Having very recently lugged myself through the application process for several prospective places of employment and faced with the looming tax deadline, the following quote resonated with astounding clarity.
"We can lick gravity, but sometimes the paperwork is overwhelming." --Werner von Braun
... And thus we say, amen.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
What to think
... a Gentlewoman might wonder. What to think about a great many things.
As previously discussed, the Gentlewoman has recently found a new home. Well, almost. They're in the process of drawing up the paperwork, and then there's a fair bit of construction which will need to be done to renovate the attic space and convert it into a bedroom, bathroom and a sitting room (which she has no doubts will be colonised by childrens' toys and media equipment as soon as the flooring is down). Until then, the hobo life is all the rage these days.
No, really, there is the coworker of the Gentlewoman's Gentleman-Friend who happens to have two completely unfurnished bedrooms in his nearly unfurnished house where they can sleep on air mattresses and she can continue to wage her war on cobwebs and that particular species of thin-legged and beige-bodied spider that seems to live in all ranch-style house bathrooms. She hates them.
Living in such forced minimalist zen surroundings has given our Good Lady a bit of time to think. And what has she thought about? That living in a town where nobody locks their doors if they can see the door to their neighbours, in a town where a car can be left running while the driver runs in to the dry cleaners, where the library has a cat who wanders indiscriminately in and out of the front door and nobody worries, where all these comfortable safeties continue to exist everyday, how mean and hard-scrabble has life been previously and elsewhere?
Is this really a place where people get along? Can it be?
As previously discussed, the Gentlewoman has recently found a new home. Well, almost. They're in the process of drawing up the paperwork, and then there's a fair bit of construction which will need to be done to renovate the attic space and convert it into a bedroom, bathroom and a sitting room (which she has no doubts will be colonised by childrens' toys and media equipment as soon as the flooring is down). Until then, the hobo life is all the rage these days.
No, really, there is the coworker of the Gentlewoman's Gentleman-Friend who happens to have two completely unfurnished bedrooms in his nearly unfurnished house where they can sleep on air mattresses and she can continue to wage her war on cobwebs and that particular species of thin-legged and beige-bodied spider that seems to live in all ranch-style house bathrooms. She hates them.
Living in such forced minimalist zen surroundings has given our Good Lady a bit of time to think. And what has she thought about? That living in a town where nobody locks their doors if they can see the door to their neighbours, in a town where a car can be left running while the driver runs in to the dry cleaners, where the library has a cat who wanders indiscriminately in and out of the front door and nobody worries, where all these comfortable safeties continue to exist everyday, how mean and hard-scrabble has life been previously and elsewhere?
Is this really a place where people get along? Can it be?
Thursday, January 12, 2012
2012
So, a few things have changed:
Failing to go into detail regarding my current progress with my doctoral dissertation, my familial situation and my current hemisphere of habitation, let it suffice to say that the concluding quarter of the Year of our Lord 2011 was a tumultuous one.
Let it also go unquestioned that anyone gives even one-sixteenth of an airbourn rump of rodentia what I'm getting up to these days.
So, what to talk about?
Well, let me set forth, unknown readers, a hypothetical small town in which one Gentlewoman may have just arrived. It's going to be her home, though the town is, as of yet, unaware of this change in designation. So far, it had only been a weekend destination.
It's a pleasant small town, though the brick-and-mortar downtown was recently deforested, the empty little squares of earth sectioned off amidst the brick and concrete still visible to passing feet. Doing better than many such nearly-identical gatherings of homes and houses, this small town still has a Sears appliance store downtown, keeping the windowfront from going vacant, chasing the phantom of soap white abandonment a little further down the block. There's also an Ace Hardware that sells everything Sears doesn't, and that's terribly handy. A smattering of antique shops may or may not be going out of business, a Zenith television shop clings to life by its fingernails, the chain Hallmark shop is most definitely shut, a soy candle and looseleaf tea joint appears to be inexplicably thriving, and a bicycle shop is yet to be explored. The topography of the town is gently rolling, as a placid but deep sea left in the wake of retreating giants of ice, secretly hoping in its cold blue-green heart that it's blanket of ice might one day return and lay silence and stillness across its smooth belly for another ten thousand years. The Gentlewoman may give some thought to learning to ride a bicycle proficiently in this landscape devoid of major hill and obstacle in the coming, more temperate months, but she might not, who knows.
