Outside

AOG, Madrid

Outside is different. What does this normally mean? Well, for starters, it means that everywhere you go, it is going to be different. Different? You may say, But of course!

Well Little Miss Smart Ass, you don’t know different until you see a French toilet up close and personal. Or until you enter a rest area on a British highway and marvel at the dried up and insipid food. You never knew sausages could taste like rope did you?

Yes, forget America’s obsession with hygiene and smells and get ready to enter the smelly world waiting for you just outside your local international airport terminal.

The planet is different from us. Not better or worse just different, and I suggest you strap yourself tightly, darling, because the great “unknown” just beyond our borders is going to smack you in the face like a wet fish and no, it won’t say sorry afterwards.

Start with Europe, one of our acknowledged cultural homelands (for what else is our country but an amalgamation of XVIII European Enlightenment thoughts and ideas sprinkled here and there with some good old fashioned social and religious persecution and a shameless excuse for slavery and world domination?).

Europeans feel superior to us. No, I can’t explain it. They just do. It does not matter that we tend to earn more, have bigger and longer hair, that our waistlines are expanding like mount Krakatoa on acid, or that we live in larger homes. 

It does not matter that the price we pay for gas is half of what they pay, or that anything the Japanese invent, we get first.

It goes beyond that.

Europeans have a certain knack for keeping old things around which we either lost along the way, or, quite frankly, never acquired. And yes, we must admit, that is why we go to Europe.

No one in their right mind travels seven hours from JFK to stare at London’s Canary Wharf, or eight hours to be marvelled by La Defense, in Paris.

No.

We jump into those flying tubes to get what we don’t get in America: old stuff. Sometimes, very old stuff. In the case of Greece and Italy, even ancient stuff.

And here’s where their dislike of us begins. Once, in Southern Spain, I overheard a group of American teenagers as they were being addressed by their tour guide.

“We will visit the Roman ruins of Italica”, she said.

And what did Miss Blonde Bimbo say to her friend within earshot of yours truly?

“Oh, we have those back home, how boring”.

In case you are wondering, la Bimbona was from Texas.

The tour guide overheard her and started to laugh when she glanced over towards the airhead section of the group and saw me trying to gnaw my veins off in disgust.

Europeans, I must confess, don’t hate Americans, they just hate stupid people.

Unfortunately for us, we do have an inordinate amount of those within our borders. Sometimes they even make it into the White House, so imagine how superior Europeans feel!

In Europe you will find old everything: homes, cars, clothes, people, museums, streets, jewels, neighborhoods, cities, bridges, and, interestingly, customs.

Europeans like their tradition even more than we do, the difference being that they have so much of it!

Like their tradition of keeping poor people poor. 

An age old tradition that one.

Why help the poor better their lot in life when they will only multiply and produce more smelly poor people? 

Like I always say, you can’t rape the willing!

Harsh, but very much how many European governments treat their population, and they then, in turn, say things like “please Sir, can I have some more?”

Unless they are Scandinavian. These are probably the only countries on Earth which have worked tirelessly to ensure everyone is middle class, and poor at the same time.

Poor? You may ask. But I heard they have a great social system!

Indeed they do. Everything is paid for…out of their salary. What is the point of earning 60K when half (or more) of it is going to the State? So ok, they are not exactly Brokeback Mountain poor, but they are sort of lower middle class on state aid poor… ish.

But they drive Saabs and Volvos! You say. Yes, but they tend to be cheaper there. And subsidised.

Unlike their alcohol, which is taxed to death and controlled unlike in any other place on this planet.

Which explains why Scandinavians like to visit Southern Europe so much: booze is cheaper there, and like the Vikings they really are at heart, they love nothing more than getting wasted on a Mediterranean beach after (or even whilst) “fertilizing” a local lovely.

Ah…Europe…so civilized…and yet…so not!

Like I said at the beginning, “outside” is different. Be prepared, yes, but bear in mind that our way is not the only way, nor the best way.

You really haven’t lived until you’ve Frenched a drunken Adonis on a Mediterranean beach under a star lit sky with Europop blaring nearby. 

