tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38057106050313113062024-03-12T21:07:00.536-07:00Belgrade-DCUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-65623642427017249632014-01-21T07:35:00.000-08:002014-01-21T07:42:30.762-08:00Filter your Filter…or don't<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">For the first time in my life, I was
thrown out of café, café Filter on 1916 I street, NW, Washington DC, to be precise.
Did I refuse to pay my bill? Bother other customers? Break coffee mugs? No. I
brought a laptop with me. Yes, café Filter has a no laptop policy that is
enforced as brutally as if you were smoking inside. I, of course, was not aware
of such policy when I made my way to café Filter with a purpose of writing and
reading. There’s no such policy announced on the café’s Web site. There’s no
other café with no laptop policy that I have heard of in the United States. So
how was I to know? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Also, café Filter has a sheriff. And
she doesn’t look how you are imagining her right now. It’s a skinny woman in
her late twenties with curly blonde hair and purple-framed glasses by the name
of Anna. She’s hired to enforce the no laptop policy on poor occasional writers
or students who don’t live in the area and have stumbled upon the café without
ever dreaming that a peaceful cup of coffee could turn into a full-blown drama.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Anna doesn’t come up to you nicely and
says: “I’m sorry ma’am, but we have a no laptop policy here. Would you mind
powering your laptop down?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">To which, I would have said: “I’m sorry
but I wasn’t aware of your no laptop policy. I will power it down as soon as I
finish this paragraph I’m working on.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">No. She comes up to you and says: “We
have a no lap top policy. You have to stop working on your lap top.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Have
to?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Last time I checked this was a free
country and a laptop is not a weapon of mass destruction. I wasn’t bothering
anyone. I was quietly working in a corner of the second floor of the café.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Provoked by her rudeness, I said: “I
didn’t know about your policy. I will leave as soon as I finish my latte.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“No, you have to stop now,” she kept
badgering me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“I will leave as soon as I finish my
latte, which I paid for.” I paid $3.85 for a mediocre latte, by the way. I was
not leaving until I got my money’s worth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Then she presumed she could tell me
what I should do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“You can read a book and just sit down
and finish your latte. Or we can put it into a to-go cup for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">All of that would defeat the purpose. I
came to write.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“I don’t have a book, and I don’t drink
coffee from to-go cups.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So she left, came back just minutes
later before I could read two sentences and continued harassing me. At that
point, I was so frustrated and it was obvious that even if she left me alone, I
wouldn’t be able to focus. So I said: “the only way I would leave is if you
refund me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">To that, Anna said: “We’ll see about
that,” and came back a minute later with my money. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">As I was leaving five minutes later, I
asked for her name: “Anna,” she said proudly. “I’m the manager.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“You were very rude,” I said. “I have
never experienced such rudeness in my life before.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“You were pretty rude yourself,” she
said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Was I? I, a customer who’s suppose to
be always right? Where did that policy go?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“I will complain to the owner,” I said.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“Go ahead,” she said and got close to
my face, bulling me out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“I will also write reviews, to make
sure people know how rude you are.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">She was still in my face. I could see
burst capillaries in her eyes. As I slowly backed out and was just out the
door, she followed me. “And your coffee sucks,” I yelled out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Not very dignified, I admit, but it was
true. The coffee was not that good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">An hour later, I did as I promised. I
posted reviews on Washington Post, Trip Advisor and Yelp, and I complained to
the café’s owner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He did apologize for the “unpleasant
experience” but from the rest of the note, it was clear that he was not going
to do anything to rein in his “sheriff.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“We (Filter)
have been fought on this (no laptop policy) a few times, sometimes without a
good outcome, but will be standing firmly by our rule and decision. I am
sorry that Anna came across as stern or rude, but rules are rules. I
trust Anna to run my shops, and make most if not all decisions. She is a
pleasant person and is complimented by all of our customers on a daily basis.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pleasant person?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I guess that “customer is
always right” policy is definitely out the window. Someone mentioned to me
recently that the customer service has been going down the hill lately. After
this kind of treatment by Filter, I’m inclined to believe it. What I don’t
understand is how establishments with such bad service have managed to survive
in Washington, DC, a town of plenty. In Europe, the service might not be
stellar, but they don’t expect tips. Filter does have a huge tip jar prominently
placed by the register, but it doesn’t come with “How can I help you,” or
“thank you,” or even good coffee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-20705657873626262902014-01-13T09:29:00.001-08:002014-01-13T09:29:50.206-08:00Five days in Morocco and the obsession with Argan oil <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> I didn’t read much about Morocco
before I embarked on a five-day trip to this Northern African country. I’m well
traveled (Europe, the United States, Caribbean, event a bit of Asia) but I have
never been to Africa, and Morocco seemed like a good place to get my feet wet.
Plus I have American friends living there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My trip began in Paris I love and have been to, many times before, on an impressive two and a
half hour Royal Air Maroc flight to Rabat. The plane was new and the food
exceptionally good for airplane food, so I quickly forgot that the flight was
an hour late. The moment the plane landed, while still taxing, most people got
up, and started taking their bags from the overhead compartments, ignoring the
young, female flight attendant’s requests to sit back down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I quickly realized—I wasn’t in Western Europe anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Rabat airport was as new and
shiny as the plane, which made me question my American friend’s statement that
Morocco is a third world country. “Moroccans are very good about making certain
things look good,” he vaguely explained, as we were cruising along a nice
highway at 11pm on a Sunday. A moment later, we saw a man hoarding cows down
the highway. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On Monday morning, we took a two
hour drive north to Asilah, a small town on the Atlantic coast, not far from
Tangiers, with a beautiful, picturesque Spanish-influenced fortress,
overlooking the ocean. The air smelled salty and fresh. We sat in a café <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Al Madina,</i> in the middle of the old
town, and ordered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the a la menthe</i>, a
delicious Moroccan blend of green tea, fresh mint leaves and lots and lots of
sugar, and Moroccan gateaux, or white-powdered sugar cookies. But once you down
your greenish tea from the tall glass, you need to use the bathroom, right?
Well, don’t expect any toilet paper or soap in the small cafés natives go to.
Be lucky if there is a toilet bowl. So, unless you want to spend your time in
Morocco in bed, nauseated, may I suggest bringing and using a lot of hand sanitizer?
