dick Mac or Richard Mac. The repertoire has narrowed and the collision of names has pretty much ceased. Face it, there isn't a terribly wide variety in my current catalogue of monickers.
I remember a young woman attorney with whom I had become friends, we will call her Ms. Jones. She and I got to know each other a bit as she went from law school, through the bar exam, to being an associate in the firm at which I worked. We were not good friends, per se, just friendly in the office. We'd gossip and share bits of info about our lives outside the office. Though I do not recall what she looked like, I remember her as attractive, which would be criteria for being friendly with a young woman attorney in a law firm environment.
A few years into her legal career Ms. Jones and her fiancee, Mr. Smith, fast approached their wedding date. She was gone for a while on a honeymoon, and the first time I saw her in the office, it was with big smiles and warm wishes that we greeted one another.
"Welcome back, Mrs. Smith!" I exclaimed. Since I was being sincere and was genuinely excited about her marriage, I thought this was a friendly, giggly, almost girlish way to greet her.
She stiffened! Her face dropped, and she became rather stern. "I am a successful, independent, professional woman," she scolded. "I would never take a man's name after marriage."
I was a bit put-off. Many Miss Joneses keep their maiden names, but that doesn't make them any less Missus Smiths after the nuptials. I apologized and stammered that I knew she kept her maiden name, I was just referring to her by her formal married name. No offense was intended. She turned redder, became more frustrated and gave me a lecture about independence and equality and (what she passed off as) feminism. I was furious, but somehow kept my composure.
"I understand," I said quietly. "You are your own woman and refuse to take your husband's name; you've decided to keep your father's name. How progressive!" And I turned and walked away.
She never spoke to me again. She seems never to have told anyone about it; but, I leap at the chance to tell the story!
When I got married, I became Mr. & Mrs. Richard Mac, which has taken some getting used to. I am also one half of Anne & Dick Mac. Anne's maiden name has never been any difficulty for us; professionally she is Ms. D, and socially she is Mrs. Mac. It's all been rather simple.
With my history of 'name that name' I had my fears about how this marriage/names thing would work. I am totally comfortable with Anne using any name she chooses. Face it, when you've had as many names as me, it is futile to criticize another's choice of names.
Upon my return to The King's Wardrobe, last weekend, the staff was all smiles and
greeted me warmly: "Welcome back, Mr. D!"
The first time it happened, last Autumn, I wasted some of my life explaining to the
friendly and rather perplexed young man that although my wife's name was D, my name was Mac. He smiled, asked forgiveness, we laughed about it, he apologized again, I went on my way. Next time I saw him, he was all smiles: "Good morning, Mr. D!" I smiled, thought about how to politely correct him, and realized it was futile! Face it, I am Mr. D.
I have become Mr. D. Here in England, outside of my office and tiny social circle, I am known as Anne D's husband. Mr. Mac xists only as paperwork at Her Majesty's Immigration and my employer. Everywhere else, I am Mr. D! Our doormen call me Mr. D, the moving company calls me Mr. D, today the housing consultant called my office and asked for Richard D, the London company to receive our possessions calls me Mr. D, I assume this will continue!
I will keep you posted.
Peace.
I have used many names over the years. Most have been made up by me, some have been made for me by others, some I borrowed. I used them because of lifestyle or politics or mental illness. Whatever the reason, process or result, I have had to suffer the ramifications of those many names: using the wrong name at the wrong time, having different groups of people who call me different names collide in a social situation, forgetting what name you know me by, etc. These days, I am Dick Mac or Richard Mac. The repertoire has narrowed and the collision of names has pretty much ceased. Face it, there isn't a terribly wide variety in my current catalogue of monickers.
I remember a young woman attorney with whom I had become friends, we will call her Ms. Jones. She and I got to know each other a bit as she went from law school, through the bar exam, to being an associate in the firm at which I worked. We were not good friends, per se, just friendly in the office. We'd gossip and share bits of info about our lives outside the office. Though I do not recall what she looked like, I remember her as attractive, which would be criteria for being friendly with a young woman attorney in a law firm environment.
A few years into her legal career Ms. Jones and her fiancee, Mr. Smith, fast approached their wedding date. She was gone for a while on a honeymoon, and the first time I saw her in the office, it was with big smiles and warm wishes that we greeted one another.
"Welcome back, Mrs. Smith!" I exclaimed. Since I was being sincere and was genuinely excited about her marriage, I thought this was a friendly, giggly, almost girlish way to greet her.
She stiffened! Her face dropped, and she became rather stern. "I am a successful, independent, professional woman," she scolded. "I would never take a man's name after marriage."
I was a bit put-off. Many Miss Joneses keep their maiden names, but that doesn't make them any less Missus Smiths after the nuptials. I apologized and stammered that I knew she kept her maiden name, I was just referring to her by her formal married name. No offense was intended. She turned redder, became more frustrated and gave me a lecture about independence and equality and (what she passed off as) feminism. I was furious, but somehow kept my composure.
"I understand," I said quietly. "You are your own woman and refuse to take your husband's name; you've decided to keep your father's name. How progressive!" And I turned and walked away.
She never spoke to me again. She seems never to have told anyone about it; but, I leap at the chance to tell the story!
When I got married, I became Mr. & Mrs. Richard Mac, which has taken some getting used to. I am also one half of Anne & Dick Mac. Anne's maiden name has never been any difficulty for us; professionally she is Ms. D, and socially she is Mrs. Mac. It's all been rather simple.
With my history of 'name that name' I had my fears about how this marriage/names thing would work. I am totally comfortable with Anne using any name she chooses. Face it, when you've had as many names as me, it is futile to criticize another's choice of names.
Upon my return to The King's Wardrobe, last weekend, the staff was all smiles and
greeted me warmly: "Welcome back, Mr. D!"
The first time it happened, last Autumn, I wasted some of my life explaining to the
friendly and rather perplexed young man that although my wife's name was D, my name was Mac. He smiled, asked forgiveness, we laughed about it, he apologized again, I went on my way. Next time I saw him, he was all smiles: "Good morning, Mr. D!" I smiled, thought about how to politely correct him, and realized it was futile! Face it, I am Mr. D.
I have become Mr. D. Here in England, outside of my office and tiny social circle, I am known as Anne D's husband. Mr. Mac xists only as paperwork at Her Majesty's Immigration and my employer. Everywhere else, I am Mr. D! Our doormen call me Mr. D, the moving company calls me Mr. D, today the housing consultant called my office and asked for Richard D, the London company to receive our possessions calls me Mr. D, I assume this will continue!
I will keep you posted.
Peace.
Friday, June 08, 2001
Sick In London
I have heard that stress makes one more susceptible to illness. I have also heard (and believe) that stress is completely man-made, that we create it ourselves, it is not God-given. Irrespective of the nature of stress and illness, I am sick; and this illness follows the rather stressful process of moving from New York, saying good-bye to friends and family, and sitting with hundreds of strangers in a pressurized tube for seven hours.
I've never thought of myself as an exhibitionist - or as exhibitionists like to say, a diarist; but, the more I think about writing these messages to America: sadly, this is what I've become. Has my vanity taken such hold that I find this therapeutic? I must be sick!
We are still in our City flat at The King's Wardrobe, in Carter Lane. Our spacious new flat in Chelstow Place will not be ready until July. The best part of our current address is that is is in a very old part of London near St. Paul's Cathedral and Blackfriars Bridge. Carter Lane is a narrow thoroughfare one block in from said cathedral's churchyard, populated by modern (1970s) office buildings at either end, a 19th century YMCA which now houses a YHA youth hostel, and blocks of 18th century residences that have, for the most part, been turned into businesses. Wardrobe Place, which is the address of The King's Wardrobe, is a small cobbled courtyard of three trees with families of birds, surrounded by six very old buildings. It is picturesque. It is quaint. It is cozy and wonderful and very unlike America (even Beacon Hill).
This was the site of Henry VIII's wardrobe: a cobbled square with six buildings that housed his tailors and storage for his clothing. The original buildings were destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666 and, like most all of Old London, rebuilt, as-is, in the same spot, in the same roads during the ensuing century. When London was flattened after the fire, the government wanted to re-design it as a modern (17th century) city, with a plan and a grid of sorts. However, the aristocracy (landowners) could not agree on compensation for eliminated roads and buildings, so London was rebuilt as it had been. So, you see, my fellow Bostonians, there is a lineage to our municipal ineptitude.
Boston is much like London, but that's a different story.
So, I find myself in The King's Wardrobe, today. Apartment A110. All day. Sniffling and sighing and generally feeling sorry for myself. I am not good at being sick. I have an aversion to housework, which is a detriment during a sick day, because there is not much else to do: mess the house, clean the house. Generally, I spend the first part of the sick day messing the house, and the second part of the day making a half-hearted attempt at cleaning it up so that it is a tad tidier than when I started. I enjoy some success.
I was awoken this morning by a conversation among British-sounding youths. Luckily, our apartment looks out over the courtyard. Unluckily, we are often unwelcome listeners to late-night conversations or arguments between lovers or early-morning business conversations among foreigners. Sometimes it is amusing; often it is irritating. This is a drawback to natural air-conditioning: open windows.
This morning's conversation among a seemingly large group included the clinking of tools and metal, so curiosity got me to look. (Not being an exhibitionist, I am neither a voyeur, and feel guilty when I peek out my own windows to check-out a disturbance.)
Slender Asian man with beautiful hair and looks, scruffy Italian-looking man with a beaming smile, cropped-hair English dyke with bright eyes, and a slew of others carrying photographic equipment around the courtyard. Two young men were transforming all the single-pane windows on the ground floor to six-pane windows by placing a grid brace against each pane of glass, lighting was being arranged, cameras were being assembled. All were chipper and chatty. None were thirty. Another photo-shoot to publicize the development, I assumed.
