initial, if slightly optimistic list of the shows I’d like to see over the next 5 days. Bring it SxSW!
Meet Seryn from Matthew Armstrong on Vimeo.
Choriqueso at Polvo’s. Green Chili Pork taco and the Democrat at Torchy’s Tacos. Micheladas (made w/Negra Modelo, of course) at multiple locations. Uchi sushi. Nepali noodle salad at Farm to Market. Sweet potato fries at Freddie’s. A BBQ pork sandwich with jalapenos. Home Slice pizza. Those lovely rosemary and salt bagels w/cream cheese in the mornings at Once Over. A slow-moving orgy.
Thanks Austin.
I am in Asturias, in Spain. Up in the hills above a town called Santa Marina on a little peak called Pico Los Rozos. We are staying in a small farmhouse here, composed of three or four buildings of which we occupy a room. From here the views are extremely pleasant, full of contours and angles and on top of some hills are wind power generators. I notice most of all the silence, so profound that each noise, when it does reach me, is magnified and travels long distances. The sound of bees and flies and insects of all types, which I think I recall now only from childhood (so much urban living), almost numbs my ears if there are more than just a few buzzing past. I hear the clanking bells around cows’ necks, but it is difficult to pinpoint the source of the noise, as the wind — a noise in itself — spreads the sonic waves, so that you feel at times surrounded. (more…)
…Freedom, for my father, meant solitude and I think it is safe to say, loneliness. The freer and more independent he became, the more it sunk in that he was isolated from his family and to a certain extent, from life. There would be no rock, no foundation, to return to, and so, like others before him with that double-edged luxury, he began to travel. (more…)
Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace a loz cerezos.
This is what is written slightly above eye-level in a narrow street in Firenze. Pablo Neruda. All quiet and cobblestone in the dark winter months here, a city of trapezoids and rectangles and of course, Brunelleschi. Warmth and spring seem distant. I wish to do with you what Spring does to the cherry trees.
Behind the desk at the hotel, as I gather myself for the walk, is Gurpreet. From the country. Hair well-oiled and pulled back, but no turban. Maybe they are not ready for that here, yet. I look at him and want to ask, are you that guy from — ? He looks at me the same way. Neither of us is that guy.
In the Piazza della Signoria Cellini’s Perseus raises Medusa’s head. In the darkness the bronze contrasts sharply with the larger, reflective, marble statues, most of large men, uncircumcised, with power contained elsewhere in their thighs, fingers, and torsos.
Near the Uffizi, a young American with a guitar, a voice like Jackson Browne, and a girlfriend. A folk song. Had he chosen a better location, he would not need the amplifier. Back to a night over a decade gone, at a corner of an empty piazza in Venezia, listening to two young students of jazz, one holding an upright bass and the other a saxophone. Such music under the same blue-black sky!
Portraits of the baby Jesus always with an aged face, often a likeness of a patron or person of prestige. Not symbolism nor enlightenment, but man’s narcissism, characterizes the Italian Renaissance.
In a modern lounge bar called Oibo, the realization it is time to put the modern lounge bar to death. With a flourish, the bartender (“save water, drink champagne” says his t-shirt) shows off a long, triangular bottle. A boutique vodka. He says it is called Pinky and that it is very strong.
It is the freshness of the pasta and the mannered, acceptable portions. All pasta should be eaten in a room with dark wooden beams that complement the color of wine barrels.
Modernity is seeing the portals high up on the Duomo and thinking instantly of the Death Star.
This will be the last visit. A 2009 dirge. Listen here.
The final words uttered by anyone dying in Rome should be, “The Light!” (more…)
Wow, it’s been a long, long time since posting anything. A couple of reasons for this: first, I haven’t been home much. Second, I’ve been slightly co-opted into writing another blog (more on that later) and even that one is suffering from the basic problem that third, there’s just no time to do everything. Ok, fourth is that London is harder to write about because it’s just so massively huge and at the same time massively conventional (no, not boring, just orderly and you’ve got to search harder for things that pique your interest). They’re there, it’s just…ah, you get it. Anyway, I’ll try to reignite this thing. And if it doesn’t succeed then we go the way of the dodo. Would that be so bad?
I realized one day that I had ceased to appear in photographs. Naturally, when you are traveling alone it’s difficult to set your camera down, frame a photo properly, and rush to pose before the timer sets the shutter off. Of course too there’s the worry that someone may run off with your camera once you’ve set it down. But if you can get beyond all that — and after all you’re traveling in lands strange to you, which should indicate that you have accepted a certain amount of risk in your life and besides, it’s just a camera, right? — if you can get beyond all that, why not just ask a passer-by to take your photo? It seems simple enough, but somehow out of my reach. So I instead have albums worth of photos of inanimate objects and environments, few containing me.
Many of these settings are lovely in their own right. Inside the terminal at Abu Dhabi International, for instance, with the glittered tile in greens and blues, and yellow flecks that remind you of the desert outside and the gold of your mother’s jewelry. There the curve of the pillars, built in 1982, almost speaks to you as you sip espresso to wake up after an overnight flight. The flight attendants, happier to be on the ground than in the sky (unexpected, but understandable), pulling their personal luggage trolleys from gate to gate. All these things in a location as mundane as an airport! Small wonder that I focused on my surroundings and forgo to include myself in the picture.
But was it really that? I began to disbelieve it the more I considered. Where had I gone and why was I never there? It seemed a strange thing to choose not to be present, but that was in fact what I had done. I was playing a part in my own disappearance from the earth, from memory including my own. Worse still, such behavior made me dangerous. I began connecting unrelated ideas and theories and grew bitter.
Mumbai is an example of how it’s possible in the 21st century to visit a city where you can remain blissfully ignorant of The Other India while cheerily making a note to self about how much you just love the Fiat taxis smells, low roofs, analog meters, and all. And it’s a coastal city, which means breezes and vistas of the ocean that my friend Q would say he could just stare at for hours. From many perspectives, Mumbai is where it’s at if you’re going to live in India. (more…)
Portland has a reputation for having restaurateurs who take the idea of utilizing organic and locally grown produce seriously. Since living in Mexico, where tomatoes and beef really had fierce flavor, I’ve missed eating dishes where the quality of the ingredients mattered. So far, so good. I’ll be updating this post with reviews of places I’ve dined as they come along. Perhaps the best sign is that since returning to the US, I’ve eaten at Wendy’s just once, and amazingly, have managed to avoid McDonald’s. (more…)
It came to me today that I’ve been traveling for almost 8 years now. Part of the reason for living and working abroad in the first place was to search for a city that would be home. That city that would capture my heart and envelop me like a Portland mist or a Pittsburgh summer night. It would have authentic restaurants, independent films and music. Its residents would speak more than one language. You would constantly want to be looking up and around in wonder, only to find that wonder itself was actually calming. You would want to close your eyes in the middle of the sidewalk to give your other senses a workout. (more…)
Responsive Days