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Asilah’s old town has lots of
little shops filled with colorful arts and crafts, shoes, carpets, pottery as
well as spectacular views of the ocean once on top of the fortress’s walls. There’s
no hike, just a few steps and you can feel the ocean breeze on your face. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
stone-throw away from the fortress is a Spanish seafood restaurant, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Casa Garcia</i>,(<span style="background: white; color: #2c2c2c;"> <span class="street-address">51 Rue Moulay Hassan ben el-Mehdi</span><span class="apple-converted-space">) hi</span></span>ghly endorsed and frequented by
my friends, who elaborated by saying that people drive from Rabat, for two hours,
just to eat in it. After such an endorsement, I was expecting Four Season’s
quality a la Moroccan or at least an Inn at Little Washington with Spanish,
seafood twist but what we got was actually mediocre-to-good seafood paella,
grilled shrimp and fried calamari, and a slightly bitter crème caramel for
desert, but all served with the ocean view and the smell of the sea. Lunch for
four cost about $45.<span style="background: white; color: #2c2c2c;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We were occasionally
harassed by the street vendors trying to persuade us to buy cigarettes, even
thought we obviously did not smoke, and small unframed paintings, even thought
we said, in French, we were not interested, many times. But get use to it,
fast. It’s a normal, every day occurrence for tourists in Morocco. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On our way back to Rabat, I asked my
friends to take me somewhere I can buy good quality Argan oil, both for eating
and cosmetic use, since a 30ml bottle of this oil in Whole Foods costs $30, and
it’s very healthy both for your stomach and your skin. They took me to<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Apia,</i> a small, fragrant, modern store
at the beginning of Rue Oukaimeden, in Agdal part of Rabat, a Westernized
shopping area with stores such as Mango, GAP, and restaurants like T.G.I. Fridays,
but also many small, local cafes. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Apia</i>
smells of roses and is full of Argan oil based products as well as any type of
honey and jam you can think of, artfully packaged. It is the best shopping I
was able to do in Rabat, both for myself and for gifts, such as artisanal
bottles of cold pressed Argan oil for Gastronomique use, natural, anti-wrinkle
Argan oil for Cosmetique use, soaps, massage oils and similar items, all
wrapped for gifting and reasonably priced. A 150ml bottle of cosmetic Argan oil
cost about $12, and soap about $3. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will forever regret not taking my friends
offer of borrowing an extra suitcase and filling it with these rare, expensive oils
and products hard to find in the United States. So, if you like to shop, I
suggest you travel with your suitcase half empty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On my second day, we went to
Casablanca. Casablanca is an hour of a train-ride away from Rabat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>May I
suggest you learn some French or have a French speaking companion when
travelling to Morocco, since you are going to need that language to ask for directions and
negotiate with taxi drivers when lost. Moroccans apparently do not need many
street signs to get around. They’re not big on cleanliness either. It is
probably the dirtiest city I have been to so far. Trash is everywhere, the
sidewalks smell of urine and decaying food, the architecture is run down and
the traffic is much worse than in Washington D.C, maybe even L.A. The only
two reasons to visit Casablanca are to see the spectacular <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mosque of Hassan II</i>, the third largest mosque after the ones in
Mecca and Medina in Saudi Arabia, and the Mosque with the highest minaret in the
world—200 meters or a little over 656 feet, and to eat!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hassan II’s</i> minaret is turquoise and
white and it is exactly what one's need after a whole day of looking for
something beautiful in a run-down city of six millions people.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The whole area around this Mosque, built partly on water
since, as my guide explained,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
” the throne of God was on water,” is shiny white marble and
stone. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hassan II</i> is not only an
architectural wonder but also an exception of beauty in this dirty city with
crazy drivers, where pedestrians are citizens of second class with non-existent
or obstructed sidewalks and no traffic lights. The Mosque was built almost all
from Moroccan materials with a few exceptions—Italian crystal and Venetian
plaster. Materials are carefully picked for their ability to resist the
humidity such as cedar wood for the dozen massive doors. The tour costs $15 per
person, and lasts about 45 minutes with guides in English, French, Italian,
German and Spanish. The revenue from tours makes this Mosque self-sufficient,
and paying the fee is the only way a non-Muslim can enter it. It is a little
pricey, in my opinion, and you may skip it. The Mosque is much more impressive
from the outside then the inside. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Food is the second and last reason
to go to Casablanca. I had lunch at La Squala (Boulevard des Almohades,
Casablanca,) just around the corner from the famous Rick’s Café, infamous for
the scarce working hours. Rick’s cafe opens at 12pm and closes at 3pm, to
reopen again at 6:30pm. La Squala is situated in a small fortress overlooking
the ocean and a garden, with seats both outside in the garden and inside, and
it makes incredibly tasty tajines, traditional Moroccan cooked dishes with either
only vegetables, fish or meat, soft, juicy and perfectly seasoned. Tajines are named
after the clay dome dishes they are made in. La Squala also makes incredible
chewy Moroccan almond cookies that go perfectly with a well-crafted Italian
Lavazza cappuccino or café crème. Unless you are dying to go to the touristy
Rick’s café, maybe to act on some old movie fantasy, I suggest going to La Squala
instead. The prices are moderate too, about $40 for two entrees, two
cappuccions and a plate of cookies. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In Rabat, you should see the Kasbah,
an impressive orange-color fortress with narrow streets, white and blue painted
walls, then have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the a la menthe </i>and
Moroccan cookies (unless you have diabetes by now) in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Café de la Mer</i> on Rue Bose overlooking the Bouregreg river. From
there, well rested, you should visit the adjacent Andalusian garden and its
small, unimpressive museum (10 dirhams or a little over a dollar), with only
four rooms displaying old artifacts and old hammams, and a courtyard with a
fountain. I suggest you walk down from the Kasbah to Medina, right across the
busy highway, and walk along <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rue de
Consuls</i>. The best shops are on that street, as well as the tamest vendors,
if you don’t like to be pulled by your sleeve or someone entering your
personal space. Deeper you go into the Medina and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">souks</i> or the marketplace where everything can be negotiated, the
crazier and smellier it gets. But if you have a strong stomach (and, in my
opinion, a food poisoning-wish) you could try different exotic foods prepared
there, while often spoken to, by the locals, in languages you probably don’t know.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
From Medina, head to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Tour Hassan</i> hotel. It’s truly an
oasis in a city as dirty and polluted as Rabat, but an expensive one. A grilled
salmon lunch cost 180 dirhams or about $25, and chicken and vegetable soup 120
dirhams or $15, which might not be expensive for New York City, but it
certainly is for Morocco. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La
Tour Hassan</i> is an artfully built, sparkling hotel, with three restaurants
serving French and Moroccan food, a pianist in one of them, and a brasserie by
the pool and the garden. The service is impeccable and the food is tasty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
From the hotel, you could walk down
the hill to the Parliament and the main Post Office, Central Bank and the main
Train Station on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Avenue Mohamed V</i>,
Rabat’s main avenue. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My friends took me to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vila Mandarine</i> (9 Rue Ouled Bousbaa –
Souissi) for dinner, a restaurant and a hotel, immersed in its impressive, wild
and fertile gardens, with a dinning room filled with expensive chandeliers,
mosaics and paintings. Now here, the bathroom was impeccably clean and well
furnished. The food was not only tasty but also artfully prepared and the
prices were pretty high.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dinner for
four, with only two glasses of wine and no dessert was about $125. They have an
excellent salmon and sole fillets, and an interesting ravioli with seafood and
citrusy sauce. The home-made style bread in nice Moroccan restaurant is always
fresh and tasty, so was the tuna mousse appetizer on a tiny pasty. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My dilemma with traveling through
Morocco was what and where was safe to eat. I didn't want to risk getting food poisoning and ruining my trip, so I
haven’t had anything fresh in five days. I was advised by friends and doctors
not to eat salads or fruit if I want to avoid food borne illness or a parasite
of some sort. Apparently, Moroccans use “natural” fertilizers, coming from animals
you often see by the side of the roads, mostly cows and sheep, sometimes horses
of donkeys. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To be
honest, as a result of my cautiousness, I was often hungry, with no safe food
in sight. There are no food stores like in Europe or the United States. You’re
lucky if you bump into a small stand that looks like it’s going to collapse any
moment and sells some packaged foods like chips or cookies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In Rabat’s
Medina, I saw a cart with round, individually sized fresh bread and locals
coming by and touching several pieces of it until they chose the one they wanted.
After seeing an average bathroom in Morocco, I put two and two together and decided
to starve for a little while longer until I could find a nice hotel or a restaurant.
One thing I didn’t do, and I suggest you do is bring and carry granola bars or
nuts with you at all times, in case you are starving and want to be extra
careful like I was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have never consumed so much sugar and fish in five days,
but I also remained healthy. If you’re dying for
something fresh, wash it yourself with a few drops of bleach. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
On my fourth day, we went to Marrakesh,
a city with two faces. When you arrive at the airport or the train station,
(Rabat to Marrakesh is four-hour train ride. Make sure you buy first class.
It’s worth it.) and on your drive to Medina where the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riads</i> are (and I recommend you stay at a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riad, </i>and not in one of the typical hotels outside Medina) you are
driving through a modern, sparkling, Western looking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hivernage </i>area. But when the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hivernage</i>
ends, the Medina begins, and its dusty, narrow, smelly streets. Inside
Marrakesh’s Medina, riding an old motorcycle is apparently the thing to do. The
pedestrians are indeed the second class citizens here as well, since they have
to wait for the bikes to pass, in order to continue walking. Sometimes, a
donkey-dragged cart wants to pass, and there’s really no other was to survive
and leave the city with all your limbs unless you peel yourself onto the wall.