I managed to rest and read and answer email and call vendors about the move and call work a few times (no one seems to be in either the NY or UK office). I listened to the BBC Radio 4, T.Rex "Electric Warrior," and The Tubes "White Punks On Dope" collection. I ate a banana, made the bed, started some laundry, and continued my journey through Gore Vidal's "Palimpsest."
As the afternoon rolled on, I heard the famous "Quiet! Sound! Action!" call of moviedom and looked to see three Nazi officers walking through the archway, onto the cobbled courtyard, toward a doorway, and behind a lighting-scrim, out of view. Followed by: "Cut!" and the chatter amongst technicians and artists (separately, of course) that follows a filming sequence.
I am still in my pajamas and bathrobe, so I sneak peeks discreetly, because I do not want to get dressed. No one seems to notice me, or they are too cool to be seen noticing me.
My cute Asian seems to be the lighting guy. My Italian is involved with the camera. My dyke is the director, or director of photography. The actors are all blond and well-built and Caucasian and turned out in their Nazi grey which always makes me uncomfortable. They seem at ease in their roles and costumes. Are they competent actors, or do they aspire to this imagery?
My neighbors are coming and going through the courtyard in waves, as they are stopped at their door or the entrance to the courtyard and must wait for permission to pass through. None seem bothered, all are non-plussed by the equipment. Am I the only one who finds this interesting?
I miss New York. When I leave my New York office I see Radio City Music Hall. When I leave my London office I see the Lloyd's building.
The Lloyd's building is a piece of post-modern architecture that I classify as masturbatory design. It seems not to have been designed with longevity in mind, only a sense of schoolboy one-up-manship. "See how unique my building looks? I am so unique." It is as if a boy with an Erector Set was asked to design an office building. Unlike an Erector Set design, though, the Lloyd's building has no classic, if pedestrian, lines. It is designed with its innards on the outside, like the Pompidou Center in Paris. It is fun to look at, but not very attractive. The Lloyd's building has a lot of stainless steel, which I like, but it is impossible to keep clean; and the inside doors of the elevators (which are on the outside of the building) and the elevator shafts, which seem to have been originally stainless steel, are now greasy, blackened exposed one-dimensional shafts with all the appeal of the underside of subway tracks. It is not a pretty sight. At night, it is lit blue, which gives it a much softer feel. Most see it during the day, though, in its sterile ugliness.
This is not to say that I dislike all modern (post-modern?) architecture. I like the Grace Building on 42nd Street. I like Boston's Hancock Tower. Though I find most I.M. Pei designs to be the most egregious of all masturbatory designs, he did a nice job in Boston; but then, a stopped clock is correct twice a day. I look forward to a visit to Bilbao to see the new Guggenheim (which I like in pictures). Enough of this! I really did not intend to write a letter about architecture. Hell, I live in a city with remarkable examples from many centuries of design.
I miss New York. Maybe my illness is psychosomatic -- maybe I am just sad and depressed. But, that is probably not the case since I have a runny nose and keep getting hot and cold flashes. I probably have a common cold from one of my cootie-ridden companions on Flight VS012 from Logan to Gatwick.
The final week in America was fun. I attended a Mets v. Marlins game with the manager of the evil Midtown Mercenaries and had a blast. Spent days inventorying and valuating our possessions for shipment to London. Spent time with Pam, and Michelle, and Dickie. Took long walks through Manhattan. Then my brother, John, and our buddy, Fred, arrived from Boston to collect me and take me North to New England for some final farewells. I got to spend time there with Steven, and Dianne, and Albert.
The low-point of this process was selling my car. Anne's company has these fascist policies about how they will protect you against loss of your car. Unfortunately, you pay dearly for the protection as you seek multiple offers in Manhattan while working full-time and arranging the move. I finally made the sale to a dealer on 10th Avenue. Today, I discover that he has not sent pay-off checks (one of which is my money) to the bank, so I wonder if I have been screwed out of my car. Best not to think about it.
No matter how nice or generous car dealers might be in their personal lives, I find them all to be scumbags in the workplace. It may not be their personal nature, just the nature of the industry; but, I've yet to meet one with whom I would choose to break bread.
The best event of the week was a Red Chord show, at the Plough & Stars, in Cambridge, with Karen, Meg, Susan, Steve, Pat and Bob. I have been trying to get my friends to attend a Red Chord show for some time now, but most blow it off, usually under the mistaken impression that I promote this band only because my cousin, Andrea, is the lead singer. I thought most knew that if I did not think something was good, I would say so; and, if my cousin's band was a dog, I would tell her to get a different job. Maybe we are all just getting too old for long evenings in The Abbey or The Plough. Does anyone else remember that the Plough & Stars was on River Street or Western Ave.? With a red storefront? Am I imagining this?
Anyway . . . Red Chord was great. They are a band worth taking in and I was vindicated when Meg remarked over and over that she was shocked at how good they were because she figured I only liked them because it was my cousin's band.
Oh, my! Now they are pounding on the door and shouting in German! Yikes. This is eerie! I wish I had a microphone to record it for you (they are literally right outside my window): Quiet! Sound ready? Sound ready. OK. Camera ready? Ready. Roll-sound. Rolling. Roll camera. Take One (click). Action! Then the sound of heavy boots marching across the cobbles . . . a knock on a door . . . a pounding on the door . . . a deep, loud German voice shouting a command ("Open the door," is it?) . . . Cut! The Asian is now holding a sound boom. He looks so versatile. This must be a big production, because there are at least twenty technicians out here and only three actors. They are now arranging a different shot. I am probably in for some more German shouting.
I love London and I will keep you posted about our goings-on.
Peace.
I've never thought of myself as an exhibitionist - or as exhibitionists like to say, a diarist; but, the more I think about writing these messages to America: sadly, this is what I've become. Has my vanity taken such hold that I find this therapeutic? I must be sick!
We are still in our City flat at The King's Wardrobe, in Carter Lane. Our spacious new flat in Chelstow Place will not be ready until July. The best part of our current address is that is is in a very old part of London near St. Paul's Cathedral and Blackfriars Bridge. Carter Lane is a narrow thoroughfare one block in from said cathedral's churchyard, populated by modern (1970s) office buildings at either end, a 19th century YMCA which now houses a YHA youth hostel, and blocks of 18th century residences that have, for the most part, been turned into businesses. Wardrobe Place, which is the address of The King's Wardrobe, is a small cobbled courtyard of three trees with families of birds, surrounded by six very old buildings. It is picturesque. It is quaint. It is cozy and wonderful and very unlike America (even Beacon Hill).
This was the site of Henry VIII's wardrobe: a cobbled square with six buildings that housed his tailors and storage for his clothing. The original buildings were destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666 and, like most all of Old London, rebuilt, as-is, in the same spot, in the same roads during the ensuing century. When London was flattened after the fire, the government wanted to re-design it as a modern (17th century) city, with a plan and a grid of sorts. However, the aristocracy (landowners) could not agree on compensation for eliminated roads and buildings, so London was rebuilt as it had been. So, you see, my fellow Bostonians, there is a lineage to our municipal ineptitude.
Boston is much like London, but that's a different story.
So, I find myself in The King's Wardrobe, today. Apartment A110. All day. Sniffling and sighing and generally feeling sorry for myself. I am not good at being sick. I have an aversion to housework, which is a detriment during a sick day, because there is not much else to do: mess the house, clean the house. Generally, I spend the first part of the sick day messing the house, and the second part of the day making a half-hearted attempt at cleaning it up so that it is a tad tidier than when I started. I enjoy some success.
I was awoken this morning by a conversation among British-sounding youths. Luckily, our apartment looks out over the courtyard. Unluckily, we are often unwelcome listeners to late-night conversations or arguments between lovers or early-morning business conversations among foreigners. Sometimes it is amusing; often it is irritating. This is a drawback to natural air-conditioning: open windows.
This morning's conversation among a seemingly large group included the clinking of tools and metal, so curiosity got me to look. (Not being an exhibitionist, I am neither a voyeur, and feel guilty when I peek out my own windows to check-out a disturbance.)
Slender Asian man with beautiful hair and looks, scruffy Italian-looking man with a beaming smile, cropped-hair English dyke with bright eyes, and a slew of others carrying photographic equipment around the courtyard. Two young men were transforming all the single-pane windows on the ground floor to six-pane windows by placing a grid brace against each pane of glass, lighting was being arranged, cameras were being assembled. All were chipper and chatty. None were thirty. Another photo-shoot to publicize the development, I assumed.
I managed to rest and read and answer email and call vendors about the move and call work a few times (no one seems to be in either the NY or UK office). I listened to the BBC Radio 4, T.Rex "Electric Warrior," and The Tubes "White Punks On Dope" collection. I ate a banana, made the bed, started some laundry, and continued my journey through Gore Vidal's "Palimpsest."
As the afternoon rolled on, I heard the famous "Quiet! Sound! Action!" call of moviedom and looked to see three Nazi officers walking through the archway, onto the cobbled courtyard, toward a doorway, and behind a lighting-scrim, out of view. Followed by: "Cut!" and the chatter amongst technicians and artists (separately, of course) that follows a filming sequence.
I am still in my pajamas and bathrobe, so I sneak peeks discreetly, because I do not want to get dressed. No one seems to notice me, or they are too cool to be seen noticing me.
My cute Asian seems to be the lighting guy. My Italian is involved with the camera. My dyke is the director, or director of photography. The actors are all blond and well-built and Caucasian and turned out in their Nazi grey which always makes me uncomfortable. They seem at ease in their roles and costumes. Are they competent actors, or do they aspire to this imagery?
My neighbors are coming and going through the courtyard in waves, as they are stopped at their door or the entrance to the courtyard and must wait for permission to pass through. None seem bothered, all are non-plussed by the equipment. Am I the only one who finds this interesting?
I miss New York. When I leave my New York office I see Radio City Music Hall. When I leave my London office I see the Lloyd's building.