Or until you discover what a foreskin is. You thought you had, but I assure you, you haven’t. Not until you've seen one upclose and personal.

Pack your bags my lovely, it is going to be a bumpy, yet thrilling, ride!

Elliot Murphy

AOG, Paris

Last night I was in Paris, a city I love. My partner took me to a birthday party. It was Elliot Murphy's. To celebrate it, he held a concert in a small venue in Paris, New Morning. 

I confess that I'd never been to see him before, and that, although my partner loves his music, I did too, but less. However, that changed after last night. 

We arrived at the Rue des Petits Ecuries under the rain, and waited in line for about 40 minutes or so. It was handy that a local supermarket was still open. 

I bought some bananas to keep me going (you see, we arrived Friday morning on the first flight and hadn't really rested much throughout the day). I needed carbs to make it through the night.

We went in and the first thing I noticed was everyone's age. Mr. Murphy's French fans are not teenagers. 

There were people my age, and over. Many approaching Mr. Murphy's age, whatever that may be. There was also a funny moment when I saw a man whom I thought was Mr. Murphy but, in fact, was a fan who dressed like him.


It reminded me of teenagers who dressed like Madonna or Lady Gaga when they went to the concerts. I just never thought that that particular homage would transcend into adulthood bordering on retirement age.


But then again, why not? We don't allow old people any creativity or individuality.

We made it through the crowd and quickly found seating right next to the side of the stage. For a small venue, this can be one of the better spots. And it turned out to be just that. We could see everyone really well.

I don't really know how well known Mr. Murphy is, but I do know he has played with Bruce Springsteen, and I am not surprised.

Finally, when the music started, I could see what all the fuss was about. It is hard to describe him as anything other than a star, regardless of the venue, the public, the location.


Elliot Murphy was very much the center of attention at all times, the exception being when the amazing guitarist Olivier Durand played. And even then...

His voice is warm, he moves not much but with aplomb.


Although I would not say there is a lot of sex appeal coming from him (though perhaps many would disagree),  he certainly has his own brand of musical masculinity down pat.


He and the band were a joy to listen to and to watch. And the audience loved them.

He would speak in French with his American accent, and explain that "I am now Parisian" because he likes  to drive on the Place de la Concorde on his Vespa (motorcycle).


He never sang off key and he played the guitar constantly well. Although about 95% of the songs were new to me, I gladly admit that they all had that certain something which makes you want to listen and enjoy what you are listening to.


And he shone throughout the evening. I guess that is the closest I've been to someone who exudes star quality. He was confident, sure of himself and of his music.  Unfazed throught the concert.


There were many encores and lots of playing with the audience, getting to know a little about them. Not by asking anything, but by acknowledging them and their interest in him continuously.


Afterwards, he took the time to chat to his groupies and sign their CDs.
All in all it was great.


We left the venue and went for crepes just across the street, then headed for the Marais for a drink.


I have to say that last night he made a fan out of me. If you like Bruce Springsteen, then I strongly recommend you give him a try. You won't be disappointed.
Here's a link to his website, to wet your appetite a little.

Decade by decade

AOG, Madrid

2011: Living in Madrid. Spain. Journalist. Writing. Partnered. Still so many things I want to be.

2001: Living in London. Admitted into LSE. Still undefined career-wise. I want to be a diplomat. And a writer.

1991: Living in London. I want to be an actor. And a designer. And a singer. And I write. Left home.

1981: Living in Mexico & US. Junior High. I want to be a lawyer. And an actor. Now with sister.

1971: Living in Spain. Attending grade school. Daydreaming. Only child still.

The Boyfriend

AOG, Barcelona

I am not an expert on relationships, nor am I an expert on human relations. I know I will depart this planet having learned precious little about our species. With this in mind, I must bring up what just happened on the way to the Airport. 

I got on a bus from Plaça Catalunya, and headed out, hoping to make it on time (no, I don't know what it is about me which makes me always run late). 

About a minute after the bus departed, the man behind me got a phone call. 