It’s impossible to relax in Marrakesh outside of your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Riad</i> or hotel. There are either motorbikes around or behind you, or
merchants pushing their cobras or monkeys toward you for a picture, on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Place Jamaa Al Fna,</i> Marrakesh’s main
square. They also often yell at you from their carts covered with oranges, offering
you a freshly squeezed orange juice from a dirty glass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I stayed in Riad Argan (33, derb
Zenka Dika, Marrakech Médina) which was a refuge from the stressful city. It’s really
a big, beautiful house in the middle of Medina, converted into a boutique
hotel, five minutes away from Place Jamaa Al Fna. It has only four or five
rooms, impeccably decorated in Moroccan style, with red painted ceilings, wooden
saloon-like bathroom doors, and copper bathroom accessories. It’s owned and run
by a French lady and three local sisters who will help you in anyway you need,
and take your any place you want. They even speak English. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once in the warmth and security of my cozy Riad, I asked for
two things—where can I buy good Argan oil, and where is a good Hammam. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Just a few minutes away, toward the
main square, there is a small shop where a Moroccan woman in headscarf is
making Argan oil right before your eyes. I had mine (eyes) on the oil she was
making at that exact moment, since I was told that Argan oil is expensive, so Moroccans
often mix it with others, cheaper ones, and still sell it as pure Argan. A rare
English-speaking shopkeeper started the bid wars with me at 350 dirhams for a
250 ml bottle of cosmetic oil. After a short bargaining session I was bad at, I
got it down to 250 which is about $30. But don’t despair, I am the worst
haggler, and I’m pretty sure you can do better. You should offer a quarter of
the asked price to start with, but ultimately, it gets down to how badly you
want the item. I really wanted to leave the store with the oil squeezed from
the Argan paste in front of me, and I paid more for that privilege. At least I
know it’s 100 percent real. This store doesn’t really have a name. There’s a
sign above the door saying “Natural and organic,” and it’s a few minutes away
from the main square. You can get there by asking anyone where can you buy
Argan oil, or if you stumble upon a modest looking shop, with doors wide open,
and Argan nuts and paste that looks like hard bread, in buckets in front of it.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Les
Bains de L’alhambra</i> (Kasbah, Derb Rahala 9) is a spa with Hammam
recommended by my Riad. It was about a 15-minute walk from the main square and
to get to it, you really need a guide or a taxi. It’s inside the Kasbah, in one
of its labyrinth streets and has a very inconspicuous entrance. It’s also one
of the best spas I have been to. The Moroccan package costs 450 dirhmas or a
little less than $60 and includes a full-service exfoliation and bath, from
head to toe, in a traditional dark, Hammam spa-room, similar to a low ceiling,
stone and marble sauna. The Hammam portion lasts about 45 minutes, after which
you lounge into a comfortable spa version of a “lazy-boy” with rose petals.
Then you are served their sweet mint tea, while another masseuse works on your
feet. An exceptional 60-minute full-body massage follows, that included your
stomach and your face and head. It’s truly a different spa experience that the
ones in Europe or the United States, and well worth the money, especially if
the fast pace of Marrakesh stresses you. Both women and men were equally
enjoying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Les Bains de L’Alhambra</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Un
dejeneur de Marrakesh</i> (2-4 Place Douar Graoua, Medina) is a good restaurant
to go to any time, and it’s right across the natural Argan oil store I
mentioned. It’s contemporary and casual, with a roof garden framed with cacti,
a small menu with fish, salads, dessert, and Nespresso coffee. Good service,
nice view of Marrakesh from the terrace, open all day, prices moderate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
For dinner, I suggest <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pepenero </i>(17, Derb Cherkaoui - Douar
Graoua Marrakesh). It’s Moroccan and Italian restaurant in a beautiful setting
with a fountain the middle of the dinning room and a pool in the lobby. You get
a complementary glass of champagne with dinner. Food is delicious and moderately
priced. Pasta is 120 dirhams or $15, fish or another main dish is 180 or about
$23. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Hotel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Mamounia </i>(Avenue Bab Jdid, Medina), the city’s oldest hotel (but
you can’t tell) is worth visiting. It was recently renovated, its lobby and
hallways are filled with marble and mosaics, and it has vast,
carefully-cared-for gardens. From the moment you enter its gates, you can almost
smell the money. You can stroll the gardens for free, or have mint tea with
views of sculptures and paintings inside, or by the pool. Moroccan mint tea in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Le Bar Churchill</i> costs 60 dihram or
about $7.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All in all,
Morocco is a wild, colorful place you should prepare for, but there’s
definitely enough variety to keep your senses engaged for at least a week.
Maybe even longer if you don’t mind its chaos. At least, it’s never boring, but
neither is relaxing, unless you are in a Hammam. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-8260845723363797112013-09-30T12:33:00.002-07:002013-09-30T12:33:45.020-07:00Revenge of the Promaja (Serbian killer draft)I, unlike all Serbs, don't believe in Promaja, aka a dangerous draft that allegedly can cause headaches, distorted faces and mouths and ear infections, not to mention any other kind of bodily pain or harm. <br />
I guess I used to believe in this villain, while I lived in Serbia, but once explain by Americans that the draft is quite harmless, even friendly during a 90F day, I came to become friends and even enjoy the company of this creature at home or in my car on a hot summer day.<br />
Yet, the Serbian version, or Promaja, must have held a grudge. Cause, on my way back from Greece, I had my window open for about two hours before a humongous migraine hit me, hit me hard. It was one of those that go through your eye, in my case, the right eye, the one close to the open window. It also came with a slight nausea. I couldn't even keep my eyes open. <br />
So, I complained to my mother in the back seat who immediately reacted: "That's promaja! It's very dangerous. That's because you wouldn't listen to me and you opened the window...your face could get distorted from it!"<br />
Now if a distorted face while visiting your hometown won't scare you into submission to Promaja, I don't know what will.<br />
So, this self-afflicted monster hasn't let go of my eye and head for the next two days, which confirmed my mother's fear of promaja, and rendered my nine-year long denial of promaja's frightful, threatening existence, utterly useless and a colossal waste of time.<br />
I'm migraine free now, but a little bit scared of opening two windows in the house at the same time, or a car window, even just one, so close to my ear and eye. I mean, did it unleash on me just because I was in the Balkans where it can "my way or a highway" me, or could it catch up with me wherever I go? <br />
Could promaja cross the ocean?<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-18823002195588527482013-09-27T01:20:00.002-07:002013-09-27T01:35:16.603-07:00Travelogue: Orange BeachMy last day in Greece.<br />
I'm a creature of (some) habit. Went back to Baradise. (I wonder why "Baradise?" There must be a "Paradise" nearby.)<br />
The water temperature is not to my liking, i.e. it's less than 80F. But I might take a dip a little later in a small lagoon at the end of the café-beach in Sarti. <br />
Alas, I'm here to tell you about the Orange beach, 6 km away from Sarti. It is one of the cutest beaches I have ever seen. It's tiny, and secluded, and framed by white rocks, but the sand is whiter and thinner, softer, finer. There are fish swimming in it, you can clearly see them. This small beach in laced in beach chairs and the way to obtain one is to order a drink. Drinks are about 3 Euros, a standard price everywhere in Sarti, beach or land. (I'm drinking a Nescafe Frape, a signature summer beach Greek drink, that also costs 3 Euros, about 4 U.S. Dollars. A price of a latte in DC.)<br />
The water was chilly until 6pm. Then it suddenly became warmer. Maybe because of some warm tide. Maybe because I already swam in that chilly water and then it seemed warmer once I got out. Maybe...<br />
It is a much prettier beach than the main, large one in Sarti. The music blasts from the café-truck on it, but it's good, café-lounge type. And I saw not only Serbian license plates, but Greek ones as well. That's never a bad sign.<br />
I think I read that this Orange beach is one of the most beautiful in Greece. Maybe even one of the most beautiful beaches in the world? That might be a huge overstatement, but...it could be. The turquoise water that awaits you behind pines as you go down the mountain, and colorful umbrellas are nothing short of a skillful painting.<br />
Enjoy the photo.<br />
As for me, I'm going to finish this blog, finish my Nescafe Frape, do a little more shopping, pack, and maybe dip. Maybe. Then it's take off time at 2pm. Back toward Thessaloniki, then Macedonia, then Serbia...<br />
Bon voyage to moi meme :-)<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-29917621697438171642013-09-26T01:19:00.001-07:002013-09-26T01:30:09.635-07:00Travelogue: Greek food,cafes, people...Two more days in Greece.<br />
I'm sipping my Nescafe frappe, which is the best Greek invention since tzatziki. Hmmm,tzatziki. Had so much great food here--previously glorified sheep's milk yogurt, tzatziki, grapes, peaches, nectarines, even my Mom's crepes taste better with Greek flour, eggs and milk than Serbian; Olives are truly the best ones I have ever tasted and we buy them off a truck a man brings every evening, by the bus stop, by the beach. And the olive oil. If you have never left the United States, you don't know how real food tastes. Seriously. I don't even eat dairy in the States. It tastes processed. But here? You can tell that it's home-made, or at least, made in small batches like real food, not in huge factories where animals are tormented. <br />