The Lloyd's building is a piece of post-modern architecture that I classify as masturbatory design. It seems not to have been designed with longevity in mind, only a sense of schoolboy one-up-manship. "See how unique my building looks? I am so unique." It is as if a boy with an Erector Set was asked to design an office building. Unlike an Erector Set design, though, the Lloyd's building has no classic, if pedestrian, lines. It is designed with its innards on the outside, like the Pompidou Center in Paris. It is fun to look at, but not very attractive. The Lloyd's building has a lot of stainless steel, which I like, but it is impossible to keep clean; and the inside doors of the elevators (which are on the outside of the building) and the elevator shafts, which seem to have been originally stainless steel, are now greasy, blackened exposed one-dimensional shafts with all the appeal of the underside of subway tracks. It is not a pretty sight. At night, it is lit blue, which gives it a much softer feel. Most see it during the day, though, in its sterile ugliness.
This is not to say that I dislike all modern (post-modern?) architecture. I like the Grace Building on 42nd Street. I like Boston's Hancock Tower. Though I find most I.M. Pei designs to be the most egregious of all masturbatory designs, he did a nice job in Boston; but then, a stopped clock is correct twice a day. I look forward to a visit to Bilbao to see the new Guggenheim (which I like in pictures). Enough of this! I really did not intend to write a letter about architecture. Hell, I live in a city with remarkable examples from many centuries of design.
I miss New York. Maybe my illness is psychosomatic -- maybe I am just sad and depressed. But, that is probably not the case since I have a runny nose and keep getting hot and cold flashes. I probably have a common cold from one of my cootie-ridden companions on Flight VS012 from Logan to Gatwick.
The final week in America was fun. I attended a Mets v. Marlins game with the manager of the evil Midtown Mercenaries and had a blast. Spent days inventorying and valuating our possessions for shipment to London. Spent time with Pam, and Michelle, and Dickie. Took long walks through Manhattan. Then my brother, John, and our buddy, Fred, arrived from Boston to collect me and take me North to New England for some final farewells. I got to spend time there with Steven, and Dianne, and Albert.
The low-point of this process was selling my car. Anne's company has these fascist policies about how they will protect you against loss of your car. Unfortunately, you pay dearly for the protection as you seek multiple offers in Manhattan while working full-time and arranging the move. I finally made the sale to a dealer on 10th Avenue. Today, I discover that he has not sent pay-off checks (one of which is my money) to the bank, so I wonder if I have been screwed out of my car. Best not to think about it.
No matter how nice or generous car dealers might be in their personal lives, I find them all to be scumbags in the workplace. It may not be their personal nature, just the nature of the industry; but, I've yet to meet one with whom I would choose to break bread.
The best event of the week was a Red Chord show, at the Plough & Stars, in Cambridge, with Karen, Meg, Susan, Steve, Pat and Bob. I have been trying to get my friends to attend a Red Chord show for some time now, but most blow it off, usually under the mistaken impression that I promote this band only because my cousin, Andrea, is the lead singer. I thought most knew that if I did not think something was good, I would say so; and, if my cousin's band was a dog, I would tell her to get a different job. Maybe we are all just getting too old for long evenings in The Abbey or The Plough. Does anyone else remember that the Plough & Stars was on River Street or Western Ave.? With a red storefront? Am I imagining this?
Anyway . . . Red Chord was great. They are a band worth taking in and I was vindicated when Meg remarked over and over that she was shocked at how good they were because she figured I only liked them because it was my cousin's band.
Oh, my! Now they are pounding on the door and shouting in German! Yikes. This is eerie! I wish I had a microphone to record it for you (they are literally right outside my window): Quiet! Sound ready? Sound ready. OK. Camera ready? Ready. Roll-sound. Rolling. Roll camera. Take One (click). Action! Then the sound of heavy boots marching across the cobbles . . . a knock on a door . . . a pounding on the door . . . a deep, loud German voice shouting a command ("Open the door," is it?) . . . Cut! The Asian is now holding a sound boom. He looks so versatile. This must be a big production, because there are at least twenty technicians out here and only three actors. They are now arranging a different shot. I am probably in for some more German shouting.
I love London and I will keep you posted about our goings-on.
Peace.
Wednesday, February 28, 2001
White City Old City Red City Cold City
The Mohammed V Aeroport, in Casablanca, looks like it is just another random mid-60s Florida landing strip as the jet taxis to a gate. Inside, however, one finds a lobby so dramatic in size and design that you instantly know you are no longer in Europe or the Americas.
Unfortunately, the meal on the flight was fish. NEVER eat the meal on a flight if it is fish. I have known this for decades. I think it was just one of those pieces of information that automatically appeared. No one I knew while growing up ever flew on planes. The economy was strong during the VietNam war, but not so strong that people in the projects had jobs that flew them anywhere. So, 'avoid the fish' was not a valuable lesson I learned in childhood. No, until the late seventies, I saw air-travel as a privilege of the privileged.
I remember one Summer in the late 1960s when my brother, John, spent some time with his Godmother, our Aunt Bette, in upstate New York. We had all piled into a van with the neighbors and driven (eleven of us) for days through Massachusetts and New York for a week-long visit in Rochester. At the end of the visit, it was announced that he would stay longer and fly home later. FLY HOME! I don't remember exactly how badly I responded, but I am certain there must have been a bit of whining on my part about why he got to stay, and I didn't. More than thirty years later, he has a nice life with a big family and a house and a simple lifestyle that I envy. In the seventies, I finally got my chance to fly in jets; and these thirty years after John's Rochester to Providence flight, I fly much more than I would like.
So, I do not know from where my aversion to fish on a jet originates, probably just that strangling aroma of fish being heated in the ovens that turned me off. On flight 6915 from Heathrow to Casablanca, I enjoyed the bread and crackers and dessert, but did not eat the fish. Anne did.
After passing through the dramatic and beautiful lobby of Mohammed V Aeroport, we got in the queue for passport control. It was no faster or slower than any other passport control . . . well, faster than US passport control, which I have found to be rather poorly run, in that charming re-engineered way. After getting our passports stamped, we made our way to the soldiers who would guide us through metal detectors, check our passports, and send us to the luggage carousels and uniformed porters. Anne, always a savvy traveler and wise enough at the end of this journey to nick the air-sickness bag from the seat back, dressed impeccably in high-style including a new purple suede Karen Millen coat, made her way to one of the large pillars and returned the fish to British Airways more discreetly than I have ever seen! A bit shaken, but no worse for the wear, she continued to the carousel while a young janitor, speaking French in a cross tone, directed to me to a trash can. He smiled broadly when he realized there would be no extra cleaning projects in the luggage area this evening. Hey, either you have style, or you do not: a girl with style never leaves a mess behind in a public place, no matter how bad the meal!
It has only been in 2001 that I have had the good fortune of arriving at an airport to find a man holding a sign that reads 'Mac' and I hope to have the experience more. Especially when arriving in a country where English is the 4th most common language. (I now know that I now know more French than I thought.) There he was: our driver. When we got into the car, I panicked a little as I thought to myself: oh, no, they drive on the wrong side! The long ride from the airport reminded me of journeys to the Miami Airport in the 1970s. Low flat terrain and low whitewashed buildings and palm trees. Five miles into our journey, I realized that the driver was on the correct (left) side, and I had gotten so used to London that I was confused!
I booked a suite at the Idou Anfa Hotel, on Boulevard d'Anfa. It is a Moroccan hotel primarily used for businessmen in town closing deals, or being screwed by the Algerians. I selected it because I did not want to spend my first holiday in Africa at a Sheraton, Marriott, or Meridien hotel where the room looks the same as a room in Des Moines. I was not seeking a tent or casbah, just something relatively un-American.
I was, and still am, a bit surprised at the welcome we received. The front-desk staff was a bit surly when I started speaking to them in English (my only language); but, when I said my name was Mac, two of them lit-up, smiled and in perfect English began this litany of greetings and questions about my trip. I have never had the mention of my name evoke such glee in total strangers, just ask my creditors!
I think it helps to have a wife that more-often-than-not looks like a Parisian designer or Hollywood icon or New York pop star. I don't care what I learn about my insides during my spiritual development, if you are well-dressed, people treat you well. Style over substance! American Sloth that has been passed off as casual attire is treated outside of the US with the disdain it deserves, and appearing in public dressed well, with a wife who looks like she just arrived from a fashion runway gets me all the right kind of attention from service providers.
We were brought to our suite by a uniformed bellhop and found fruit juice, bottled water, a fruit basket and a tray of pastries awaiting us. Wow! This has never happened before, even when I've paid $500 a night for a single room. The suite looks out over the whitewashed city to a panoramic view of the Hassan II Mosque and the Atlantic Ocean.
Ahhhhh, it is called Casablanca because all the casas are blanca. I get it!
Anne decided to make her way directly to bed. I decided to have dinner. I had missed the fish!
The hotel has three restaurants, two bars, and a night club. I select the dining room, because the older I get, the less patience I have with paper napkins. I was seated by the only female staff.
The dining room is a cross between 1980s New Jersey Mafia and 1950s Parisian strip-joint. The music is American Christmas Muzak. YES. It is now 'O Christmas Tree' which was preceded by a Liberace-esque 'Jingle Bells'. I am not making this up.
The room and service are French, but the spirit is Moroccan. There is a buzz that is different from French and American dining rooms: the art on the walls, the quality of service, the whole feel of the room. I recall William Burroughs novels I read in the seventies about extreme indulgences in drugs, mystery, and homoerotica in Morocco. But the whole scene is a bit absurd. Certainly the music doesn't lend any sanity to the scene of chaos that is being carried out like a ballet. Chaotic, but smooth and almost relaxing. The languages are French, Moroccan Arabic, and Spanish tonight.