An early morning in the biting wind freezes her hair, still wet from a scalding shower and festooned with snowflakes packed like polystyrene in the clearing house of stratus clouds. It's bitterly cold and gusty as a workman's complaint, but the slant of neon coming from a coffee shop on the corner holds a promise of warmth and caffeine-- soldier on. It is indeed warm and there are tables; she spots one adjacent to an outlet and sets her oversized handbag down to claim her perch. It's a good one, a corner table with views out both windows and her back to the exterior wall pillar. She can see the counter, the door, and views down both streets. A good call. The chai latte, at first so fully of frothy milk promise, was not. The taste was hard to identify, perhaps too sweet? Almost citrus, but not, somehow. Unfortunate, regardless. The hot cocoa ordered later was far more pleasant, once one averted singeing off one's taste buds.
The other clientele are a peculiar blend of stall town stock and trade: older men, not yet truly ancient, sitting and reading print-offs of unknown provenance which support their bound and tied belief that the Lutherans will be the death of this country and the current Administration is somehow mixed up in Sharia Law. Somehow. They were a little foggy on the details. They were joined in adverse but jovial discussion by the longer-haired youthful man with impressive sideburns and a very young son, who looked a little greener with all his mixed textiles. A smattering of businessmen, no ties or wool coats (those aren't the type of businessmen who make it around here) but sporting button-downs and chinos and drinking strong coffee, talking important talk. Farm wives segregate from the in-town ladies, who have clearly patronized the local beauty shop-come-salon-sometimes-called-spa for a trim and some dye and perhaps just a little plucking. These women are artists, designers, painters, maybe a florist? They're quite nice once introduced, but our Gentlewoman is still making her way and has not yet made way of introductions, so they'll just have to go about their strategically just-into-earshot conversations in peace. The lunch crown comes and goes, all well meaning and meaning to get out of the cold.
So, the town has a coffee shop and a Gentlewoman. The little carnations in the clear glass bud vases are dying, and one might offer her expertise to brighten the tables, but when queried the only slightly balding fellow behind the counters smiles and says that an old man takes care of them once a week, doesn't know where he gets the flowers but it does a lot to brighten the place up. It certainly does.
Failing to go into detail regarding my current progress with my doctoral dissertation, my familial situation and my current hemisphere of habitation, let it suffice to say that the concluding quarter of the Year of our Lord 2011 was a tumultuous one.
Let it also go unquestioned that anyone gives even one-sixteenth of an airbourn rump of rodentia what I'm getting up to these days.
So, what to talk about?
Well, let me set forth, unknown readers, a hypothetical small town in which one Gentlewoman may have just arrived. It's going to be her home, though the town is, as of yet, unaware of this change in designation. So far, it had only been a weekend destination.
It's a pleasant small town, though the brick-and-mortar downtown was recently deforested, the empty little squares of earth sectioned off amidst the brick and concrete still visible to passing feet. Doing better than many such nearly-identical gatherings of homes and houses, this small town still has a Sears appliance store downtown, keeping the windowfront from going vacant, chasing the phantom of soap white abandonment a little further down the block. There's also an Ace Hardware that sells everything Sears doesn't, and that's terribly handy. A smattering of antique shops may or may not be going out of business, a Zenith television shop clings to life by its fingernails, the chain Hallmark shop is most definitely shut, a soy candle and looseleaf tea joint appears to be inexplicably thriving, and a bicycle shop is yet to be explored. The topography of the town is gently rolling, as a placid but deep sea left in the wake of retreating giants of ice, secretly hoping in its cold blue-green heart that it's blanket of ice might one day return and lay silence and stillness across its smooth belly for another ten thousand years. The Gentlewoman may give some thought to learning to ride a bicycle proficiently in this landscape devoid of major hill and obstacle in the coming, more temperate months, but she might not, who knows.