I tried not to eavesdrop but it was hard since he was talking in a normal voice, and my ears were a few inches below his cell phone. 

His girlfriend/boyfriend had called and was saying good bye. She/he was mostly in tears, and was sad by this guy's departure. 

I never heard his/her voice, but I could hear full well how the man behind me spoke to his lover. 

I must say that I found it very hard to believe that this guy loved the other person. He was not rude, nor nasty, nor was off-putting (much). But his good-bye sounded like a continuous apology. 

"I'll be back soon"

"I'll call you from Madrid"

"I love you too"

"Don't cry darling"

Perhaps he too was in pain. I'd like to think he was if he really loved the person on the other side of the phone line. Perhaps I misjudged the entire episode.

But, for my money, he was not as sad as the other person. I am not entirely sure about why I think this, but there was just something in his tone of voice. 

A lack of interest, maybe fatigue? I also have no idea what it is he may have to face when he gets back home. Maybe that affected his mood. 

He would sprinkle his conversation with Italian words here and there, bacci, ti amo, things like that. But they were just not said in a true enough way for me. Was the other person Italian? I'll never know. 

He was from Argentina, so maybe that is just how he spoke to people. 

As you know, many Argentinians have Italian ancestry, so it is not unusual for them to use Italian words now and then.

Am I being misanthropic? Perhaps. 

Perhaps this guy is fantastic, but he came across as the flower, not the gardener. Is this necessarily bad? No.

It is a mutual dependency that between a flower and his gardener, but he just seemed like a slightly impertinent flower at times. 

Especially the second time the other person called back and, yes, unfortunately, he complained. 

In a low voice, almost apologetically, but complain he did. It was obvious that he did not want that second call. 

It was much less welcome than the first one. True, I have no clue what was going through his head at the time. Maybe he faces some horrid tribulation. I don't know.

What I do know, is that the tone of voice was, unfortunately (for me) much too familiar. It cut just a little bit close to the bone. 

I too have heard in the past that "I love you but I'm busy" tone of voice. 

"I love you but you are calling at the wrong time". 

"I love you but I already said good-bye at the station". 

"I love you but darling you are making me spend money every time it cuts off and I get your voicemail". (Actual part of the conversation)

All of those 'I love you's' that come with a caveat.

Fortunately for me, I learned very quickly that "ILYB" (I love you...but) really translates as "I love me, period", and that you are just a passing flight of fancy. 

Something to keep them entertained for now, but which costs them no great emotional investment. 

Perhaps I am being too cynical. But this guy just sounded a little bit bored, a little bit busy, a little bit insincere.

When the bus got to the airport, part of me did not really want to look at him. I thought the aural experience had been enough. But as I put my backpack over my shoulders I did look at him. And I was surprised by what I saw. 

His voice was that of a much younger man. But his age really threw me aback. Late 40s, maybe early 50s. His appearance was scruffy: jean jacket, jeans, unshaven, greasy hair across his forehead. In other words, an adult, middle-aged male who looked like a thin version of Burt Reynolds with lung cancer.

I was surprised because I usually think that by that age, men are pretty well sorted. 

And if not, woe be to him/her who falls for one of these sad Lotharios. I left the bus, and tried not to see anymore of him. 

I wasn't upset, but I was intrigued by his whole "performance" on the phone.

Why lie? Why go through all that trouble? Why not just be honest, especially to yourself? Would he be coming back from Buenos Aires to see his lover? Probably. 

He said he'd see the other person on the 31st. 

Of what? Of never?

Friendship Economics

AOG, Madrid

It is not news that the Spanish economy is not doing extremely well. It is affecting the whole country and yesterday the unemployment rate went back up again.

Of course, to the uninformed observer, Spain's unemployment comes with a caveat: One, most of the people unemployed are immigrants who used to work in the construction sector (until recently one of Spain's economic pillars and main engine of economic growth). 

And two, most of them survive in what is known as the 'Black Economy'. That is, people are working and not paying taxes on their earnings. Many claim unemployment benefit and work. 