I add my own twist to this scene of Burroughs meets Bunuel dining by reading an old New Yorker magazine 'Talk Of The Town' article about Matthew McConaughey arguing the merits of the American version of the TV show 'Temptation Island' with that show's 'heart throb' (?), Jim Sperber. Why am I reading this?
Is there a lonelier scene than the parties of one seated in a hotel dining room? The other parties of one are also non-Moroccan, seemingly French, definitely French-speaking. Me? I can say chateau-briand and then answer the obligatory question about my nationality being American or British by saying, in English, that I am an American living in London.
I order two courses and read more about Matthew McConaughey and Jim Sperber. Why am I reading this article? The prawns are amazing, and my inquisitor is pleased, and I realize there are no more parties of one, and I am the only piece of Euro-trash in the joint.
I now notice that none of the men will make eye-contact with me, and the maitre'd is instructing the woman in how to serve me. For some reason, though all the other tables are being serviced by the men and woman working as a team, I am only interacting with the woman. Her English is very good and the service is top-notch, so I have no complaints. My curiosity, though, is whether I am being served by the woman because the men will not serve an American (which would be odd, because Moroccan Arabs are not hostile to the West in the way as some other Arab cultures); or, do they think I prefer to be served by an attractive woman? I decide it is a question that would offend all of them if I asked, so I decide to forget about it.
My main course arrives and it is beautiful. I have no utensils. Do I dare use the Hollandaise? NO. The Christmas music ends and is replaced by a very loud recording of an Egyptian pop singer. Reminds me of August Darnell, not Om Kalsoum. Is this chateau-briand from a cow? I better not think about it.
Four large parties of Moroccan businessmen are now the only other diners. I am not moved by the disdain with which I am viewed by them, which is evidenced by their looks of contempt when our eyes meet. They eat French and drink American. I decide it's a good sign that these well-dressed men are also having chateau-briand, but I can't help but be dismayed by their selections of Coca-Cola or Budweiser as beverages. So, I get to look at them with contempt, too! The music is back to Muzak cum Liberace, and the selection is 'Killing Me Softly' followed by an un-name-able Neil Diamond-type song.
I make my way back to the room, and CNN and BBC keep me in English-language information.
Friday began with a continental breakfast in one of the hotel restaurants. I had forgotten about prune danish! Delicious. When was the last time you had a prune danish? Get one soon!
We were then met in the hotel lobby by Karima, manager of Paradise Bus. Karima provides guides and vehicles for Moroccan holiday travel. She had already provided our airport pick-up on THU evening, and she had a proposition.
Karima offered an English speaking driver to take us around Casablanca on FRI, this same driver to take us on the 3-hour drive to Marakech on SAT where we would meet an English speaking guide, then the same arrangement to Rabat on SUN, transfer to the airport on MON, along with the aforementioned THU airport transfer, for the tidy sum of five thousand dirham (less than $500). I hesitated at first and suggested 4000, but Karima was not budging and Anne thought it well-spent money. Sold.
Ali (of course his name is Ali) is our-man-in-Morocco. We even have his mobile number in case we need anything while he is at home. His English is superb and we can call him at any hour for anything.
The Hassan II Mosque is the predominant architecture of the skyline and the only mosque that allows non-Muslim visitors. It is also the largest mosque in the world. It's construction has been financed by a Saudi prince as a memorial to the previous king, Hassan II. Today being the holy day, we could not enter, but we were allowed to look inside. What an amazing sight. The tower, which I pessimistically envision as someday filled with soldiers of Allah guarding Morocco's Atlantic coast after the inevitable Jihad victory over the evils of America and Israel, stands 280 metres. The plaza spreads for acres and is dotted with fountains and populated by an equal number of European tourists, faithful Muslims arriving for prayer, handsome, fit young men studying under Imam at the adjacent medersa (Koran school) in preparation for a lifetime of service to Allah, and elegantly uniformed policemen in service to the King (Muhammad VI, son of Hassan II, son of Muhammad V) whose primary job seems to be blowing their whistles at tourists venturing too close to the seawall that surrounds three sides of the mosque.
Last month, we bought a couple of books about Morocco to learn a bit before arriving. We learned about taxis grande and petit (which is why we've dropped three hundred quid on a private guide), we read about tipping (fifteen percent in Euro-type restaurants, a few dirham in local cafes, a few dirham per bag to the porter, etc.), only accept items (especially food) with your right hand, homosexuality is illegal and gay men are imprisoned, shorts are never acceptable at any time of year for anyone, and women should avoid showing bare arms and legs. It is good to be prepared.
For your amusement, many tourists seem to have failed to read these small points and we were treated, at this mosque, to the display of two couples dressed in tacky (TACKY) summer wear, both women sleeveless and one man in capri pants! I am no fan of capri pants and on 50-year-old men they are ludicrous. This crew walked right out of an Appalachian Wal-Mart clothing department and found themselves transported to Morocco's holiest shrine. Amazing! I felt like a native.
We also read that Casa is a 'casual' city. I feared my current penchant for blazers may be a problem, but it is not so. A jacket is always acceptable. Anne, fashion-smart as always, wore a colorful full-length skirt, long-sleeved denim top and scarf.
We spent more time than I though we would, just wandering around the plaza, asking Ali questions about Moroccan politics, and feeling the cool Atlantic breeze. My hair is now so long that the breeze actually blows through it!
Next was a drive to La Corniche, the seaside resort that is half 1990s South Beach, half 1960s Revere Beach -- it is Casablanca's Riviera. You can see the glamour and the poverty without turning your head. A Saudi Prince has built a palace overlooking the beaches. There are magnificent villas. There is an amusement park and seaside hotels with waterslides and discoteques, restaurants and food kiosks. It is 70F, but this is cold in Morocco, and La Corniche is practically abandoned.
At the end of La Corniche, as the tourism ends and nature resumes, we approach a holy site where unwed women swim in the waters and pray to a holy woman (now deceased) for the promise of a husband. It looks like a miniature castle, but is a village on a tiny island that is accessible by foot during low tide. The holy woman died many years ago (50 from what I can determine) and the island is inhabited by her descendants who are very poor and suffer the reputation of being drunken louts bent on crime to subsidize their meagre existence. This situation has not diminished the holy woman's powers; but, women who visit the shrine are advised to arrive in the company of ALL her brothers. Ahhhh, holiness isn't what it once was.
Next was the park and a Spanish cathedral (long closed, but beautiful architecture), the Mohammed V Plaza (the Moroccan version of Trafalgar Square), and finally some shopping.
Ali wants to know why we are going to visit Rabat, but not Fes. Our reasons were not compelling, and plans were made to switch our Sunday plans to the site of the oldest university in the Western world.
We made it an early day. Anne took a nap, and I found the lobby bar. I was not in the bar fifteen minutes when I was invited to Miknas by a total stranger. I must relax my friendliness. How will I extricate myself from this? I have only come here for a Coke (which was served in a cold bottle), and now I must end this conversation, accept the invitation with the caveat that our trip to Fes may not allow for a visit in Miknas, without offending this seemingly kind gentleman.
After Anne's nap, I convinced her that we should visit the Old Medina, the original city which is the closest thing to what may be envisioned as Bogart's and Bergman's Casablanca. The Medina is very old and run-down, it is poverty-stricken and tense, and it is night. Anne is not enjoying it at all, and I understand. The buzz is clearly criminal, and there is nothing romantic about it. I could enjoy trekking further in; but, Anne's safety and comfort is more important than my curiosity.
We return to the hotel and have a delicious three-course meal in the dining room. With gratuity, we have just dropped all of $44.00! It's good to be an American!
Saturday was our trip to Marrakech. Everyone told us that we should stay in Marrakech, not Casablanca. But, Casablanca has been on my list since I was a teenager, and Marrakech was never on the list. The drive was uneventful. We saw farmland and industry and desert and hills. It is beautiful, because it is totally unlike anything I had seen in North America or Europe.
Moroccan cities are broken into at least two distinct sections: Medina (the old city built by the Arabs or Berbers) and the Ville Nouvelle (the new city built by the French during their enslavement of Morocco in the 20th century).
Marrakech is the red city, as it's buildings are made from red clay, not dissimilar from that found in the American Carolinas.
Rashid was our man in Marrakech. We met him in the Ville Nouvelle and started our adventure at Agdal Gardens, a reservoir and groves of olive, apricot and citrus trees created in the 12th century. Then to see the gates, walls, and plaza of the Royal Palace, which is closed to everyone but the King. The El Bahia Palace, however, is open to the public when the royal family is not present and is a beautiful place. The Ali-ben Youssef Medersa is a 14th Century Koranic school that is almost completely restored and is amazing to see. The ceramic tiles, the cedar wood cupolas, the architectural details are amazing. Rashid is very learned in the Koran and Koranic and Islamic history. He is a fount of information and we had a couple conversations contrasting medersas to seminaries. The Koutoubia Mosque's minaret is visible from most anywhere outside the souk, and at 230 feet, was the inspiration for the tower at Hassan II Mosque. The minaret is topped by three golden spheres (representing the most important tenets of Islam: Allah, prayer, Ramadan) that legend says were created from all the gold jewelry of the Mother of the sultan Ahmed el Mansour, which she offered as penance for missing fasting days during Ramadan.
What I am beginning to notice about Marrakech is that it is EXACTLY what is expected of Morocco. Everything seemed to be just like a Hollywood depiction of Arabian palaces and houses of worship and all the people seemed to be reading from a script and acting out a role from the imagination of the genies at DreamWorks.
The souk (marketplace) is a labyrinth of alleys, some open and airy, some closed and dark. I would never attempt getting through the souks, or the medina, in general, without a guide. The Marrakech souk also seemed very much like a movie set. Unreal in some way. We visited some shops, bought a rug and a Hand of Fatima, but, in retrospect, were not terribly excited or moved by our time there.