An early morning in the biting wind freezes her hair, still wet from a scalding shower and festooned with snowflakes packed like polystyrene in the clearing house of stratus clouds. It's bitterly cold and gusty as a workman's complaint, but the slant of neon coming from a coffee shop on the corner holds a promise of warmth and caffeine-- soldier on. It is indeed warm and there are tables; she spots one adjacent to an outlet and sets her oversized handbag down to claim her perch. It's a good one, a corner table with views out both windows and her back to the exterior wall pillar. She can see the counter, the door, and views down both streets. A good call. The chai latte, at first so fully of frothy milk promise, was not. The taste was hard to identify, perhaps too sweet? Almost citrus, but not, somehow. Unfortunate, regardless. The hot cocoa ordered later was far more pleasant, once one averted singeing off one's taste buds.
The other clientele are a peculiar blend of stall town stock and trade: older men, not yet truly ancient, sitting and reading print-offs of unknown provenance which support their bound and tied belief that the Lutherans will be the death of this country and the current Administration is somehow mixed up in Sharia Law. Somehow. They were a little foggy on the details. They were joined in adverse but jovial discussion by the longer-haired youthful man with impressive sideburns and a very young son, who looked a little greener with all his mixed textiles. A smattering of businessmen, no ties or wool coats (those aren't the type of businessmen who make it around here) but sporting button-downs and chinos and drinking strong coffee, talking important talk. Farm wives segregate from the in-town ladies, who have clearly patronized the local beauty shop-come-salon-sometimes-called-spa for a trim and some dye and perhaps just a little plucking. These women are artists, designers, painters, maybe a florist? They're quite nice once introduced, but our Gentlewoman is still making her way and has not yet made way of introductions, so they'll just have to go about their strategically just-into-earshot conversations in peace. The lunch crown comes and goes, all well meaning and meaning to get out of the cold.
So, the town has a coffee shop and a Gentlewoman. The little carnations in the clear glass bud vases are dying, and one might offer her expertise to brighten the tables, but when queried the only slightly balding fellow behind the counters smiles and says that an old man takes care of them once a week, doesn't know where he gets the flowers but it does a lot to brighten the place up. It certainly does.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Saturday Sweet
I love Saturdays. Invariably there are hooligans mucking about on the street into the wee hours of the morning, but by the time I roll over and hug my feather pillow in the sunshine of the morning, they've deserted the streets and the only noises from opposite my windowpane are the pigeons, who coo and cluck in general good-naturedness.
This Saturday was a particular treat. The postman brought my recent purchase from The Exotic Teapot for which I was quite grateful, and the door buzzer was all it took to finally get me up for the day. I sprayed down my entire bathroom with Dettol to beat the encroaching damp and mold, and with the scent of bleach and productivity freshening up the air, I stepped freshly showered into my Saturday!
I'm a lover of tea. I haven't always been, but I'm a devotee of the heart now-- there's simply nothing better than a nice cup of tea precisely when you need it. Morocco brought fresh mint tea into my life, but my current fancy is this: my new glass teapot!
I will shamelessly admit, I like flowers. Yes, I'm a girl/woman/feminist/professional and I LIKE FLOWERS. I like the way they look, they way they catch and play with light, the way they sway in a breeze, the scent in a room, the softness of the petals and the expression on the face of the man immediately before he pushes a bouquet of them into you arms. I like flowers.
This tea combines my love of both TEA and FLOWERS! It's display tea, or blooming tea, and it's fabulous. You see, dear reader, why the acquisition of the glass teapot was necessary?!
