On becoming a nuisance...

AOG, Madrid

My seventy something father called me the other day. His wife had passed away just hours before.

It had all been very sudden. He was still in shock. When I last spoke with him about 12 days ago, he was still in shock.

Before I continue, let me just say that I have not seen my father since 1988.

A few years ago, when I was still in London, he started to call.

He was then, and always, hungry for news.

However, our conversations seem to be a very repetitive affair. 



• How are you?
• How’s work?
• Your partner?
• Your mother?
• Your sister?

My sister is always a tricky conversation. She is hardly at home and, when he calls, she is never to be found. So he complains to me about her.

He lives in Florida, and my sister is still in the UK.

Time differences aside, she does lead a very busy life.

Dog walks, training, and the usual hustle and bustle of living in the social milieu that is British country life.

So when he calls, she is hardly ever there to pick up the phone. Of course, when I call, she is hardly ever there either, so it is nothing personal.

Which is what I always tell him. Again and again.

Still, he complains.

When his wife was still alive, that is to say, the last time I spoke with her, she always enquired about my sister, my mother, and me.

As with my father, the conversation was always a repeat performance of the previous phone call.

I never met my father’s wife, but she seemed very sweet on the phone. I was glad that he had her in his life and, to be honest, I never considered the idea that he would outlive her, quite the contrary.

So when he called with his news, I too was shocked. The woman my father left my mother for had departed.

I had always known about her but, thankfully, my mother was not one of those women who blamed the other woman for her husband leaving, she was intelligent enough to realise it was my father who was to blame for that. But she never really blamed him for that.

So the years passed, and when my father called the first time, he was keen, for whatever reason, to ensure his wife and my sister and I spoke to each other. It was always a strange, and mostly unilateral, conversation.

“I love you both so very much”, she often said.

To which I could only politely say “that is very sweet of you”, or something like that, but little else.


And whenever she said those words, I cringed slightly.

It always felt so odd. I did think she was a very sweet woman, and a saint for taking care of my father. But I felt strange.

Almost as strange as when my father says he loves my sister and I. To this day I have not said it back.

And the reason why is because I don’t love him.

When I talk about my father to other people I always use this stock sentence: “I don’t love him, and I don’t hate him. I just don’t have any feelings”.

Maybe it is a cliché, but I do think it sums up perfectly how I feel. I don’t know if other people understand what I mean.

He has not been in my life much. Not physically. He has been absent from it for a ridiculous percentage of it, so if I ever had feelings towards my father, they dissipated.

In a way I think I am quite lucky since, at least, I didn’t develop hatred towards him. I think I just developed a huge sentiment of indifference, and that is what is with me these days.

When he called me the other day to tell me about the passing of his wife, my first reaction was 'And you are telling me this because…?'.

Of course, I didn’t say that to him, but I didn’t say much of anything then. He was in pain and I did what I could to give him whatever support I could, which I think was very little.

I have called him a couple of times since, to see how he is, and he is well, but lonely. He has a large uphill journey which more than likely he will face alone.

His wife had children of her own, but , although they live near him, they have their own father to take care of (I assume, I have never spoken with them).

Certainly they have their own lives to live. He told me this already.

Still, my father values his independence, such as it is. He is almost blind now, due to about 20-30 years of unsupervised diabetes. He has also developed cataracts, but when we last spoke he said he was going to see his doctor about them.

He has said very clearly he does not want to go and live with his brother, nor does he want to become a nuisance to his family or anyone else.




Childhood lemonades

AOG, Madrid

I think the first drink I ever learned how to make was lemonade. I can't say that anyone in particular taught me, I just 'knew' how to make it.

 Lemons, sugar, water and ice. What else could I need? 

But before you answer, I have to tell you that the author of this post once discovered that food coloring existed at his mother's kitchen and proceeded to create (is that the word?) a culinary invention known as 'Blue Rice' which my loving family ate and even praised me on.  

Yes, obviously, families lie out of love. 

My sister, she of the sharp no-nonsense tongue, didn't make much of a fuss that day. And to this day, the Blue Rice comes up now and again. Madame Mère often says how it was very tasty. I can't say I agree, but I love that she thinks so. 

I could have made Green Frog Vomit Rice and she probably would have loved it too.