That evening, Anne played with baby cobras around her neck, and she sat on a small stool with a snake charmer who allowed me to take a picture. When she arose, the snake charmer, moved her stool and an adult cobra stood straight up and flared his neck. Scared the pants right off me!!!! Sorry, I don't like snakes, especially cobras!
An amusing sidebar: we visited a number of antique galleries. Upon entering one of them, the first photograph you see is of the proprietor with Lou Reed! A rather recent picture. Next photo is same proprietor with Brad Pitt! Amusing. Gallery was totally over-priced, like most everything in Marrakech.
Next day was Fes! My oh my! Our guide this day was Kahlid. He was young, bright, politically active, wholesome, religious, handsome, and spoke near-perfect English. He brought us first to the top of the hill at the South of Fes, where a battlement was constructed in the 14th century. From this high vantage point, we could see all of Fes spread out before us. Remarkable. Next, to the ceramic cooperative to learn how they make all that beautiful blue ceramic. Anne, of course, wanted brown and green! Why buy blue, just because that's what the city is known for! Then to the oldest university in the Western world. Kairaouine University was established in 857, and predates Bolgna and Oxford. The original building still stands within the ancient medina, Fes el Bali, and is now a mosque. The Zaouia (Tomb) of Moulay Idriss II closed to non-Muslims, but can be viewed through the arched doorway. The tomb is the site of pilgrimages for women seeking fertility and those wishing for a turn in their luck; it is also a site for official sanctuary and those inside cannot be arrested. The Fondouk Tsetouanien has been completely restored to its original beauty and was a center of commerce for caravans. The ground floor was used as a sort of bazaar and the upper, balconied floors for sleeping quarters. The view from the roof of the fondouk was absolutely incredible, as it is in the center of the ancient medina and is the second highest non-religious point. The Leather Tanners inhabit a quarter which is dominated by huge vats used for the curing and dying of leather. We got a couple of nice bags here, and you don't even want to know how inexpensive they were!
The souk (market) in Fes el Bali is everything the souk in Marrakech is not. You would never mistake these souks for a Hollywood set. Since most of the souk were built in the 9th and 10th centuries, the alleys are very narrow. Miles and miles of twisting, turning, light and dark, alleyways that you should not consider navigating without a reputable guide. There is no room for any kind of vehicular traffic, so everything is moved around by donkey and hand-cart. At one point we were in a 'square' about 6' x 6' surrounded by butcher shops displaying sides of meat, cured meats, freshly severed sheep heads, clucking roosters with their feet bound, about 35 adults trying to move through and a donkey trying to maneuver! This is not a Hollywood set!!!
There was soooo much more in Fes. You MUST see it. Fes is everything Marrakech is not.
Unfortunately, we had to return to London on Monday. It is cold in London. We returned refreshed.
Tonight, though, I will go to the Borderline to see my cousin Andrea's band Red Chord. When they return to the States after the rest of their UK/Ireland tour, they will pick-up their residency at the Abbey Lounge, in Somerville, MA. I suggest you check them out -- they are great.
Enough! It's time to sign-off.
Peace,
Dick Mac (alive!)
The Only Survivor Of The National Peoples Gang
Unfortunately, the meal on the flight was fish. NEVER eat the meal on a flight if it is fish. I have known this for decades. I think it was just one of those pieces of information that automatically appeared. No one I knew while growing up ever flew on planes. The economy was strong during the VietNam war, but not so strong that people in the projects had jobs that flew them anywhere. So, 'avoid the fish' was not a valuable lesson I learned in childhood. No, until the late seventies, I saw air-travel as a privilege of the privileged.
I remember one Summer in the late 1960s when my brother, John, spent some time with his Godmother, our Aunt Bette, in upstate New York. We had all piled into a van with the neighbors and driven (eleven of us) for days through Massachusetts and New York for a week-long visit in Rochester. At the end of the visit, it was announced that he would stay longer and fly home later. FLY HOME! I don't remember exactly how badly I responded, but I am certain there must have been a bit of whining on my part about why he got to stay, and I didn't. More than thirty years later, he has a nice life with a big family and a house and a simple lifestyle that I envy. In the seventies, I finally got my chance to fly in jets; and these thirty years after John's Rochester to Providence flight, I fly much more than I would like.
So, I do not know from where my aversion to fish on a jet originates, probably just that strangling aroma of fish being heated in the ovens that turned me off. On flight 6915 from Heathrow to Casablanca, I enjoyed the bread and crackers and dessert, but did not eat the fish. Anne did.
After passing through the dramatic and beautiful lobby of Mohammed V Aeroport, we got in the queue for passport control. It was no faster or slower than any other passport control . . . well, faster than US passport control, which I have found to be rather poorly run, in that charming re-engineered way. After getting our passports stamped, we made our way to the soldiers who would guide us through metal detectors, check our passports, and send us to the luggage carousels and uniformed porters. Anne, always a savvy traveler and wise enough at the end of this journey to nick the air-sickness bag from the seat back, dressed impeccably in high-style including a new purple suede Karen Millen coat, made her way to one of the large pillars and returned the fish to British Airways more discreetly than I have ever seen! A bit shaken, but no worse for the wear, she continued to the carousel while a young janitor, speaking French in a cross tone, directed to me to a trash can. He smiled broadly when he realized there would be no extra cleaning projects in the luggage area this evening. Hey, either you have style, or you do not: a girl with style never leaves a mess behind in a public place, no matter how bad the meal!
It has only been in 2001 that I have had the good fortune of arriving at an airport to find a man holding a sign that reads 'Mac' and I hope to have the experience more. Especially when arriving in a country where English is the 4th most common language. (I now know that I now know more French than I thought.) There he was: our driver. When we got into the car, I panicked a little as I thought to myself: oh, no, they drive on the wrong side! The long ride from the airport reminded me of journeys to the Miami Airport in the 1970s. Low flat terrain and low whitewashed buildings and palm trees. Five miles into our journey, I realized that the driver was on the correct (left) side, and I had gotten so used to London that I was confused!
I booked a suite at the Idou Anfa Hotel, on Boulevard d'Anfa. It is a Moroccan hotel primarily used for businessmen in town closing deals, or being screwed by the Algerians. I selected it because I did not want to spend my first holiday in Africa at a Sheraton, Marriott, or Meridien hotel where the room looks the same as a room in Des Moines. I was not seeking a tent or casbah, just something relatively un-American.
I was, and still am, a bit surprised at the welcome we received. The front-desk staff was a bit surly when I started speaking to them in English (my only language); but, when I said my name was Mac, two of them lit-up, smiled and in perfect English began this litany of greetings and questions about my trip. I have never had the mention of my name evoke such glee in total strangers, just ask my creditors!
I think it helps to have a wife that more-often-than-not looks like a Parisian designer or Hollywood icon or New York pop star. I don't care what I learn about my insides during my spiritual development, if you are well-dressed, people treat you well. Style over substance! American Sloth that has been passed off as casual attire is treated outside of the US with the disdain it deserves, and appearing in public dressed well, with a wife who looks like she just arrived from a fashion runway gets me all the right kind of attention from service providers.
We were brought to our suite by a uniformed bellhop and found fruit juice, bottled water, a fruit basket and a tray of pastries awaiting us. Wow! This has never happened before, even when I've paid $500 a night for a single room. The suite looks out over the whitewashed city to a panoramic view of the Hassan II Mosque and the Atlantic Ocean.
Ahhhhh, it is called Casablanca because all the casas are blanca. I get it!
Anne decided to make her way directly to bed. I decided to have dinner. I had missed the fish!
The hotel has three restaurants, two bars, and a night club. I select the dining room, because the older I get, the less patience I have with paper napkins. I was seated by the only female staff.
The dining room is a cross between 1980s New Jersey Mafia and 1950s Parisian strip-joint. The music is American Christmas Muzak. YES. It is now 'O Christmas Tree' which was preceded by a Liberace-esque 'Jingle Bells'. I am not making this up.
The room and service are French, but the spirit is Moroccan. There is a buzz that is different from French and American dining rooms: the art on the walls, the quality of service, the whole feel of the room. I recall William Burroughs novels I read in the seventies about extreme indulgences in drugs, mystery, and homoerotica in Morocco. But the whole scene is a bit absurd. Certainly the music doesn't lend any sanity to the scene of chaos that is being carried out like a ballet. Chaotic, but smooth and almost relaxing. The languages are French, Moroccan Arabic, and Spanish tonight.
I add my own twist to this scene of Burroughs meets Bunuel dining by reading an old New Yorker magazine 'Talk Of The Town' article about Matthew McConaughey arguing the merits of the American version of the TV show 'Temptation Island' with that show's 'heart throb' (?), Jim Sperber. Why am I reading this?
Is there a lonelier scene than the parties of one seated in a hotel dining room? The other parties of one are also non-Moroccan, seemingly French, definitely French-speaking. Me? I can say chateau-briand and then answer the obligatory question about my nationality being American or British by saying, in English, that I am an American living in London.
I order two courses and read more about Matthew McConaughey and Jim Sperber. Why am I reading this article? The prawns are amazing, and my inquisitor is pleased, and I realize there are no more parties of one, and I am the only piece of Euro-trash in the joint.
I now notice that none of the men will make eye-contact with me, and the maitre'd is instructing the woman in how to serve me. For some reason, though all the other tables are being serviced by the men and woman working as a team, I am only interacting with the woman. Her English is very good and the service is top-notch, so I have no complaints. My curiosity, though, is whether I am being served by the woman because the men will not serve an American (which would be odd, because Moroccan Arabs are not hostile to the West in the way as some other Arab cultures); or, do they think I prefer to be served by an attractive woman? I decide it is a question that would offend all of them if I asked, so I decide to forget about it.