Nobody talks much about it and the Government acts as though they know nothing of it. And just as well they do, otherwise they would have a revolution in their hands.

However, there is a knock-on effect going on. Although people are working, even in the 'Black Economy', their spending power has diminished. 

And whereas a few months ago every analyst in the country was saying that imports (to Germany, France and the UK) would pull the economy out of the slump, the tune has changed of late. 

Now, it is, as we always knew, that what will get the economy moving is consumer spending.

However, given the performance of US banks in the last couple of years, Spain's banks are not too keen on lending. 

And in Spain, like the US and almost everywhere else, the biggest purchase people make is property. 

Certainly the big property promoters are pushing for the banks to start lending again, and Spain's President has met with several banking CEOs to ensure that lending continues. 

But thus far, nothing. So, in the meantime, the Government has decided to extend people's pensions, to push for reduced salaries and less worker compensation when fired. 

This in a country famous for paying employees about 80% of what their European colleagues make. And needless to say, people in Spain work longer hours than the European average.

Many have criticized the PSOE, Spain's governing party, because they are a Socialist party taking very right-wing measures. 

In roughly one year's time, Spain will have a general election (if not sooner, elections are the privilege of the Prime Minister). 

To most analysts, it is a foregone conclusion that the opposition will win the election.  And most think they will do so without having to lift a finger.

However, not all is lost.

A couple of days ago Mr. Zapatero said that in 2012, the whole country would feel the benefit of an upsurge in the economy. 

Just in time for the elections? Too little too late? Only time will tell.

In the mean time, a friend of mine called me yesterday with a question.

"Do you know how they hunt kangaroos in Australia?"

"No."

"They kill them at night. The lights from the 4x4s blind them, and they remain perfectly still. Then they get shot."

"Ok."

"That is how I feel these days. Like a kangaroo caught in the lights. I am completely frozen".

He owns a computer repair business, and he hasn't been doing well since last November.

"If I don't have money coming in, I freeze. I just freeze."

Unfortunately, he is not alone. Most of the country is, at present, frozen.

The King's Speech

AOG, London

I just saw the Oscar ceremony, and I have to say I'm slightly disappointed by the election of The King's Speech as the winning movie. As the best movie of the year. 

I had a hard time picturing this film as a contender for the crown in the first place, and given the competition, it is surprising that it won.

I saw it a few weeks ago and I remember leaving the movie theater feeling a bit... well, a bit like nothing had really happened. 

No great climax, no interesting insights, no great idea. 

The story is simple enough, the next in line to the  British throne, the future George VI,  has a speech impediment and an Australian speech therapist (played by  the great Geoffrey Rush) helps him to speak well. 

There you go, that is the whole movie right there. 

You'd think that being a British film (and this is the reason why it won, because in the US, anything British and Royal at the same time is a surefire winner) they could have done a bit more work on the plot. 

But no, in fact, poor Mr. Firth, who is a very good actor, and now one with an Oscar under his belt (yes, though we all know the Oscar is really for his performance last year in A Single Man) pretty much carries the weight of the whole movie on his shoulders.

Helena Bonham-Carter, as the future Queen Mother, is good at, well, at being Helena Bonham-Carter playing a royal person, not at actually playing the Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother herself. I saw a similar performance of hers in Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland a few months ago. Less manic, but just as "royal".

All this time, when people have asked me about the movie, all I have been able to muster has been that it is a "nothing film". And that is all it is. 

A pretty (though it could have been more spectacular), simple (though it could have been slightly more complicated), very well acted movie based on a few stories concerning King George VI, himself a very interesting character (the last Emperor of India, the last King of Ireland  &c.). 

And it is odd that no more was made of his life, that all that mattered was that one speech problem and that all else was superseded to it. And believe me, there was more. Of the relationship between  George VI and his brother, King Edward VIII. 

Of the strained relationship with Wallis Simpson and what she meant for the future of the monarchy -sadly played by Eve Best, a British actress playing the infamous American divorcée -credited for coining the famous boutade "You can never be too rich or to thin". 

To say nothing of the awful performance delivered by Claire Bloom as Queen Mary. Yes, a miscast. Or perhaps not well directed. 