And Nescafe Frape. They mix Nescafe, sugar, milk in a tall glass with a special little buzzer thing, a mini-mixer, and it has tones of thick foam on top which is delicious! Yum! <br />
<br />
Anyway, besides eating here (which is obviously all I have been doing) and reading Politikin Zabavnik which a brilliant Serbian weekly, and Olive Kitteridge (Elizabeth Strout's Pulitzer winning novel-in-stories), I have done Yoga on beach last night for about 15 minutes in front of all the smoking Serbs. They must have thought I was crazy. My mother encouraged me, she wanted to see what kind of Yoga I have been doing regularly for the last three years, and she loved the show! But, damn, it is hard to do Yoga on sand. Your hands are unstable, you fall into it, they move, your feet too. And, of course, this morning, I'm sore. Sore from 15 minutes of Yoga. There go my three years of getting into shape. I don't lift anything heavier than a fork eight days and I'm as weak as a sponge. Not cool. I see a boot camp in my future.<br />
Dancing Bar/Pub George keeps on turning the music loudly at 10pm every evening. I need detox from all the smoke I have inhaled cause in this Serbian/Greek town EVERYBODY smokes. It's like air. <br />
The water is still a bit chilly but swimmable, extremely salty to the point that my eyes sting, and very, very clean. The beach is covered in cigarette buds though. <br />
Greeks in general are friendly and casual, similar to Serbs. For example, I had to browse cafes to find one where I can charge my old Dell laptop (I didn't want to take my AirMac here, it's my right hand.) "Jasas," I said. "Do you have WiFi?" The owner of Baradise café on the beach:" The best WiFi in town." "Do you have a plug, outlet? Could I charge it?" "Yes, yes, the best coffee in town too." He hooked it up himself, converter and all, the owner, cigarette hanging from his lips. I called him a genius. I think Greeks like that. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-1556100302673006332013-09-23T01:05:00.002-07:002013-09-23T01:05:44.641-07:00Travelogue: Dancing Bar GeorgeI'm staying in Sarti Inn, in a room right across from Dancing Bar George. You are probably wondering what a dancing bar is? Well, it's a place where Greeks and maybe tourists come to get drunk, yell, scream from 10pm to 4am. Yes. I'm sleep-deprived. Again. At least in London, it was worth it. I was in London. But now, I feel cheated. <br />
This loud music, screaming, singing has been going on for three nights. Of course, this Inn doesn't have a concierge or a front desk. Doesn't have anyone working in it, except a few maids who come in the morning then mysteriously disappear an hour later, without cleaning anything. <br />
Night No. 1. I couldn't fall asleep for a while. At least the music was good.<br />
Night No. 2. I was so tired from Night no. 1 that I fell asleep instantly.<br />
Night No. 3, aka last night. I drifted in and out of sleep, then at 3am, there was loud pulling, jerking of a flimsy iron gate across from the room, then someone, a man, yelled, yelled like someone was murdering him. Of course, I have no idea what he was saying. When I looked out of the window, there was a man, sprawled on the street, kissing the pavement, and another one on top of him. Neither one was moving.<br />
There were several women in high heels just a few feet away. One wobbled on her 10 inch heels, looked at the two men on top of each other, and not in a sexual way, but in a I'm so drunk I can't move way, then she casually strolled back to join her smoking, laughing girlfriends right in front of the bar's entrance. I was sure, someone is going to call the police--the noise, the bizarre way two men were laying in the middle of a street. A street, where cars drive, not a sidewalk. <br />
Nope. No police.<br />
I concluded, there's no police in this town. Either that, or this is normal behavior for Greeks. <br />
Criminals and lushes, rejoice! Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-51393050991194316862013-09-22T03:20:00.001-07:002013-09-22T04:05:42.660-07:00Travelogue: Greece's middle fingerGreetings from Sarti, Sithonia, Greece! (If you don't know where it is, it's on the middle finger of Chalkidiki's. There. I'm not trying to give you a finger. God forbid.)<br />
<br />
I arrived here three days ago, after a seven hour trip through Southern Serbia, through Macedonia. <br />
<br />
I have a little story to tell you here about my trip through Macedonia. <br />
I enter the country and stop at the first gas stop to exchange money for tolls. You need either Denari or a credit card to pay the tolls. I do that, then go to the bathroom. Next thing you know, I'm laughing out loud in the female bathroom stall. Why? Macedonian language is so funny to me, and there was a sign on the door saying: "It's forbidden to throw diapers into the toilet," which in Macedonian sounds like this:" Zabraneto frlanje peleni vo WC solja!" It's hard to explain why that made me so happy but I'll try.<br />
1) Why do people need to be told this<br />
2)To a Serb, "frlanje" sounds hilarious.<br />
<br />
But I love Macedonians! The nicest people in the world, I swear!<br />
<br />
Back to Greece...<br />
<br />
Sarti is a cafe heaven. There are at least a dozen cafes along the beach, all of them extending right to the beach itself, where, for a drink costing about 3 Euros, you could spend the whole day on one of their lounge chairs under the shade. If that's what you like to do...<br />
Has a pretty little Greek Orthodox church on the hill (photos below) with a service at 5pm.<br />
I'm still shopping around for a boat trip around Mouth Athos, which, I, as a woman, can only see from a boat. (So sexist, so discriminatory that someone should sue Mount Athos...) That's another thing Sithonia, or the middle finger, offers you. Closeness to Mount Athos. It can be seen from the top of the hill above church or even from the beach.<br />
<br />
The main, cafe-beach is wide, long and sandy, but it's that coarse yellow sand, not fine, white sand you can see in Florida or the Caribbean. <br />
The water, for moi meme, is too cold. I dipped my feet and ran into the opposite direction.<br />
It rained this morning but it's sunny now and about 75F. It's a beautiful day.<br />
I'm sitting in Cafe Paris, of all places, since it has Wi-Fi and trying not to get heartburn from the strong Nes Cafe they made me, by eating cookies they also served with it. Now I know why.<br />
For about 3 Euros, you get WiFi, casual Greek service that leaves you alone (just the way I like it) and three tea cookies. And a narrow view of the sea. (I'm a street away from the beach).<br />
What else?<br />
There are five supermarkets per street. So it's a town of cafes and supermarkets. Other than that, there's one bakery, one fish shop, and about a million souvenir and beach stuff shops.<br />
Greeks speaks English or Serbian. And the language you hear the most here is Serbian. <br />
The food is excellent! I used to vacation in Greece with my parents in the 90s, and even now, still managed to find home-made sheep yogurt in a mud dish. It's one of the best foods I have ever tasted. <br />
p.s. Sorry about double photos. My laptop has gone insane...<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-1965626080487844392013-09-11T09:12:00.001-07:002013-09-11T09:12:17.047-07:00Covent Garden lettersI'm in Covent Garden part of London. Again. I was here yesterday. And last year in March.<br />
It's like a little New York City to me--lots of shops and restaurants, curvy little alleys, great coffee...so alive with people worming everywhere like ants.<br />
Why am I here? I'm meeting my friend and host, A, for a latte in Monmouth Coffee Company in Monmouth street. Her British roommate says it is the best coffee in London. Famous, actually. Other cafes brag they have Monmouth coffee. (Mon-mith like Ply-mith)<br />
I highly recommend it!Bloody highly!<br />
<br />
I just love London, even when it's 17degrees C, even when it rains. My days are so full and I am so happy. Maybe it's the "mistress syndrome." Maybe if I lived here I would be annoyed by traffic and tourists. (I don't consider myself a tourist. I am a world traveler. I went to the National Gallery yesterday for five minutes just to see Van Gogh's Sunflowers.)<br />
<br />
Now I finally understand that "ball and chain" thing. If I were single, I would probably ask my four friends in London to help me find a job, so I could move here.<br />
I think I would be so happy here. Train to Paris? Please! Could life be any better?<br />
<br />
p.s. Downton Abbey tomorrow morning. Pray for no rain. Pray for no rain.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-34777212815949221232013-09-04T12:48:00.001-07:002013-09-04T12:53:02.354-07:00Downton Abbey-8<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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T-4. Four days to departure. Eight days to Downton Abbey.<br />
Did I tell you the story of how I got a ticket to Highclere Castle?<br />
As soon as I booked my trip to London in June, I went to the Castle's Web site to buy a ticket. Sold out. All. Sigh. It said I could go at 2pm and wait, maybe they would let me in. Maybe not. Sigh.<br />
So I decided to pick a day, Sept. 10th, go to Newbury, an hour away from London by train, take a cab to the castle and wait. A lot of hassle for something that you might be able to see only from a far, right?<br />
I thought it was worth a shot. Would still see the castle from outside of the gates, whatever happened.<br />
<br />
But, for some reason, I decided to check the Web site last week. Eyes, Big! Sept. 12th was blue! Blue! That meant I could buy a ticket. Then happiness and panic all wrapped up in a bow. I quickly decided morning or afternoon and put my credit card number in. Then had to decide do I want to see everything or just the garden, just the castle. All, of course. I'm flying to London, then taking a train and a cab to get there? Hell, yeah, I'm seeing it all. Besides, the ticket was not that expensive for the castle, gardens and the Egyptian exhibit. (Now that I think of it, maybe the Egyptian exhibit wasn't such a great idea. I am going to the British museum too, for the second time, since the first time I forgot to see the Aegean Marbles. Go ahead, laugh. I couldn't find them, all right? It was crowded! Anyway...)<br />