My main course arrives and it is beautiful. I have no utensils. Do I dare use the Hollandaise? NO. The Christmas music ends and is replaced by a very loud recording of an Egyptian pop singer. Reminds me of August Darnell, not Om Kalsoum. Is this chateau-briand from a cow? I better not think about it.
Four large parties of Moroccan businessmen are now the only other diners. I am not moved by the disdain with which I am viewed by them, which is evidenced by their looks of contempt when our eyes meet. They eat French and drink American. I decide it's a good sign that these well-dressed men are also having chateau-briand, but I can't help but be dismayed by their selections of Coca-Cola or Budweiser as beverages. So, I get to look at them with contempt, too! The music is back to Muzak cum Liberace, and the selection is 'Killing Me Softly' followed by an un-name-able Neil Diamond-type song.
I make my way back to the room, and CNN and BBC keep me in English-language information.
Friday began with a continental breakfast in one of the hotel restaurants. I had forgotten about prune danish! Delicious. When was the last time you had a prune danish? Get one soon!
We were then met in the hotel lobby by Karima, manager of Paradise Bus. Karima provides guides and vehicles for Moroccan holiday travel. She had already provided our airport pick-up on THU evening, and she had a proposition.
Karima offered an English speaking driver to take us around Casablanca on FRI, this same driver to take us on the 3-hour drive to Marakech on SAT where we would meet an English speaking guide, then the same arrangement to Rabat on SUN, transfer to the airport on MON, along with the aforementioned THU airport transfer, for the tidy sum of five thousand dirham (less than $500). I hesitated at first and suggested 4000, but Karima was not budging and Anne thought it well-spent money. Sold.
Ali (of course his name is Ali) is our-man-in-Morocco. We even have his mobile number in case we need anything while he is at home. His English is superb and we can call him at any hour for anything.
The Hassan II Mosque is the predominant architecture of the skyline and the only mosque that allows non-Muslim visitors. It is also the largest mosque in the world. It's construction has been financed by a Saudi prince as a memorial to the previous king, Hassan II. Today being the holy day, we could not enter, but we were allowed to look inside. What an amazing sight. The tower, which I pessimistically envision as someday filled with soldiers of Allah guarding Morocco's Atlantic coast after the inevitable Jihad victory over the evils of America and Israel, stands 280 metres. The plaza spreads for acres and is dotted with fountains and populated by an equal number of European tourists, faithful Muslims arriving for prayer, handsome, fit young men studying under Imam at the adjacent medersa (Koran school) in preparation for a lifetime of service to Allah, and elegantly uniformed policemen in service to the King (Muhammad VI, son of Hassan II, son of Muhammad V) whose primary job seems to be blowing their whistles at tourists venturing too close to the seawall that surrounds three sides of the mosque.
Last month, we bought a couple of books about Morocco to learn a bit before arriving. We learned about taxis grande and petit (which is why we've dropped three hundred quid on a private guide), we read about tipping (fifteen percent in Euro-type restaurants, a few dirham in local cafes, a few dirham per bag to the porter, etc.), only accept items (especially food) with your right hand, homosexuality is illegal and gay men are imprisoned, shorts are never acceptable at any time of year for anyone, and women should avoid showing bare arms and legs. It is good to be prepared.
For your amusement, many tourists seem to have failed to read these small points and we were treated, at this mosque, to the display of two couples dressed in tacky (TACKY) summer wear, both women sleeveless and one man in capri pants! I am no fan of capri pants and on 50-year-old men they are ludicrous. This crew walked right out of an Appalachian Wal-Mart clothing department and found themselves transported to Morocco's holiest shrine. Amazing! I felt like a native.
We also read that Casa is a 'casual' city. I feared my current penchant for blazers may be a problem, but it is not so. A jacket is always acceptable. Anne, fashion-smart as always, wore a colorful full-length skirt, long-sleeved denim top and scarf.
We spent more time than I though we would, just wandering around the plaza, asking Ali questions about Moroccan politics, and feeling the cool Atlantic breeze. My hair is now so long that the breeze actually blows through it!
Next was a drive to La Corniche, the seaside resort that is half 1990s South Beach, half 1960s Revere Beach -- it is Casablanca's Riviera. You can see the glamour and the poverty without turning your head. A Saudi Prince has built a palace overlooking the beaches. There are magnificent villas. There is an amusement park and seaside hotels with waterslides and discoteques, restaurants and food kiosks. It is 70F, but this is cold in Morocco, and La Corniche is practically abandoned.
At the end of La Corniche, as the tourism ends and nature resumes, we approach a holy site where unwed women swim in the waters and pray to a holy woman (now deceased) for the promise of a husband. It looks like a miniature castle, but is a village on a tiny island that is accessible by foot during low tide. The holy woman died many years ago (50 from what I can determine) and the island is inhabited by her descendants who are very poor and suffer the reputation of being drunken louts bent on crime to subsidize their meagre existence. This situation has not diminished the holy woman's powers; but, women who visit the shrine are advised to arrive in the company of ALL her brothers. Ahhhh, holiness isn't what it once was.
Next was the park and a Spanish cathedral (long closed, but beautiful architecture), the Mohammed V Plaza (the Moroccan version of Trafalgar Square), and finally some shopping.
Ali wants to know why we are going to visit Rabat, but not Fes. Our reasons were not compelling, and plans were made to switch our Sunday plans to the site of the oldest university in the Western world.
We made it an early day. Anne took a nap, and I found the lobby bar. I was not in the bar fifteen minutes when I was invited to Miknas by a total stranger. I must relax my friendliness. How will I extricate myself from this? I have only come here for a Coke (which was served in a cold bottle), and now I must end this conversation, accept the invitation with the caveat that our trip to Fes may not allow for a visit in Miknas, without offending this seemingly kind gentleman.
After Anne's nap, I convinced her that we should visit the Old Medina, the original city which is the closest thing to what may be envisioned as Bogart's and Bergman's Casablanca. The Medina is very old and run-down, it is poverty-stricken and tense, and it is night. Anne is not enjoying it at all, and I understand. The buzz is clearly criminal, and there is nothing romantic about it. I could enjoy trekking further in; but, Anne's safety and comfort is more important than my curiosity.
We return to the hotel and have a delicious three-course meal in the dining room. With gratuity, we have just dropped all of $44.00! It's good to be an American!
Saturday was our trip to Marrakech. Everyone told us that we should stay in Marrakech, not Casablanca. But, Casablanca has been on my list since I was a teenager, and Marrakech was never on the list. The drive was uneventful. We saw farmland and industry and desert and hills. It is beautiful, because it is totally unlike anything I had seen in North America or Europe.
Moroccan cities are broken into at least two distinct sections: Medina (the old city built by the Arabs or Berbers) and the Ville Nouvelle (the new city built by the French during their enslavement of Morocco in the 20th century).
Marrakech is the red city, as it's buildings are made from red clay, not dissimilar from that found in the American Carolinas.
Rashid was our man in Marrakech. We met him in the Ville Nouvelle and started our adventure at Agdal Gardens, a reservoir and groves of olive, apricot and citrus trees created in the 12th century. Then to see the gates, walls, and plaza of the Royal Palace, which is closed to everyone but the King. The El Bahia Palace, however, is open to the public when the royal family is not present and is a beautiful place. The Ali-ben Youssef Medersa is a 14th Century Koranic school that is almost completely restored and is amazing to see. The ceramic tiles, the cedar wood cupolas, the architectural details are amazing. Rashid is very learned in the Koran and Koranic and Islamic history. He is a fount of information and we had a couple conversations contrasting medersas to seminaries. The Koutoubia Mosque's minaret is visible from most anywhere outside the souk, and at 230 feet, was the inspiration for the tower at Hassan II Mosque. The minaret is topped by three golden spheres (representing the most important tenets of Islam: Allah, prayer, Ramadan) that legend says were created from all the gold jewelry of the Mother of the sultan Ahmed el Mansour, which she offered as penance for missing fasting days during Ramadan.
What I am beginning to notice about Marrakech is that it is EXACTLY what is expected of Morocco. Everything seemed to be just like a Hollywood depiction of Arabian palaces and houses of worship and all the people seemed to be reading from a script and acting out a role from the imagination of the genies at DreamWorks.
The souk (marketplace) is a labyrinth of alleys, some open and airy, some closed and dark. I would never attempt getting through the souks, or the medina, in general, without a guide. The Marrakech souk also seemed very much like a movie set. Unreal in some way. We visited some shops, bought a rug and a Hand of Fatima, but, in retrospect, were not terribly excited or moved by our time there.
That evening, Anne played with baby cobras around her neck, and she sat on a small stool with a snake charmer who allowed me to take a picture. When she arose, the snake charmer, moved her stool and an adult cobra stood straight up and flared his neck. Scared the pants right off me!!!! Sorry, I don't like snakes, especially cobras!
An amusing sidebar: we visited a number of antique galleries. Upon entering one of them, the first photograph you see is of the proprietor with Lou Reed! A rather recent picture. Next photo is same proprietor with Brad Pitt! Amusing. Gallery was totally over-priced, like most everything in Marrakech.
Next day was Fes! My oh my! Our guide this day was Kahlid. He was young, bright, politically active, wholesome, religious, handsome, and spoke near-perfect English. He brought us first to the top of the hill at the South of Fes, where a battlement was constructed in the 14th century. From this high vantage point, we could see all of Fes spread out before us. Remarkable. Next, to the ceramic cooperative to learn how they make all that beautiful blue ceramic. Anne, of course, wanted brown and green! Why buy blue, just because that's what the city is known for! Then to the oldest university in the Western world. Kairaouine University was established in 857, and predates Bolgna and Oxford. The original building still stands within the ancient medina, Fes el Bali, and is now a mosque. The Zaouia (Tomb) of Moulay Idriss II closed to non-Muslims, but can be viewed through the arched doorway. The tomb is the site of pilgrimages for women seeking fertility and those wishing for a turn in their luck; it is also a site for official sanctuary and those inside cannot be arrested. The Fondouk Tsetouanien has been completely restored to its original beauty and was a center of commerce for caravans. The ground floor was used as a sort of bazaar and the upper, balconied floors for sleeping quarters. The view from the roof of the fondouk was absolutely incredible, as it is in the center of the ancient medina and is the second highest non-religious point. The Leather Tanners inhabit a quarter which is dominated by huge vats used for the curing and dying of leather. We got a couple of nice bags here, and you don't even want to know how inexpensive they were!