I remember that whenever she popped into the screen I would try really hard to make myself believe that she was Queen Mary, and not just an actress in period costume. She was too young to play her perhaps. Too...unroyal, if there be such a word.

But I don't want to kill the movie completely. It does have some very interesting performances. Derek Jacobi, for one, is amazing in his part as Archbishop Cosmo Lang. Evil, and nervy, he is a very memorable character. 

As is the  wonderful aforementioned  Geoffrey  Rush as Lionel Logue. 

The movie has a few moments of hilarity here and there, but they, in my humble opinion, were not fully exploited. So, I'm glad it won, it is not a bad movie, but, as I said, it is just a 'nothing film'. 

I would have given True Grit the Oscar. But then, I am slightly biased... 

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. 

A life without Coca Cola

AOG, Madrid

There are things in my life which just exist, and I never give them a second thought. Streets, bricks, newspapers, bicycles, dogs, television, things which have helped to separate our world from our past worlds. 

We in the West, live immersed in objects which tend to mark our era and they keep coming and we keep buying and we never much think about them and about our lives with them.

For example, when I was a kid, my parents kept us traveling all over the place, and mostly by plane. I can't really remember what it was that I did on those long flights -many of them transatlantic-, but these days, any flight, no matter how short, means I need entertainment material with me. I tend to travel with a book or two, which I hardly ever finish whilst on vacation, and music. 

I remember the last Walkman I had. It was 1988 and we had just moved to Europe, and my mother bought me a solar powered blue Walkman. 

I thought I was the happiest person on Earth that Christmas. I no longer needed batteries and could listen to what few tapes had made it across the ocean with me. 

I still have a couple of them: Beethoven's Pastoral, and Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. 

But the one I liked best in Christmas 1988, and for the next two years or so, was an album titled "Direct" by Vangelis, whom I had discovered back in 1986 through the Ernest & Julio Gallo commercials. 

I lost it somewhere along the road, but his music is still with me. I also lost, probably in one of our many moves in Europe, my solar battery powered Walkman. 

A few years later, in London, I acquired a portable CD player. 

For years it would come with me on any long journey, even if it was only on London's underground. 

But this only after I had first spent a couple of years buying CDs but not a CD player. They were expensive things and I just never had enough to get one, but I knew I'd be getting one soon enough. 

Which, eventually, I did. And music was also the main reason why I eventually realized I needed a computer: I could burn my own CDs with the music I wanted to hear and omit the tracks I did not care for. 

I confess that I've always been a bit of a music snob and even as a teenager I would buy mostly singles and hardly ever entire albums. 

This, of course, has changed. I now buy mostly albums because the type of music I enjoy tends to come that way- though I've not stopped buy CD singles whenever I can get my hands on them.

But I digress.

Somewhere around 2001-2003 I got an iPod. It was a gift from my family and my then partner. I have to say, it did change my music listening habits... once I got used to it. 

I must admit that, to this day, the way you upload music to your iPod seems to me to be complete idiocy. 

That it must live on your computer or else I find a complete imposition, and all it does is make me buy external memories for my music. No I don't care that I have more "Tunes" on my collection than I will ever listen to. 

That is another issue altogether. The point is, Apple, that part of your strategy, sucks. Big time. As does the "and we don't support iTunes on PCs either, better splash out on a Mac" addendum. Maybe they do now, but they didn't back in 2002.

I was so upset with this system that a year went by before I actually mustered enough interest to plug the thing in and start using it. 

And, of course, I really like how iPods operate, and we all know that, eventually, Apple (in conjunction with Starbucks) will take over the Earth. Blah. So I think I've established that somethings are part of your life, but they change. And some things change, and they are never part of your life. 

And then there is your life changing, which it does all the time. 


A few years ago I decided to stop drinking Coca Cola. I somehow tricked myself into thinking that what attracted me to it was the carbonated aspect of the drink and so, as in my childhood, started to drink sparkling/fizzy water. Perrier, if you like. 