But back to Lemonade. Around the time that lemonade skills came into my life I was living in Mexico, a land known for its "aguas" (which only means 'waters'). 

My sister and I were not allowed to ever, under any circumstance, drink any of these "aguas" on the street.

A lack of hygiene and a fear of worms and intestinal whatnots drove my mother to ensure we didn't even come close to the "aguas" vendors. 

Except that, now and again, especially on a Sunday outing to Chapultepec Park, or to Xochimilco and its meandering canals, when surrounded by screaming children, tired parents, and a general good feeling, Madame Mère (who loved nature like all Russians do) would cave in and, yes, we'd be allowed an "agua" of something. 

If you've ever been to Mexico, you know the country is blessed with nature's bounty (I think this is the most Southern sounding sentence I've written in a long time!). 

Papaya, tamarind, mango, guava, watermelons, grapefruits the size of a small child's head, and just about any other tropical fruit you can think of. 

And "Aguas" sellers know how to rope you in. Their stands are simple. 

 On top of a plank of wood, or a cart, they ply their wares from massive, transparent tanks of water, glistening in the sun, and ever-swirling with the aid of the sellers' gigantic soup ladle. 

I can't recall the calorific intake but it must have been diabetic-coma high. 

Yes, in poor countries, the more sugar something has, the more of it you'll sell. Mexico is no exception. 

My favorite was always pineapple "agua", or "agua de piña", part of my ever-evolving love/hate relationship with that particular fruit. 

My sister, she of the "I love bitter things...like vinegar!" school of thought, would often go for the "agua de tamarindo", something which would make me have the smallest of sips before I started convulsing. I loved it, but I hated it too. 

So bittersweet ! And I hate bittersweet stuff (I confess to having an issue with some Chinese dishes, like sweet & sour anything...eek!). But yes, here and there, we would partake of that innocent Mexican custom of drinking street water laced with who knows what plus sugar and fruit juice.

With that in mind, that I should attempt to make lemonade is surprising. But, soon enough, I became the official lemonade maker in the family. I can't say there was much trial and error, though now and again I remember adding things to it to spice it up a bit.  Like oranges, or prickly pear juice (my favorite fruit in the universe). Sometimes even a small splash of chili. Ice, however, was never a big part of the equation. Not until Texas that is.

When we moved from Mexico back to the US, my lemonade repertoire was slightly diminished,  so I had to improvise a bit with the local foodstuff. 

I remember adding mint, cinnamon, (I discarded chilies long before that), honey instead of sugar, and even molasses. 

In fact, the one day I made lemonade with molasses is the day I produced the first batch of BLACK lemonade on earth! 

And no, it could not be drunk by humans. 

The dogs loved it though! 

There was one surprise which I could never actually reproduce: Pink Lemonade. 

Too bitter for me, it soon became a family favorite. 

Madame Mère and my sister loved the stuff. I however, declined to drink much of it. 

It was around the time I discovered I could make Ice Tea by making normal tea, and sticking it in the fridge for a few hours. 

Who said I was bright?

But that is a story for another day.

True Grit

AOG, Madrid

I don't like cowboy movies. I don't like Westerns. I don't like Country & Western music. 

I never have. I doubt I ever will.

I don't much care for cowboys beyond the aesthetics and the images of masculinity they portray. 

I liked Brokeback Mountain because of the story, but I hated that they were cowboys. 

I sort of like Hee-Haw for about 23 seconds back when I was a kid.

I don't know why this is. 

I grew up in Texas and Texas is a very cowboy-friendly state. And I don't have anything against cowboys or cowgirls. Just not on film.

So with this is mind, it is surprising that I've just come back from watching 'True Grit', the Coen brothers film.

It was a combination of things which made me go see it. 

The original catalyst was a friend from French class calling me up. Would I join them around 8:20 PM. 

I asked what they were going to see. When he told me, my first reaction was, no. Not in this lifetime. 

But then, and this all happened very quickly, my mind plucked a long forgotten memory from the past, and I changed my mind very quickly. 

You see, when I was a kid, my sister read 'True Grit', the novel by Charles Portis. 

I remember that she loved it. 

I never read it because, well, because it was a cowboy novel and I didn't like that type of thing. 