The souk (market) in Fes el Bali is everything the souk in Marrakech is not. You would never mistake these souks for a Hollywood set. Since most of the souk were built in the 9th and 10th centuries, the alleys are very narrow. Miles and miles of twisting, turning, light and dark, alleyways that you should not consider navigating without a reputable guide. There is no room for any kind of vehicular traffic, so everything is moved around by donkey and hand-cart. At one point we were in a 'square' about 6' x 6' surrounded by butcher shops displaying sides of meat, cured meats, freshly severed sheep heads, clucking roosters with their feet bound, about 35 adults trying to move through and a donkey trying to maneuver! This is not a Hollywood set!!!
There was soooo much more in Fes. You MUST see it. Fes is everything Marrakech is not.
Unfortunately, we had to return to London on Monday. It is cold in London. We returned refreshed.
Tonight, though, I will go to the Borderline to see my cousin Andrea's band Red Chord. When they return to the States after the rest of their UK/Ireland tour, they will pick-up their residency at the Abbey Lounge, in Somerville, MA. I suggest you check them out -- they are great.
Enough! It's time to sign-off.
Peace,
Dick Mac (alive!)
The Only Survivor Of The National Peoples Gang
Thursday, February 15, 2001
Perpetual Autumn and Perpetual Verbosity In The UK
I grew-up in New England, and Autumn has always been my favorite season. The air is brisk and clean and refreshing. The temperature is cool, not yet cold. The mornings can be misty and damp, but refreshing still.
Today is a bright, sunny day with a brisk chill in the air so that you could see your breath, just a little. That is, until you walk a block and it is still very bright and sunny, but kinda warm now.
Yesterday was THAT London day I had been warned of: cold rainy grey foggy (is that actual fog, or is it just mist?). It was a good day to stay inside.
Last Thursday, that brisk Autumn smell of February was in the air. Well, until lunchtime, that is, when it became a balmy fifty (and stayed that way through Friday)!
The previous Friday was one of those classic London days for weather. In the morning, the air was warm enough to open the windows. Then a little rain started. As I stepped outside, the air was still warm but the raindrops were like ice-water! One short block away, the rain had ceased. Another block along, the sun was coming out.
It really is amazing and amusing.
My friend, The Crocodile, has been back in touch from the wilds of New Hampshire. He made an observation last week that he recalled Londoners using lots of words but not saying very much. I thought he was giving me a croc; but, lately I've begun to notice exactly what he means!
I get in the queue at Starbucks every morning for some strong coffee and a bad muffin (they are from Seattle, Starbucks, and like every other Seattle corporation, they will never get everything correct -- even if it's their specialty). Anyway, I noticed the verbosity today. And I realize it permeates all of London.
The two women in front of me are having a pleasant little chat about nothing. They are together and are admiring each others accessories: "Well, it's lovely, darling, but it's not very big," said Lady One to Lady Two about the latter's new bag. "It certainly wouldn't hold very much. No good for the beach." And Lady One turns 180 degrees as if she'd never seen Lady Two ever before in her life. Lady Two stood there a bit dumbfounded looking at her leather bag that she'd purchased, it seems to me, to hold make-up (not beach balls)!
I tried not to let the sound of laughter escape as I put my hand over my mouth and pretended to yawn. Lady Two, however, turned and looked at me with an embarrassed and knowing smile. I smiled and nodded and turned to the glass case with the cloyingly sweet croissants, sticky buns and dry muffins.
Like most public spaces in London, the temperature in Starbucks is uncomfortably high, and most of the surfaces get a bit steamy. I spend most of my time in a queue removing my scarf, then opening my coat, then wiping my brow, then shaking my arms out a bit to try and get some air under my suit jacket. None of this helps, of course, but the motions do create a bit of a breeze. When the door opens for a customer to depart, every face in the joint rises up and points to the ceiling, like drowning men in a submarine pressing their faces into the last bit of trapped oxygen, attempting to savor a bit of cool air.
Lady One and Lady Two eventually started another conversation as the queue moved forward. I watched the people behind the counter buzz about with the marked inefficiency that shouts: We Are An American Business Design In Action. If you think the Re-Engineering of the American Workplace was a failure in the United States, you should see it in Europe! If it wasn't so amusing to hear it done with a British accent, it would be infuriating. And I guess that gets me back to my point. Language. Talk. And The Crocodile's observation about English Verbosity.
I have spent about five minutes in line and I have decided on the Cinnamon Pecan Swirl for breakfast, as it looks a little moister than the Sunrise Muffin.
Lady One and Lady Two are now next to be served, and believe it or not, although Lady Two has returned her rather smart orange leather bag to her purse, Lady One is discussing it ferociously. The veins in her neck are sticking out, her forhead is furrowed, and she's going on about the beach and how Lady Two's bag is simply not appropriate for the beach. Lady Two is smiling pleasantly and nodding at Lady One.
It is The Ladies' turn in the queue. Lady One smiles at the server. "Am I next?" She asked with a big Helena Rubenstein smile, her wrinkly old neck pushed forward like a combination of a lizard and a Kennedy woman.
"Yes," smiled the server.
"Oh, good!" She exclaimed. Turning to Lady Two, she asked, "Do you know what you'd like?"
"I'd not really though about it," Lady Two explained. "What will you be having?"
Lady One's eyes opened wide, a conspiratorial smile exposed her yellowed teeth, and she said gleefully, "I've brought THIS!" And from her bag she pulls an open pint container of goat's milk. "I'll have them steam us both up a bit of hot cocoa!"
The server smiles at me and the man behind me and the woman behind him and the man behind her. We all smile back at the server, and at each other. It seems to be getting warmer in Starbucks, and there are no longer any patrons who will be opening the door as they depart, because everyone in front of The Ladies has been served and stolen off to work. There is now an eerie silence in this hive of American Industriousness Tainted by European Sensibility, and you could hear her breathing as Lady Two asked: "Will they do that?"
"I don't see why not," Lady One insisted. "It's perfectly good goat milk," and turning to the server, she looked at the floor, straightened her pearl choker with her right hand, inched ever closer to the counter, leaned forward with her left hand high in the air holding a container of warm goat's milk and asked, in a hushed tone: "Would you steam up some cocoa for us with this? I simply can't have the cow's milk you people pass off in a place like this, and mine is such special milk from my family's place. They're up North, you know. Of course, you generally don't do this sort of thing, but it would really be no bother for you. Really. Just use this instead of that rubbish you usually serve."
This special product can be purchased in any Tesco Metro or high-end bodega in Central London. It is about as special as a Starbucks in an urban setting, or as special as being shocked to learn that your newly-purchased notebook comes with Microsoft Windows already installed. And this opened container of goat milk has been inside this woman's purse for who-knows how long!
Lady Two was leaning forward to listen in anticipation. I was leaning forward to listen, as was every other customer and worker in earshot. The server's eyes darted from Lady One to me, to those behind me. It was still amazingly quiet. At this point, even the espresso machines and steamers had been silent so long that they seemd to go into stand-by mode.
"Of course, we can," the server smiled a big smile. There was a collective audible sigh of relief from every worker and customer in the place! "Two cocoas then. That will be three and a half, please."
Then it happened. Why, you might ask yourself, are they charging this little old lady full-price if she is supplying the ingredients?
Understanding that Lady One knows nothing about the Re-Engineered workplace, with the cash registers designed with only three cocoa keys: Tall, Grande, Venti; I am on her side. There is no key for 'hold the milk,' nor is there a number pad for a worker to enter a random price that might seem fair. It's cocoa, tall, grande or venti, or it isn't cocoa, at all!
Lady One is a woman of means. This is not a little old bag-lady here. Those pearls are real and that sweater is cashmere and the wool top coat is impecable! Three pounds fifty is not really a problem for this lady's purse; but, you can see it's the principle of the situation that has her upset. And I agree with her, not because I think she should get a discount, but because this is exactly why the Re-Engineered workplace is a failure: The Ladies can never bring the goat's milk if the computers only allow for TallGrandeVenti Cocoa. (What the f**k is this tallgrandeventi s**t anyway? I miss smallmediumlarge!) You get it this way because some Microsoft Flunkie with a great idea for a coffee shoppe has decided, and there is no other way. Starbucks offers you coffee the same way Microsoft offers you an internet browser. There is only our way and no other way. If you want it differently, you will just upset the entire network!
"It costs over three pounds for you to steam a little goat's milk for me?" Lady One asked. Another audible collective sigh. Chapter Two in the saga of this morning's cocoa was about to begin. One customer behind me swore aloud (which always sounds so quaint and dirty with a British accent) and loudly left the store. Ahhhh, a breeze and breath of cool air!
Finally, one of the other workers (they have a special name for the coffee makers and it escapes me now) stepped to the other cash registered, signalled me over and took my order of a Grande Americano No Room and Cinnamon Swirl. The conversation between Lady One, Lady Two and the server continued as I paid my three twenty-five and moved to the pick-up counter, which has a splendid view of the brewers at work.
I have become a bit friendly with the workers at this Starbucks, because I am there every morning. They recognize me and we always exchange nods or pleasantries. The girl with the pierced face, poured The Ladies' goat milk into a stainless container and looked in horror at it. Lady One came rushing down to watch that her milk was being prepared properly and saw the expression on the pierced girl's face and asked if something was wrong.