Purchase of the actual tea is at the moment entirely through the tinterwebz, but I'm hoping that somewhere around here will start stocking it soon. Here's what it looks like pre-teapot:
They come in about eleventy-billion different varieties, and you can buy a sampler pack off ebay.co.uk direct from China for not very much. This does mean that you get a good variety of different ones to try and no idea what any of them are! It's fine, it's tea, you won't be disappointed. Next, introduce tea-pon to hot water:
The nice thing about this type of tea is that you just keep topping up the hot water-- each bloom will give you at least two full pots of tea. I sprang for the teapot warmer stand, pictured above, and powered by a tealight. This I can get behind-- pretty, and keeps my teapot hot!
All in all, quite pleased with myself on this front. I've another teapot to fuel my quest to write up my dissertation and it's pretty to boot! Next instalment of Ikebana and the rest of the Marrakesh posts soon, dears, promise!
This Saturday was a particular treat. The postman brought my recent purchase from The Exotic Teapot for which I was quite grateful, and the door buzzer was all it took to finally get me up for the day. I sprayed down my entire bathroom with Dettol to beat the encroaching damp and mold, and with the scent of bleach and productivity freshening up the air, I stepped freshly showered into my Saturday!
I'm a lover of tea. I haven't always been, but I'm a devotee of the heart now-- there's simply nothing better than a nice cup of tea precisely when you need it. Morocco brought fresh mint tea into my life, but my current fancy is this: my new glass teapot!
I will shamelessly admit, I like flowers. Yes, I'm a girl/woman/feminist/professional and I LIKE FLOWERS. I like the way they look, they way they catch and play with light, the way they sway in a breeze, the scent in a room, the softness of the petals and the expression on the face of the man immediately before he pushes a bouquet of them into you arms. I like flowers.
This tea combines my love of both TEA and FLOWERS! It's display tea, or blooming tea, and it's fabulous. You see, dear reader, why the acquisition of the glass teapot was necessary?!
Purchase of the actual tea is at the moment entirely through the tinterwebz, but I'm hoping that somewhere around here will start stocking it soon. Here's what it looks like pre-teapot:
 |
| A little like a tea tampon, I'll admit. |
 |
| It starts to open... |
 |
| ...And opens a little more... |
 |
| In the meanwhile, I ate my delicious omelette with onion, grated carrot, mature cheddar and various herbs. |
 |
| And here we have it! I think this one is Lyrics, though I could be wrong-- I'm going by the picture on the ebay description! |
 |
| See-- Flowers AND tea! |
 |
| My little Moroccan tea glass, not filled with mint this time, but rather the mouthful of petals which is blooming tea. |
 |
| Still going into the evening. |
All in all, quite pleased with myself on this front. I've another teapot to fuel my quest to write up my dissertation and it's pretty to boot! Next instalment of Ikebana and the rest of the Marrakesh posts soon, dears, promise!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Marrakesh, Pt. II: The Souks
The title is a bit deceptive-- I didn't actually take a single picture in the heart of the souks, despite traipsing through them time and again. You see, dear readers, the stall-holders will fleece you for just about anything, including photographing their heaping tables and glittering Aladdin's Caves. To avoid being nickel-and-dime'd to death, I abstained. What follows, however, are a smattering of the shots I did snap.