And so tonight, a couple of decades and a continent later, I thought, just to see what it was that she liked so much, I agreed. I would go and see the cowboy film.

No, I was not captivated from the start. In fact, I thought the start was a bit slow. But then, it did. It began to take a life of its own. The characters, the storyline, the, well, the everything about it. I have to say that I really liked this movie. But I also discovered something else. I discovered why it would appeal to my sister. 

She too had, has, true grit. She is a fighter. She always has been.  

I have always been the conciliator in my family, the diplomat. 

I signed the treaties, made the peace; and she fought the wars with guns a'blazin'. Yes, that is she. A real firecracker. Just like Madame Mère.

And I could see how a preteen girl growing up in Texas would find comfort in that book. She must have seen herself reflected, if only a little bit, in the movie.

You see, our childhood, was a very trying time for us. Moving all the time, changing countries, friends, schools, subjects, different cultures etc etc.

We somehow survived it.

As we all do. I envy those people who say they had an idyllic childhood.

Ours was not idyllic. It was adventurous and challenging. It was also interesting, exotic, cultured, and wild. Curious, moving, sad, happy, well, I think it was a lot of things, but for better or worse, it is now over. 

I never gave how we got through it much thought. But today, I got a small clue as to how my sister made it through.

I think this book must have given her strength somehow. It probably gave her a role model, a behavior pattern when faced with adversity.

It is so important to have a role model in life, even if it is only in fiction. 

I remember years ago when I was going through a rough patch, like we all do, I was telling her about it. And to this day I remember her words:"Stick to your guns!"

And at the time, I did. And I think, ever since then, whenever things go topsy turvy, I remember her words. 

I suppose she must have gotten it from Madame Mère, this fighting spirit. The two are so alike. And before you say it, no, I'm not adopted. I look just like my mother. 

And I have no clue where the diplomatic streak comes from since I don't think anyone in my family is particularly diplomatic. But there you go, authorship unknown, but still a fact. 

So I'm really glad I went to see this movie, and I will recommend it to friends to go and see it. It has everything a good movie should have: a beginning, a middle, and an ending. Believable characters, and a plot. 

Weak point? I'm nitpicking here, but the hoopskirts the actresses wear are not believable. From watching hundreds of photographs from the era, I can attest to the fact that crinoline skirts  had a different shape  and the fabric hung  and draped over them differently. 

I know, it is only a movie, but, like I said, it is the only thing that made me go "humm".

Will I go back to see another cowboy flick in the future? No, I don't think so. I may do, but listen, I hated back to the Future part III because of all the XIX century cowboy crap. Like I said, I don't like cowboy movies. 

Family Types

AOG, Madrid

This past weekend I spent it with my partner and some friends in Sitges, also known as gayville on the Med; a small town about 45 minutes from Barcelona.

We all rented a small apartment (decoration 70s vintage), and the beach was a 5 minute walk from there. On Saturday, we got there rather early and spent most of the day either baking under the sun, or freezing in the Mediterranean sea. Yes, Spain is a hot country, but September is September, and Autumn is just around the corner. My partner and I separated from the group at lunch time (2-4 pm Spanish time) and then went back to the beach, although on another part of town.

When we all met for dinner (round 10 pm), our friend Eduard was slightly outraged. The town council had placed a metal sign saying the beach were they had been all day (a nudist beach), was a family beach. It said so in Catalan, in Spanish, and (almost) in English (we all thought it was quite funny that they had written Familiar Beach, and not Family Beach). First, there was the issue of the wording: "family". Since there is no such thing as a "children's beach", or "unmarried people" beach, or "Divorcees beach", to call it a "family beach", was odd. What did it mean? That only families were allowed? Right then, how do you define a family?

The town council knows exactly what it defines as a family: One male figure, one female figure, and an overgrown monster baby figure, white against a pale yellow background. And here was the rub.

How dare the town council not only declare a beach as a family beach or not, it even defined what a family was: male, female, baby. And yes, by trying to "innocently" re- classify something which no one in Spain has the authority to do (no one classifies beaches as gay, straight, or nudist. Beaches in Spain are known as such through tradition alone), the town council has made a mistake. Or at least, it has offended a lot of gay people.