<br />
So, even now, in a cafe, as I'm fixing up my book before it heads off to readers, I get goose bumps every time I think of that Thursday I'm going to be walking those beautiful gardens and have the afternoon tea in the Castle! Heaven! Are you jealous? You should be, I would be ;-)<br />
Will report back!<br />
<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-44736697153029267322013-08-29T09:38:00.002-07:002013-09-04T12:49:05.687-07:00Countdown to Downton Abbey...and brief au revoir to my novel Countdown to my trip to Europe.<br />
<br />
My, yesterday, altered trip.<br />
So now it's London, Newbury (Highclere Castle) Belgrade, Novi Sad, Nis, Sarti, Greece, Nis, Belgrade, DC.<br />
<br />
No Istanbul. Had to cancel that leg. Unfortunately. Another time.<br />
<br />
And on the writing front, I am finishing my novel. I came up with an ending. And I'm planning on finishing it by September 8, and sending it to my readers. The whole thing. The whole 83,000 words or 314 pages.<br />
I still need to touch up on my family tree and add that to the beginning of the book.<br />
Then I can finally go on vacation!<br />
I wonder, will I be able to stay away from my book for one whole month? I mean, at this point, we are as attached as a baby kangaroo to its mommy. Or two pieced of Velcro tape.<br />
But, it's a known strategy for writers to leave their books in drawers (or on Sylvester-cat thumb drives) for a while to gain some distance and perspective.<br />
<br />
So, I aiming for that, and for the feedback from my readers on the book as a whole.<br />
<br />
And when I come back in mid-October, I will be deep in editing phase. After which, there will be a Query letter writing phase. Then looking for the right agent phase. Then submitting phase. Then biting my nails phase. Then the drinking phase. Then waiting by the e-mail box phase.<br />
<br />
How fun.<br />
<br />
But for now, I am happy. I'm looking forward to my trip. So very much. I have it all planned out. The Highclere castle, and the gardens and the Egyptian exhibition tickets. Tea at Downtown Abbey (You're envious, admit it!) And the British Museum, Sherlock Holmes museum, Neal's Yard in Covent Garden... and drinking pints and English breakfast with my London friends...and the afternoon tea...<br />
<br />
As soon as I read and edit the last two chapters.<br />
<br />
So, ten days to go...here we go...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-64832613176685084672013-08-22T14:30:00.002-07:002013-08-22T14:30:35.745-07:00Fal-mith or Fal-mouth and fried clams face-off<br />
<div>
I haven't eaten this much fried food in a year. </div>
<br />
<br />
No wonder some of the South Shorers/ Cape Coders are a little...what should I say...hmmm...fluffy? I would be too if I lived here.<br />
<br />
I'm a vegetarian who flirts with veganism. But on vacation, I'm just a vegetarian. I find it impossible to be vegan when staying with friends, meat, dairy, fish-eating relatives or in a hotel. Vegetarian included a bit of sea food. So pescaterian, I guess.<br />
<br />
So, I tried what New England does best. Fried clams. Fried scallops. But no lobster or crab.<br />
I'm embarrassed to say that I didn't know that lobster and crab are cooked alive (horror!) until last year. I know, I must be dumb, right? Well, it's not like I have grown up by the sea. I haven't even knew what a lobster was until I came to Boston for the first time ten years ago.<br />
So, since I realized that lobsters and crabs feel pain and suffer terribly, I stopped eating them.<br />
But what do you eat in the land where lobster is on the national flag and in the anthem?<br />
Scallops and clams.<br />
Yes, I believe they don't have the central nervous system, therefore, cannot feel pain? I hope? ( I should do research on that...)<br />
So, yesterday I tried fried clams in Lobster Hut in Ply-mouth, and today in Haddad's in Brant Rock, i.e. Marshfield. It's where Steve Carell has a general store. (I love Steve Carell.)<br />
<br />
Anywho, the Ply-mouth fried clams were way better! Rounder, and bigger, and softer and just more delicious.<br />
I would pass on Haddad's clams. Just ok. Just eatable.<br />
I hear their clam chowder and award-winning. But I haven't tried it yet. Not enough room.<br />
<br />
My second observation about Cape/South Shore.<br />
The names of the towns are hilarious! And you have to know how to pronounce them, you can't just read them.<br />
I like to call Plymouth, Ply-mouth. And Falmouth, Fal-mouth. I guess some people with very bad mouths once upon the time lived there. Foul-mouthed people.<br />
(I know, I find that funny. You feel sorry for me right about now. Oh well. I did good in Charades today!)<br />
<br />
Then there's my favorite one. Sandwich. That must took a while to come up with. Then Mashpee. Makes you hungry.<br />
<br />
So, I think the town names are the second reason people here are plumper than in DC.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And, I bought great little whale earrings in Falmouth. Amazing views of the ocean and the ferries to Martha's Vineyard from the Nobska Lighthouse, cute little main street with a patisserie making dark chocolate raspberry mouse desert.<br />
Also recommended.<br />
Enjoy the photos.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-26916468010258362702013-08-21T15:08:00.000-07:002013-08-21T15:08:17.392-07:00Travelogue: Plimoth Plantation, PlymouthIf you're heading toward Cape Cod, make sure you stop at Plymouth.<br />
<br />
There's a great place on Main Street, Kiskadee Coffee Company (18 Main Street), where you can get a decent cup of coffee and free Wi-Fi, and lots of smiles.<br />
<br />
After that, go down the hill to Lobster Hut for fried whole clams! (Delicious and heart-attack inducing, but mostly the delicious part.)<br />
<br />
Then after that, and maybe a little bit of shopping or strolling on Main Street, where you can see women walk with pet rats, go to Plimoth Plantation.<br />
<br />
I have traveled quite a bit, but have never seen anything like the Plimoth Plantation.<br />
<br />
Its Wampanoag village and especially the 17th century English village are definitely worth the trip.<br />
<br />
The Wampanoag village is small small-spaced reenactment of how Wampanoags lived before the English settled. People dressed in Wampanoag clothes will answer any questions you might have while sitting on dead animals, or crafting a boat, or making a corn porridge. The men are also scantily dressed if that is what you enjoy.<br />
<br />
But the English village is even more impressive in my view since the actors there talk the same way English talked in 1620, and answer questions as if it were 1620. So, to an actor's question where I came from, I said the Ottoman Empire. To that he said he encountered some pirates once from the Ottoman Empire. I'm guessing they weren't very nice.<br />
Then I asked him why would a printer (that was his occupation in England) leave London, come to America and work as a farmer, and he said he was the second son and couldn't inherit land there. All land in England had already been owned. But in Plimoth, if he worked hard for seven years, he could get a 100 acres. He would have been happy with just one, he added.<br />
<br />
The whole village is absolutely a brilliant idea and a well-executed one. Together with the live Wampanoag songs, English women buttoned up to their necks next to fire in 87 degree weather, and live milking of a goat that didn't seem to mind it so much, it is definitely worth the time and money.<br />
<br />
Go, see, learn, prosper.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-79328219979937481902013-08-18T08:46:00.000-07:002013-08-18T08:46:12.957-07:00Travelogue Day 1: Beware of Budget Rent-A-CarGreetings from Boston's South Shore, where the nights are freezing in August and the air is salty.<br />
<br />
Smooth ride from DC to Boston. JetBlue. One hour. Piece of cake.<br />
<br />
But then, only then, the hell unleashed.<br />
<br />
Prepaid a car through USAA with Budget.<br />
<br />
Oh, if I only had a time machine.<br />
<br />
There was a line out the door. Fifty people waiting. Twenty crying children. The bathroom looked worse then once upon a time at a border crossings between Serbia and Macedonia. Dirty, toilet paper only on the floor.<br />
<br />
The Budget employees move around at glacial speed. One of them takes a break. The other one asks him"what did you get?" He answers "sea food." He leaves now 60 people in line with only one person working. 30 screaming children.<br />
<br />
Tiny little socialist looking room is sweaty, musky.<br />
<br />
I intercept an employee to complain. "Everyone available is working," he "ma'am's me.<br />
<br />
People are nervous, the employees are laughing to each other, they tell customers not to complaint otherwise it will take "longer."<br />
<br />
I call the Budget's office in some God forsaken village near Tulsa, OK.<br />
In a redneck accent he says:"I can't help you ma'am. I'm not there."<br />
I ask for the manager. He can "write it up," but he can't do anything about it either. The Logan Budget manager has left.<br />
<br />
Finally I get to the counter after an hour of heartburn. I give her a prepaid confirmation. He disregards it and finds another person's reservation and charges me for that one.<br />
I say no. I already paid.<br />
She doesn't understand what I'm saying. I try again. Nothing.<br />
I say until the 23rd. She says the computer says until the 25th. I show my confirmation. She still doesn't get it.<br />
My husband is about to lose it. He asks what circle is this?<br />
I'm glad I don't carry a gun.<br />
<br />
She finally asks for help, and finally gets that she was looking at someone else's reservation. An hour and a half. No apology. Doesn't know how to say thank you or welcome.<br />
<br />
She gives us a car with a wrong name on the rental agreement.<br />
<br />
We speed away.<br />
<br />
Life is too short.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-1679569920741030702013-08-09T18:52:00.001-07:002013-08-09T18:53:53.924-07:00Tango AmericanoI think I have a girl crush on my Tango teacher.<br />
<br />
Yes, I took a beginner's Tango lesson today. My first in the United States.<br />
And it was...not what I expected.<br />