 |
| Minaret of the central Mosque-- you can see it from nearly everywhere in the Medina, which can be damn useful for navigation |
 |
| Gardens adjacent to the Mosque |
 |
| My travel companions, Lulls and Alpha |
 |
| Oranges and Orange Blossoms-- The air was so heavy with the scent of orange blossom, you could taste it. I doubt I'll ever use orange blossom water in the kitchen again without some small part of my mind back-tracking to the moment I took this picture. Love it. |
 |
| A view of the mountains from the gardens |
 |
| The dyers-- A very helpful man (who did successfully sell us some scarves in the end) appointed himself as our guide and brought us around and showed us all the bubbling vats of dyes and hanging skenes of wool and silks. |
 |
| Most of this is sheep and camel wool for rugs. |
 |
| Lulls, in the properly tied cactus silk scarf-- yeah, silk made from cactus fibre. Awesome. |
 |
| Alpha and our friend. All the jars behind them are minerals and such to make the dye. |
 |
| Alpha, humouring me. |
 |
| Another time we found ourselves being guided about without asking for it: the Berber Tanneries. The pits are full of lime and pigeon poo ("to makes the soft leathers") and all sorts of foul smelling hides. |
 |
| The man who led us through gave us clumps of mint to hold over our noses to combat the smell, calling it a Berber Gas Mask. |
 |
| I'd seen these discussed in nature documentaries, but to see them first-hand was a fabulous experience! |
 |
| The main tannery for the city of Marrakesh (as opposed to the Berber Tannery)-- This place is massive. According to our guide, 200 men can work the hides here side by side. |
 |
| 2 men working side by side, rinsing the hides. |
After being given to tour, we got the old soft sell by the Berber elders who were, to be honest, really good at not pressuring us into buying anything. Well, not pressuring me into buying anything I didn't already want to, that is. Alpha kinda caught it in the teeth-- they changed the colour of a bag she'd expressed moderate interest in, and then she really felt like she needed to haggle for it and it was all a done deal from there. But prior to that, they brought us into a room lined with bags and deflated ottomans and showed us the differences in texture between goat, sheep, camel, cow and calfskin leathers, as well as the different designs and embellishment made by tribes and families of different women. Then, in a side room, they sat us down on a low bench and served traditional mint tea while laying out rug after rug after rug. Geometric designs from the Low Atlas mountains, "picasso" rugs positively saturated in colour and jammed with pattern from the High Atlas, silk rugs with sparse line designs from the Sahara to the south, brought in on camels from the desert. One of the men produced the ubiquitous bic lighter from his pocket and, turns out, the way to tell if a rug is really silk rather than imitation synthetic is to hold an open flame to it. If it does nothing to it, it's real silk. If the shop owner freaks out, it's a fake. Handy tip, eh?
We'd made pretty clear that we couldn't really afford to buy anything (despite the fact that all three of us left with something) and they were up front about acknowledging that. Frankly, I think the tourist population in Morocco has been depleted by all the unrest in Tunisia and Egypt and they were rather keen to simply show us what they had, interact rather than sit idle.
Once you decided to haggle for an item, there was only one man to see-- the eldest gentleman there, and clearly the one in charge. None of this petty discussion of price: he had a wee ledger on which he drew boxes, one for his price, one for yours. You go back and forth until he shakes your hand, and the price is the number in the last box. They're tough, and you've got to hold your ground, but the camel leather weekender bag I bought will last the rest of my natural life and be my carry-on bag for-absolutely-freaking-ever (that's the technical term for such a long unit of time, by the way). It's incredibly light, solid leather, has pockets and I love it. Lulls bought a gorgeous light green silk rug and Alpha now has for perpetuity what's become known as "the stinky goat bag" due to the smell of the oil.
 |
| Kitten napping in sunshine-- This little guy was in a doorframe enjoying some sunshine. What you can't see are the motorbikes and scooters zipping past inches from his head! The whole medina is full of cats, some waiting for bites to drop from the butchers' tables, but most lounging about being cats. |
 |
| View down from our perch on the terrace at Cafe Arabe to the street below. |
After hacking our way through what must have been a comparatively deserted run in the souks (I think they must be easier to navigate when they're busy--hear me out on this one-- because despite the increase in people to navigate around, it wouldn't be possible for every shop owner in the history of ever to hail you with their wares) we needed a bit of respite. A trio of sprites on the terrace of Cafe Arabe was just the ticket, and the breeze was fabulous.
 |
| Terrace of Cafe Arabe. |
 |
| View of a bit of wall art visible from the Terraces de Espices. |
 |
| Giant woven rooftop teapot? Yes, please! |
 |
| Sunlight through the shade umbrella. |
 |
| Oranges in the tree and a motorcycle = fabulousness! |
 |
| Our third venture into a cafe, this one called Bouganviellea, can you guess why? |
 |
| Not a rooftop terrace, but a delightful courtyard oasis is a nice escape as well. |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)