My friend Eduard was up in arms.

Why is there only one model of what a family might be? A family can be 2 people, or 20, and before you say "traditional", remember, this is 2007, and Spain has legalised gay marriages, and as we all know, gay couples can adopt children. As single people do.

It made me think. It made me realise that things are changing very quickly, and, at the same time, not quickly enough. Needless to say the party in power in Sitges is the Conservative party, a party very keen on keeping gay people off "its" town. Eduard had, has, a point.

Still, it didn't spoil the weekend for us, and we were soon making jokes about it.

Another typical weekend in Spain.

Last night in Spain 2006

Tonight is my last night in Madrid. In a few hours I flyback to London to spend Christmas with Madame Mère, Sister & Bro-in-law in their lovely home (with room for a flock of ponies!) in the shire of Oxford. And their dogs. I won't be in Spain again until january 2007. And by then, I will know if I have been granted an internship with the PRISA media group (owner of El País, CNN +, SER Radio, etc etc) or not. If so, I will be happy. If not. Well...we'll see. I don't wish to anticipate anything.

Of course, I have been flying to London once a month (sometimes twice a month) since January. So it is not as if I'm flying home after a long spell. Home is now Madrid. Sort of. Somehow. Not that I think of London as home. Although I lived for 15 years on that island (The UK), I never thought of London as home. It was where I lived. But it did not fit my definition of home (in this respect I envy my mother and sister. They LOVE the UK. I, as with all else, have to be Le Garçon Différent). But Home, is Spain now. And when I think of it, it feels ok to do so. Do I miss London? Yes. Sometimes I do. How could I not? But love it? Mmmm....

I only love the US. And Mexico. And Spain. And France. And Cuba. And Argentina. I like South Africa. I like Germany. I like Venezuela. I like Greece. I like Denmark. I like Portugal. And Hungary.

I sort-of-kinda-in-a-way-but-not-always-yet-somehow like London. But not to live there. I think it has become one of those places I visit and like. A destination with the added bonus of a resident family. One way or another, I will always be tied to the island for better or for worse. But I think that is ok too.

It is funny because I have never lived anywhere for 15 years non-stop but for London. Maybe that is why I don't love it. Though this is not true. There are a million reasons why I don't. And million (or close to a million) why I do. Maybe I should be positive. I like that people think it is a world city. Like New York. Unlike Madrid. Not a world city just yet.

My classmates have loved calling me English (Tony es inglés) all year long. Which is amazing because the british never have done that; because I very obviously am not. Especially when I open my mouth and speak; when I do, a type of California via Texas accent comes out which is very obviously not British. And yet when I go to the US everyone thinks I am British. "I just love your accent" "What accent?". I am doomed. I know. I will forever be intertwinned with multiple cultures in spite of myself. Doomed to be "the other" until I die.

Even in Spain, where, in theory, I am meant to be from by virtue of birth and parentage. Though a life lived outside it does diferentiate me from most people here. And I think it shows sometimes. Yet, I speak their language, and they think I am some sort of weird hybrid. And whenever I say something odd, it is never because I might BE odd, but because I am foreign. To them. So not from here either.

But it has been amusing to be thought of, in a roundabout kind of way, as British. Especially because the Spanish, like the Americans and everyone else on earth, are sold on their idea of the British. They think only of elegance, teas at 5, the English look of things, Harrod's. Ideas which are as real as those about Spain- paella, sea, sex, sand and sangria. Spain, just isn't this. Nor is Britain that. Of course, these things do exist within both countries, but they do not even come close to defining them any more so that to say George W. Bush represent all about the US. How could he? how can these things?

So. In a few hours back to London. Shopping spree tomorrow before Christmas with the Hunter's. I guess I'll be quite tired by the end of it. And then off to the big apple for New Year's. Yes, it would appear like I travel a lot. But on a budget. There is no glamour involved.

By the way, I have not packed yet. And also, four of my friends in London are away on holiday. Not that I would have much time for them but...

I was told about this website when I first started working on TV back in '04 in London. One of the runners on Fit Farm (Channel 4) showed me this site. It makes me laugh. Wait until you get to the snake part.

Oh, yes, And have a very Happy Christmas 2006.