<br />
For one, we were partnered up immediately. Unfortunately, not with attractive young men. Or women. Nor with talented ones.<br />
<br />
So, my partners' age range was from about 40 to 70. No, I'm not kidding. There was a 70-year old Russian man there today, dancing with me, asking me to "lean in."<br />
Hmmm...I guess I was leaning back? Self-preservation? No wonder I have lower back pain.<br />
p.s. He probably owns half of Montenegro.<br />
<br />
Anyway, back to Tango.<br />
<br />
My first ten minutes, I was thinking <i>No way am I coming back to this. </i>It was slow. The men couldn't follow the beat, tempo. Kept stepping on my socked feet. Yes, I went to Tango, ladies and gentlemen, in my sneakers. And was politely asked to take them off.<br />
In case you didn't know, you Tango in shoes. There. Now I feel extra dumb.<br />
<br />
Back to the men. They were...how should I put this... really really bad. And they all smelled of very strong colognes.<br />
What is it with Tango and long squirts of cologne? Literary every one of them was cologne-full.<br />
And not of a good kind.<br />
<br />
Then, I got to dance a bit with the male teacher, whose cologne was yummy, who obviously knew what he was doing, knew how to lead and was nice and cute. So that helped.<br />
<br />
But my female teacher. Oh, my. Let's just say, for an hour there, I wish I were gay. Or she were gay.<br />
<br />
She was/is British. So she obviously has that uptight British accent.(I like uptight). Everyone knows I'm the biggest Anglophile there is. Oh come on, I have seen Sherlock Holmes and Downtown Abbey about 37 times. Each. I have been to London eight times!<br />
<br />
Then she was so fragile looking, gentle, and sophisticated, like a doll. And, oh, beautiful and so pleasant, nice and funny even.<br />
<br />
Hence the girl crush. I don't get those often. (Next thing you know, my girlfriends start avoiding me. Please don't.)<br />
<br />
So, now, a dilemma.<br />
<br />
Do I stay away from all the beat-less, stinky, unattractive men? Or do I go back to enjoy the woman?<br />
That is the question?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-82297586937319232652013-08-08T09:19:00.001-07:002013-08-08T09:34:30.053-07:00A birthday card that made me crySometimes I forget I'm an immigrant. Maybe because I'm an American citizen. Maybe because I'm married to an American. Maybe because my sister and her family are American too. Maybe because I'm bilingual. Or because I write and dream in English. Maybe because I went to graduate school here.<br />
<br />
Then something happens like a birthday card arriving from Serbia.<br />
<br />
My husband said last night: "You have a letter from your mother."<br />
<br />
<i>Letter from my mother?!?! </i>First comes panic. Then I glance at the envelope on the table and it's big and thick.<br />
Oh, it's a card. Of course. My birthday is in a week. My mother always sends me a card. I always send her a card too. That's how I was brought up.<br />
<br />
So, I'm happy, I open the card, but then, as I'm reading it...my throat clenches and I feel my nose twitching and my eyes watering up.<br />
<br />
Yes, I'm an immigrant, and the words like:" I love you more than anything else in the world, and on your birthday I'm going to go to church to thank God he gave you to me, since I cannot be with you...."<br />
<br />
Even now, I'm in a cafe, and I'm choking back tears so my mascara wouldn't drip into my latte and people wouldn't come by to give me their therapists' cards.<br />
<br />
If you're an immigrant who left part of your nuclear family in another country, you will understand me.<br />
<br />
If not, just try to.<br />
<br />
Being an immigrant is like running a race where everybody's lane is flat, and yours has hurdles.<br />
<br />
My books touches a bit on this issue.<br />
<br />
Let me post this before my nose starts dripping down on my laptop...<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-54374727521318702802013-08-05T09:59:00.000-07:002013-08-06T07:32:54.953-07:00Confessions of a germophobeToday I had my annual gynecological exam. Yes, women, smart women have preventative gyno exams once a year. Deal with it.<br />
<br />
So, I'm waiting for the doctor to come in when the nurse comes back into the office to :"check something:"<br />
<br />
She meddles with the tray with plastic gloves and swabs and such wonderful things :(<br />
<br />
Then she leaves the room, and I notice that she touched the door knob twice and didn't wear gloves, and didn't wash hands before touching the gloves my gynecologist is going to examine me with.<br />
<br />
The following is my train of thoughts from that moment until the doctor walked in:<br />
<br />
<i>Should I throw those gloves away and put new ones on the tray? But I have to wash my hands first. I can do that, there's a sink and soap, even Purell. Oh, I'll be fine. But what if I'm not? I'm in a hospital and these knobs carry some probably very angry germs. Hah, I'll be fine, I haven't even seen until now what they do with the gloves and swabs and I have always been fine. But this one time, what if I don't do anything and then I catch some...uterine virus...or some infection...or parasite...."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
At that moment, I decide to act. So I get up from my bed, but not before I put my socked feet into my Chucks, because God knows what's on the floor, and wobble to the tray with gloves. I grab them, throw them into the bin with a "hazardous material" sign, wash my hands quickly, Purell them as well, just in case, pull other two, three gloves out of the glove box with my two fingers, put them on the tray and as I'm dropping them down, my doctor walks in.<br />
I smile and walk back to lay down.<br />
I don't think she noticed that I'm a bit crazy.<br />
<br />
Yes, my friends, I am a germophobe.<br />
<br />
And I'm getting worse with age.<br />
<br />
And behind it all is a fear of getting sick, and a strong belief that I would get sick if I don't wash my hands, or other people don't wash theirs. So, I would rather be safe than sorry.<br />
<br />
I'm actually proud of doing what I did. I should have also probably reported the nurse who touches the knobs then gloves for internal exams. But then again, maybe gloves cannot transfer germs. Can they?<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-41742365726127753662013-08-02T09:18:00.000-07:002013-08-02T09:18:02.078-07:00Calling all Serb-Americans to star in my bookChecking in.<br />
<br />
It is August 2! (Crap, already?!?!)<br />
<br />
And I have 79,708 words to plug in.<br />
<br />
So, I'm almost there, almost reached my goal.<br />
<br />
Oh man, these last few days were brutal, I tell you, brutal!<br />
<br />
I bring this chapter, Storm, to my writing-partner/editor, and she very rightfully says: "These are two chapters, not one. Rewrite."<br />
<br />
And I look at her elaborate report. Yes, she writes a report. Golden.<br />
<br />
And she's right. I see that she's right. She just is. It makes sense. This is why writers make horrible self-readers. No perspective.<br />
<br />
Now if this were another person's story, I would have probably said the same thing.<br />
<br />
So I start rewriting the same day, full of anxiety, there's my deadline, I can't afford to lose word count, I have a trip coming up, blah blah, but mostly I had no damn clue what to do?!<br />
<br />
So I take it slow and work through it, and I can finally say today, I think I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Or the sun above the water.<br />
<br />
I'm swimming upstream! (Just hope I don't get caught in some damn net.)<br />
<br />
Of course, I'm nowhere near polished completion.<br />
But, pay attention, light!<br />
<br />
Also, one of these chapters is about these three Serb-Americans in the States who get drunk, so drunk on <i>rakija</i> over <i>Ceca</i> one evening they glorify Serbia they left behind and trash Americans. So, I myself cannot think of every little genius thing that bugged me when I moved here from Serbia in 2004. It's been a while. So, if you have moved from Serbia to the U.S. in this century, please contact me to tell me what you missed the most? What is it you couldn't stand about America?<br />
<br />
It would be of enormous help.<br />
<br />
So, I have six more days to build, then a whole month to polish. Then I'm taking off.<br />
<br />
My birthday is in the middle too. I have big plans for that marvelous day too!<br />
<br />
And a photo shoot planned.<br />
<br />
Stay tuned!<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-27630943526532520532013-07-30T12:35:00.004-07:002013-07-30T12:35:40.743-07:00Confessions of an overwhelmed novelistIs nothing going to be easy while I write this book? I mean, could I just get a break?<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm once again going to bitch about a rewrite. A huge, enormous, humongous rewrite that I just started. The key word being "just."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I met with my writing-partner. Submitted a third to last chapter in my book feeling pretty good about it. I mean, sure, she'll have edits but those are good, they would make the story better.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then:</div>
<div>
"This chapter is actually two. Two stories."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And the important thing to realize is that I do not just do whatever she tell me. She proves her theory, she elaborates. And she almost always right. She's just that good.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, I sigh. I say, "that's right," "great idea," and so on.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I'm thinking, when will this end?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I want to start writing my second book!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I dragged me, myself and my laptop to a cafe and began the monstrosity of a rewrite.</div>
<div>
Good news! I have a clear picture of where I want to go.</div>
<div>
Bad news?</div>
<div>