There was a time around when I was 7 or 8 when we lived in Mexico City and became interested in carbonated water. Madame Mère loved Perrier, and I began to love it too. 

But then I grew up some more, and couldn't stand it any longer (you know how you are with food. Some stuff you love, and then you hate it and hardly ever go back... like beef jerky), so it left my life.


But then, it came back around circa 1997. I didn't stop drinking Coke, I just drank a whole lot less. It was around that time I realized what an addictive drink it was. 


But the whole point of this post is based on the idea: What would life be like if there was no Coke? If it just disappeared? 

I see the Coca Cola Company (and others, not just them), whose sole purpose in life is to sell you something which is neither water, nor a healthy drink like fruit juice. It is some sort of chemical drink (like many others, of course: beer, wine, alcohol), which the company's marketing department need you to consume. So that they can make more money. 

Fine, they are a company after all, and they like to make money. But in the greater scheme of things, the please you can derive from Coke is so momentary, so finite, that if it were to leave our culture altogether, somehow we would manage to go on and not disappear. 

With Coke as with most anything else which we may want to acquire. 

So, our modern life is peppered with objects, which define our times, and, for some people, help to define their lives. 


Should it be so? Should our lives be defined not by our accomplishments and failures but rather by that which we consume? 

Europeans tend not to go down this road. The reasons why Mr. average American drives a BMW might be completely different as to why Mr. average European does. 

Europeans have a different concept of status symbols. But BMW sells not just cars, they sell a concept. As does Coca Cola. 


But, again I ask, should our lives be limited to buying this or that product, or should they be something else. 


Should we drink Coke for life, or could we actually stop drinking it altogether? Will there be a day when the Coca Cola Company stops being? I see BMW disappearing before Coke does. 

Why do you think this is? Is it because it is a food product? 

Thousands of years ago we started eating chicken and we stopped (at least most of us did) eating insects.


We are still eating chickens. Perhaps Coke will survive because they have convinced us that they are a foodstuff. A necessary foodstuff. 

Are they?

Egypt

AOG, Madrid

It looks like the winds of change have begun to blow in the Arab world. 

The events which unfolded in Tunisia two weeks ago ousted a Government, and, like wildfire, the same spirit for change and democratic reform seems to be sweeping across other Arab countries. 

Particularly Egypt, where its presidential dictator, Hosni Mubarak, has been in power since 1981.

Given the state of affairs, he has said he will not stand for reelection in the Fall. Isn't it amazing how the powerful will do anything to stay in power no matter what? His country, it would appear, will have to put up with him until then. 

However, it seems like the people of Egypt are not having it. They want him out. Or at least the majority do.

 

 Will this affect the rest of the region? It would seem so. Jordan, one of the most stable states in the Middle East for decades, has had a change of Government. There have been protests in Yemen. 

Even Iran -not an Arab country but yes an Islamic nation-, seems preoccupied with these events.

Closer to home, the West, that is Europe and the US, have been more lukewarm in their appraisal of the situation. As an example, these kind words from the former British Primer Minister, Tony Blair, who assures us that Mubarak has been "immensely courageous, and a force for good."

In the case of President Obama, also disappointing, as this article from the Huffington Post points out.

The word in the street is that no one thought in Europe that Mubarak was a dictator.

I guess that kind of thinking belongs in the 'No one thinks Hitler is Austrian' school of thought. 

Let us not kid ourselves, the West, for all its pro-democracy demagogy, is quite happy to let sleeping dogs lie. Such is the case with notorious human rights violators such as Cuba, and China. 

Of course, the West only takes issue with such regimes when they begin to rock the boat, as is the case with North Korea.  But even then, all that we ask for is that you remain quiet and move along quickly. 

As usual, trade and vested interests are more powerful than any democratic ideology we in the West might want to peddle. And, of course, these regimes know it. 

I've read in the press that the only country which has shown some concern about the whole situation is Israel. According to some press reports, they rather have a dependable dictator to deal with, than... well, nobody knows for sure what will come next. 

So the lesser of two evils, is still pretty evil. 

Time to find a new motto?