"Well, it looks like this," the pierced girl explained, holding the container up to Lady One. "And there really isn't enough for two."
"It's fine, that's no problem for us; and just top it off with a little of your milk, then," Lady One explained and retired to a stool at the bar against the wall.
Pierced Girl looked at horror and showed me the contents of the container. This was barely a cup of goat's milk, and it was so curdled that you could smell it from afar. This was the classic fish and loaves or silk purse v. sow's ear set-up. This woman arrives with three ounces of sour goat's milk and would like it made into 24 ounces of rich, creamy cocoa! Brilliant!
Pierced Girl shrugged, filled the container with plain old cow's milk, whipped up a couple of cocoa's and The Ladies sat on their stools chatting about how much better the cocoa is when made with real goat's milk!
I don't know if Lady One got a discount for the rancid goat's milk; but, I might bring some used coffee grounds from my apartment and ask the girls at Starbucks to make me a nice cup of coffee from them!
Ahhh! Another day in the life of an American guy lost in the wilds of Olde Londinium.
Cheers.
Today is a bright, sunny day with a brisk chill in the air so that you could see your breath, just a little. That is, until you walk a block and it is still very bright and sunny, but kinda warm now.
Yesterday was THAT London day I had been warned of: cold rainy grey foggy (is that actual fog, or is it just mist?). It was a good day to stay inside.
Last Thursday, that brisk Autumn smell of February was in the air. Well, until lunchtime, that is, when it became a balmy fifty (and stayed that way through Friday)!
The previous Friday was one of those classic London days for weather. In the morning, the air was warm enough to open the windows. Then a little rain started. As I stepped outside, the air was still warm but the raindrops were like ice-water! One short block away, the rain had ceased. Another block along, the sun was coming out.
It really is amazing and amusing.
My friend, The Crocodile, has been back in touch from the wilds of New Hampshire. He made an observation last week that he recalled Londoners using lots of words but not saying very much. I thought he was giving me a croc; but, lately I've begun to notice exactly what he means!
I get in the queue at Starbucks every morning for some strong coffee and a bad muffin (they are from Seattle, Starbucks, and like every other Seattle corporation, they will never get everything correct -- even if it's their specialty). Anyway, I noticed the verbosity today. And I realize it permeates all of London.
The two women in front of me are having a pleasant little chat about nothing. They are together and are admiring each others accessories: "Well, it's lovely, darling, but it's not very big," said Lady One to Lady Two about the latter's new bag. "It certainly wouldn't hold very much. No good for the beach." And Lady One turns 180 degrees as if she'd never seen Lady Two ever before in her life. Lady Two stood there a bit dumbfounded looking at her leather bag that she'd purchased, it seems to me, to hold make-up (not beach balls)!
I tried not to let the sound of laughter escape as I put my hand over my mouth and pretended to yawn. Lady Two, however, turned and looked at me with an embarrassed and knowing smile. I smiled and nodded and turned to the glass case with the cloyingly sweet croissants, sticky buns and dry muffins.
Like most public spaces in London, the temperature in Starbucks is uncomfortably high, and most of the surfaces get a bit steamy. I spend most of my time in a queue removing my scarf, then opening my coat, then wiping my brow, then shaking my arms out a bit to try and get some air under my suit jacket. None of this helps, of course, but the motions do create a bit of a breeze. When the door opens for a customer to depart, every face in the joint rises up and points to the ceiling, like drowning men in a submarine pressing their faces into the last bit of trapped oxygen, attempting to savor a bit of cool air.
Lady One and Lady Two eventually started another conversation as the queue moved forward. I watched the people behind the counter buzz about with the marked inefficiency that shouts: We Are An American Business Design In Action. If you think the Re-Engineering of the American Workplace was a failure in the United States, you should see it in Europe! If it wasn't so amusing to hear it done with a British accent, it would be infuriating. And I guess that gets me back to my point. Language. Talk. And The Crocodile's observation about English Verbosity.
I have spent about five minutes in line and I have decided on the Cinnamon Pecan Swirl for breakfast, as it looks a little moister than the Sunrise Muffin.
Lady One and Lady Two are now next to be served, and believe it or not, although Lady Two has returned her rather smart orange leather bag to her purse, Lady One is discussing it ferociously. The veins in her neck are sticking out, her forhead is furrowed, and she's going on about the beach and how Lady Two's bag is simply not appropriate for the beach. Lady Two is smiling pleasantly and nodding at Lady One.
It is The Ladies' turn in the queue. Lady One smiles at the server. "Am I next?" She asked with a big Helena Rubenstein smile, her wrinkly old neck pushed forward like a combination of a lizard and a Kennedy woman.
"Yes," smiled the server.
"Oh, good!" She exclaimed. Turning to Lady Two, she asked, "Do you know what you'd like?"
"I'd not really though about it," Lady Two explained. "What will you be having?"
Lady One's eyes opened wide, a conspiratorial smile exposed her yellowed teeth, and she said gleefully, "I've brought THIS!" And from her bag she pulls an open pint container of goat's milk. "I'll have them steam us both up a bit of hot cocoa!"
The server smiles at me and the man behind me and the woman behind him and the man behind her. We all smile back at the server, and at each other. It seems to be getting warmer in Starbucks, and there are no longer any patrons who will be opening the door as they depart, because everyone in front of The Ladies has been served and stolen off to work. There is now an eerie silence in this hive of American Industriousness Tainted by European Sensibility, and you could hear her breathing as Lady Two asked: "Will they do that?"
"I don't see why not," Lady One insisted. "It's perfectly good goat milk," and turning to the server, she looked at the floor, straightened her pearl choker with her right hand, inched ever closer to the counter, leaned forward with her left hand high in the air holding a container of warm goat's milk and asked, in a hushed tone: "Would you steam up some cocoa for us with this? I simply can't have the cow's milk you people pass off in a place like this, and mine is such special milk from my family's place. They're up North, you know. Of course, you generally don't do this sort of thing, but it would really be no bother for you. Really. Just use this instead of that rubbish you usually serve."
This special product can be purchased in any Tesco Metro or high-end bodega in Central London. It is about as special as a Starbucks in an urban setting, or as special as being shocked to learn that your newly-purchased notebook comes with Microsoft Windows already installed. And this opened container of goat milk has been inside this woman's purse for who-knows how long!
Lady Two was leaning forward to listen in anticipation. I was leaning forward to listen, as was every other customer and worker in earshot. The server's eyes darted from Lady One to me, to those behind me. It was still amazingly quiet. At this point, even the espresso machines and steamers had been silent so long that they seemd to go into stand-by mode.
"Of course, we can," the server smiled a big smile. There was a collective audible sigh of relief from every worker and customer in the place! "Two cocoas then. That will be three and a half, please."
Then it happened. Why, you might ask yourself, are they charging this little old lady full-price if she is supplying the ingredients?
Understanding that Lady One knows nothing about the Re-Engineered workplace, with the cash registers designed with only three cocoa keys: Tall, Grande, Venti; I am on her side. There is no key for 'hold the milk,' nor is there a number pad for a worker to enter a random price that might seem fair. It's cocoa, tall, grande or venti, or it isn't cocoa, at all!
Lady One is a woman of means. This is not a little old bag-lady here. Those pearls are real and that sweater is cashmere and the wool top coat is impecable! Three pounds fifty is not really a problem for this lady's purse; but, you can see it's the principle of the situation that has her upset. And I agree with her, not because I think she should get a discount, but because this is exactly why the Re-Engineered workplace is a failure: The Ladies can never bring the goat's milk if the computers only allow for TallGrandeVenti Cocoa. (What the f**k is this tallgrandeventi s**t anyway? I miss smallmediumlarge!) You get it this way because some Microsoft Flunkie with a great idea for a coffee shoppe has decided, and there is no other way. Starbucks offers you coffee the same way Microsoft offers you an internet browser. There is only our way and no other way. If you want it differently, you will just upset the entire network!
"It costs over three pounds for you to steam a little goat's milk for me?" Lady One asked. Another audible collective sigh. Chapter Two in the saga of this morning's cocoa was about to begin. One customer behind me swore aloud (which always sounds so quaint and dirty with a British accent) and loudly left the store. Ahhhh, a breeze and breath of cool air!
Finally, one of the other workers (they have a special name for the coffee makers and it escapes me now) stepped to the other cash registered, signalled me over and took my order of a Grande Americano No Room and Cinnamon Swirl. The conversation between Lady One, Lady Two and the server continued as I paid my three twenty-five and moved to the pick-up counter, which has a splendid view of the brewers at work.
I have become a bit friendly with the workers at this Starbucks, because I am there every morning. They recognize me and we always exchange nods or pleasantries. The girl with the pierced face, poured The Ladies' goat milk into a stainless container and looked in horror at it. Lady One came rushing down to watch that her milk was being prepared properly and saw the expression on the pierced girl's face and asked if something was wrong.
"Well, it looks like this," the pierced girl explained, holding the container up to Lady One. "And there really isn't enough for two."
"It's fine, that's no problem for us; and just top it off with a little of your milk, then," Lady One explained and retired to a stool at the bar against the wall.
Pierced Girl looked at horror and showed me the contents of the container. This was barely a cup of goat's milk, and it was so curdled that you could smell it from afar. This was the classic fish and loaves or silk purse v. sow's ear set-up. This woman arrives with three ounces of sour goat's milk and would like it made into 24 ounces of rich, creamy cocoa! Brilliant!
Pierced Girl shrugged, filled the container with plain old cow's milk, whipped up a couple of cocoa's and The Ladies sat on their stools chatting about how much better the cocoa is when made with real goat's milk!
I don't know if Lady One got a discount for the rancid goat's milk; but, I might bring some used coffee grounds from my apartment and ask the girls at Starbucks to make me a nice cup of coffee from them!
Ahhh! Another day in the life of an American guy lost in the wilds of Olde Londinium.
Cheers.
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