I can't save much of the old story (24 pages). I tried but it's developing in a different way, with a different voice and point of view and... uh!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The good news? The book is getting better and better!!! Bad news? I'm never going to finish this book. Ever!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Is it September yet?<br /><div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-59095550358847335052013-07-26T07:01:00.002-07:002013-07-26T07:01:31.245-07:00Random coffee shop poll on Weiner's sexting As I'm trying (the operating word being trying) to write/edit, I'm overhearing this conversation (overhearing being a euphemism) between two middle-aged women next to me:<br />
<br />
"Why is Weiner in the news again?"<br />
"Cause of the sexting."<br />
"What's wrong with that? If it's consensual?"<br />
"Well, he' married."<br />
"Oh, well, then it's wrong."<br />
"At least keep it confidential!"<br />
"He's a sick guy, some sort of exhibitionist, something must have happened to his parents..."<br />
"So, how's your weekend...?"<br />
<br />
Well, I have to say Weiner sexting is better than the royal baby. I mean, I have been frustrated with the royal baby coverage, or over-coverage. This is how I would report on it, if at all. "The royal baby has been born. The end."<br />
<br />
So what do you think about what Weiner has done? Been doing? I have to say, there's something "interesting" for the lack of a better word (bizarre) about knowing how your mayor's penis looks like.<br />
<br />
The saddest thing for me in that whole sexting, penis showing to strangers affair, is his poor, smart, successful wife. I don't understand why a woman like that would stay with a creep like him. She's out of his league and she's standing next to him at the podium, supporting him. It must be mortifying. I wish I could understand her reasons. But I don't. Do you?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-82445869530645908332013-07-22T10:46:00.003-07:002013-07-22T10:51:05.836-07:00Thirteen Shades of Yellow or London in SeptemberSo, I'm back to 76,143. (Damn.) That many words in my book. Just that many. I need more.<br />
Why am I losing words?<br />
My writing partner made a very strong case for one of the chapters not belonging in it. She suggested I rewrite it from scratch and put it at the end of the book.<br />
But, I don't want to end my book with my main character Ana hanging out with her Ex and hooking up with someone who likes her red hair.<br />
My book is so not a romance, or any kind of a hooking-up book. I wish it were. (That's my next book, Thirteen shades of yellow:-)<br />
This one is deep, and political, and Voodoo, and important.<br />
Sometimes I worry that Serbs might shun me after reading it. As a fiction writer, I can be hard on them. But that's also being hard on myself. Or anybody else for that matter.<br />
Anyway...<br />
<br />
I'm going to sacrifice one chapter. Sigh. And work on others.<br />
The other one is already getting more complex with Ana now dating her Bosnian Muslim professor in Serbia during the war in Bosnia in 1994-1995.<br />
I know.<br />
Let just say...it's a bit complicated.<br />
<br />
So...I have been sighing a lot. And thinking about London.<br />
Did you know that I began packing last week for my trip on Sept. 8th?<br />
I'm not kidding. I need professional help.<br />
<br />
I also began writing a list of things I would like to do while in London: Neal's Yard, Downton Abbey (I know it's not the castle's real name), British Museum for Greek Freezes, Sherlock Holmes museum for a bigger Baker Street sign than the one I have in my bathroom now, tea houses, lots of tea houses, and friends, lots of friends.<br />
Don't have much time (unfortunately). Four days. Four nights. I'm not planning on sleeping much. English breakfast, anyone?<br />
<br />
I'm not going to plan Serbia. (Who plans anything is Serbia?)<br />
<br />
Then maybe Greece and probably Turkey.<br />
<br />
So, where was I. Oh yes. What month is it? How much longer to September?<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-6965223421051381272013-07-19T12:32:00.002-07:002013-07-19T12:32:27.358-07:00Kale Apple ReWriteToday is one of those days when I wish I weren't a writer who put years (I'm embarrassed to say how many) into her book, and who just got feedback from her writing partner, whom she trusts, to basically can two chapters and write them all over again.<br />
<br />
Sigh. Panic. Backpedaling. Anxiety.<br />
<br />
And the worst thing is? I knew she was right. I knew she was going to say that and I couldn't do anything about it. I just couldn't make those two chapters better. From where they started and where they ended, I couldn't see any other way.<br />
<br />
But now I do. Through discussion with my brilliant writing-partner, I came up with compelling, deeper ways to rewrite the chapters. It's conveniently only in my head. In about two sentences.<br />
<br />
But my numbers have dwindled down again. Significantly.<br />
<br />
Up. Down. Up. Down.<br />
<br />
So here I am, after about four hours of recovering from this review I deserved, in a very Sherlock Holmes red velvet chair in a cafe, about to dive in, once again, for God knows what time, into those two chapters.<br />
<br />
One, about my character Ana dating her college professor.<br />
One, about her reaching out to her old boyfriend when she was lonely. In a nutshell. It's of course much complicated than that. (Everything is.) The Professor is Muslim, she's Serbian Orthodox, it's war time in the Balkans...<br />
<br />
I honestly don't know how some people whip out a book every year of so. It's damn hard to write a good book. It's easy to write crap, but damn hard to write with depth and significance.<br />
<br />
And another thing? This is why I need my writing partner more than anything. She called BS on my timeline. My timeline, in my final book of my Book, is all over the place. So now I have to fix that too.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should have ordered another happy hour cocktail instead of Kale/Apple smoothie.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-58233685816053743812013-07-17T08:33:00.001-07:002013-07-17T08:45:56.061-07:00Yoga according to TalibanI had a bizarre day yesterday.<br />
<br />
Morning was wonderful. I woke up early, strolled to a cafe with my laptop and had a writing breakthrough.<br />
<br />
Then I went to Yoga at noon.<br />
<br />
And if you know me, if you have been reading me, you probably know I have been doing Yoga regularly in the same studio for almost three years now.<br />
Everybody knows me there, addresses me by name, just waves me in.<br />
And I have been feeling there at home. Until yesterday.<br />
<br />
After the class, a young woman in pink, sporting a strong Eastern European accent approaches me and tell me the following:<br />
<br />
"I work for (Studio name omitted) and you're not suppose to walk into the studio with shoes."<br />
<br />
It's not what she said. It's how she said it. Like a bitch. Now that I think of it, she looked at me weirdly a few times during class as well, when I requested Tree and Dancer, and when I came back from the bathroom (I have the smallest bladder ever.)<br />
<br />
So then, of course, my inner bitch awakens.<br />
<br />
"I wouldn't be wearing flip flops if I hadn't found broken glass in this room multiple times."<br />
<br />
Then I just walk away.<br />
<br />
I have never, ever seen her before. She must have been brand new.<br />
<br />
So, I shrug it off, go to the Manager to tell him how much I love their new Zumba class. We chat, laugh, he tell me "he loves me" cause I'm so upbeat, funny, excited.<br />
<br />
Then an hour later, I get an e-mail from him. From the same manager who "loves me:"<br />
<br />
<br />
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2239" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
Hello,</div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2238" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2237" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
Hope you enjoyed your cool class this morning.</div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2233" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
After class I recieved a number of complaints from 2 clients about class</div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2232" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
concerning you, that I decided to bring to your attention. </div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2231" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2230" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
Shoes are suppose to be kept off during class so dirt from outside won't muck up the floor.</div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2229" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
I personally sweep before every noon classs.</div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2228" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2227" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
Also, was told that your skirt was revealing enough to see your privates and that</div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2226" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
while doing certain poses you move ahead of the class distracting those around you.</div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2195" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2241" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
Please be cautious of your dressing and positioning. When people see how good you are they assume to follow you which throws off the class. </div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2242" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
<br /></div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2243" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
Not in any light an I meaning this in a disrespectful tone.</div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2244" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
But when people come to me I must do anything I can. </div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074175701_2245" style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">
Thank you for understanding. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh my God, I was so mad! What is this, Yoga according to Taliban?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And here's my response to him:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2217" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2218" style="font-size: 12pt;">"Wow! I'm stunned and </span>shocked<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2216" style="font-size: 12pt;"> by this e-mail! I have been coming to (Studio name omitted) for three years regularly and never heard anything like this before.</span></div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2215" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 12pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2212" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2213">The reason I came in with flip flops is because I stepped on a piece of broken glass about ten times in the last three years. I didn't want to get cut. I have pointed this out to whomever was at the desk at the time, repeatedly, but then again, a few weeks later, I find another piece of glass, on the floor or my mat. </span></div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_116" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2229" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2208" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2207">As for my clothing, I was wearing shorts under that skirt. And whoever said that they could see my privates is ridiculous and is lying. It's absolutely impossible.</span></div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_118" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2230" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2232" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2231">Was it that spiteful, rude girl in pink with an Eastern European accent? I'm appalled and offended you would take her word over mine. </span></div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_120" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2234" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2236" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<span id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2235">Either way, I'm very disappointed you would send me an e-mail like this. I practically have been living in (Studio name omitted).</span></div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_122" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2237" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2239" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Maybe it's time for me to look for another Yoga studio.</div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2240" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2259" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
I think I paid until the 25<span class="yiv5774122867mark" id="yiv5774122867misspell-2">th</span>, so please don't charge me after July 25<span class="yiv5774122867mark" id="yiv5774122867misspell-3">th</span>.</div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
This is all just very sad. </div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2258" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2257" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Maria."</div>
</div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2257" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2257" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2257" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
There you go. There goes the loyalty.</div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2257" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
What angers me the most is that I'm still upset about all this!</div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2257" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2257" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
So, now, after three years, I'm dating again, looking for another Yoga studio.</div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2257" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
So much for Namaste!</div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2257" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
Well, Namaste to you too!</div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2257" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
</div>
<div class="yiv5774122867yui_3_7_2_35_1374003978190_124" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1374074678807_2257" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-84724093884450154142013-07-15T08:44:00.004-07:002013-07-15T08:46:25.321-07:00Fit flopped Zumba led to John Daly I had a weird day yesterday. It was one of those days when you wonder where you have misplaced your brain.<br />
First, I went to my first ever Zumba class.<br />
I usually go to Yoga, or Pilates, or Budokon. None of these require shoes. So I go in my flip-flops if the temperature outside is above 70 degrees. (If it's below 70, I'm wearing faux-fur boots, or wool-socked sneakers. What, I was raised in Eastern Europe! You have to protect your feet, i.e. your ovaries from cold!)<br />
And I heard once, a long time ago, maybe twice, that Zumba is some kind of dance. Dance/Aerobics. Something like that.<br />
But my brain yesterday didn't register the fact that dancing in my Fit Flops, (those famous flip flops that allegedly make you workout when you walk? Yeah, I'm not convinced either. Buy I bought them once upon a time in NYC. Two pairs. I'll shut up now.) will be that much more difficult.<br />
For someone who has a serious background in Latin dancing (I used to compete when in high school, in Serbia), I was in love with Zumba after two minutes, and calling myself a moron after one. Zumba is really a partner-less samba, cha cha and rumba combined. It's wonderful! Fun but sweaty workout. And in fit flops? Total nightmare!<br />
I had to rest my ankles every five minutes. I felt as if I were going to get arteriosclerosis or wear my ankles out or something. They seriously hurt, not muscles (good kind of pain) but bones. Yes, I could literary feel my bones and joints screaming "You, moron!" Especially since the rest of the class wore sneakers. And the incredibly sexy Latino teacher on the podium wore...shoes. And nothing else. Just kidding (Sorry. Hope I didn't cause any heart attacks. E-mail me for details.)<br />
But I'm no quitter. No sir. I danced my ankles away through the whole delicious hour. I had to take a "bathroom break," and several "water breaks," short but necessary. I considered taking my fit flops off and dancing in my bare feet, but then again, my Serbianism got in the way. The floor was dirty. <i>Jedna li je muka</i>, my mother would say. Or, in English, I wish there were only one problem.<br />
But I did it. I will never, ever wear fit flops or anything floppy to Zumba. I will take Zumba twice a week from now on because it's a party, not a workout. In my sneakers.<br />
<br />
Then in the afternoon I went to a cafe to write, with an empty battery and no charger.<br />
I laughed and decided to order a happy hour cocktail. John Daly. Someone told me he was a golf player who liked to drink? (Too lazy to look that up too..)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-79242157095819631732013-07-11T13:19:00.002-07:002013-07-11T13:22:30.272-07:00Sweater-novel, boot camp, trip to EuropeSo, I have been back from my week-long vacation on the island of Saint Martin for five days now. And I'm glad to be back. Yes, I don't have the Caribbean sea outside of my bedroom deck anymore but it was time to come back to my book. (For all of you who don't know this, I'm obsessed with my book.)<br />
I managed to write on the plane there and back, for an hour or so, between soda and juices being distributed. But now I'm on a schedule.<br />
I have to finish this novel by September 7th, since on September 8th I'm going to Europe for over a month, again (Yay!).<br />
So, I have a little less than two months. And I officially renamed the month of July as the boot camp month.<br />
<br />
Boot camp July rules:<br />
<br />
1)I have to write every day. Even on weekends.<br />
2)I should try to get two shifts in.<br />
3)I have to have 80,000 polished words, comfortable words, by August 7, so I still have a month to line edit the whole book.<br />
<br />
By now, I have 74,407 words and it's July 11. So I have to write, not any, but words that make sense and fit in, polished words: 80,000-74,407=about 5,600. Now, sometimes I have to delete something, so it's really about 6000.<br />
I know it doesn't sound like a lot. It's basically two short stories. But I need to expand some chapters/stories as well as maybe include one new one.<br />
And new stories don't come to me so easily. I'm a very stingy writer. Unfortunately.<br />
<br />
I know what's you're thinking (maybe.) I wrote 50,000 words in 30 days, and now I can't write 6000 in 26?<br />
It's not the same thing. Not at all.<br />
<br />
Think of a novel (good novel, not that crap people write in two-weeks, or two-years for that matter), as a sweater. You pull a string and it falls apart.<br />
There you go.<br />
So, I'm on my way.<br />
If I can do this in two months, I will travel to my very, very exciting trip to Europe with a finished novel.<br />
Wouldn't that be just amazing???!!!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3805710605031311306.post-65589385451543280932013-06-27T12:34:00.003-07:002013-06-27T12:35:33.894-07:00Why am I in love with Wendy DavisYes, I have been in love with Wendy Davis since yesterday.<br />
<br />
Yes, the Democratic Senator who spoke for more than 10 hours in Texas without a bathroom break, water, food, or anything to lean on.<br />
She's a super-woman! A super woman with Harvard law degree, and apparently a super-bladder!<br />
I don't think I could stand on my feet or go without water or bathroom for two hours, let alone ten?!<br />
She should run with Hillary Clinton on the ticket in 2016! Not only would I vote for them, but I would want to work on that campaign.<br />
<br />
I'm very, very tired of hearing men discuss abortion and women's rights.<br />
If you want to discuss women's rights, you have to be a woman, how's that for a rule of harmonious living!<br />
What's up with all those old white men and the abortion?<br />
If you're against one, you don't have it then! It's a free country. Still. Why are you trying to make it not be so?<br />
This ban on abortion after 20 weeks is a slippery slope. Again, I have a problem with anybody telling me what I could or couldn't do with my body. Especially a bunch of men both the House and Senate are filled with.<br />
We need more women representing us!!!<br />
<br />
And for the record, I'm not pro-abortion, and I'm pro-choice! I don't think any woman would have an abortion unless she really had to.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0