Legit Lit: Old Filth

For my first review in Legit Lit, I want to recommend a seriously underlooked book by a seriously underlooked author: Jane Gardam's Old Filth. It's the story of a man affectionately called Filth, or, even more affectionately, Old Filth, as he ages and rises through the ranks of the British legal system. "Filth" may not sound like a term of endearment, but rather than a judgement of Filth's hygiene or tastes, it is an acronym for Failed In London, Try Hong (Kong). 


I started this book on the flight to Spain, and it was so good I couldn't stop myself from seizing it as soon as I woke up and reading it for about an hour each day I was there before setting off to do things in Barcelona. (Reminds me of watching my brother reading The Agony and the Ecstasy while we were actually in Italy; he was so engrossed in the story he couldn't put it down to see the real-life art the book described.) Filth had a fascinating life and is one of the most roundly developed and endearing characters I've come across. He was born Eddie Feathers IV - don't you already love him just for that? - and spent his childhood in Malaysia, Wales, and England, where he meets a host of remarkable, wonderful, and despicable characters. He ends up spending his career practicing law in Hong Kong while it is still a British colony, where he achieves international fame and marries his beloved Betty. The story jumps around a great deal - for example, it begins near the end and then fast forwards immediately to Filth's birth - so I kept reading not so much to learn what would happen next as to learn how Filth had arrived at a conclusion I already knew. Learning about his life felt much like it would if I had actually met Filth as an elderly gentleman: I first gained a sense of who he was in his twilight years, and then piece by piece learned more and more about his history as I got to know him. 


I discovered Old Filth in a roundabout and rather lucky way: via NPR's incomparable Maureen Corrigan's review of Gardam's newest novel The Man in the Wooden Hat. I nearly always love the books she recommends, and she was practically tripping over herself to cram in as many wonderful comments about it as she could during her allotted time. I looked it up and found that it is a sequel to Old Filth, a detail I had somehow missed during Corrigan's review. I decided to read them in order. While one could definitely read The Man in the Wooden Hat first, I highly recommend starting with Old Filth; I feel it sets the stage a bit better than if you read them in reverse order. The Man in the Wooden Hat focuses on Betty, Filth's wife. She is also an extraordinarily intriguing character, perhaps even more so than Filth in that she has a bit of a dark side. He remains unbelievably noble from the word go, while Betty undergoes a transformation, marked by a youthful transgression that shapes the woman she becomes. To make her all the more colorful, she grew up in China and spent much of her childhood in a Japanese prison camp with her parents, a chapter of her life on which Gardam was disappointingly silent (which was frustrating, though fitting, as Betty was not the type to tolerate discussion of dismal topics and would likely have brightly changed the subject to something more cheerful if anyone had asked her about this). 

Jane Gardam

Gardam's writing is simply spellbinding. Neither book is even the smallest bit chronological, yet the way she reveals more and more information about the events of her characters' lives was far more meaningful, and kept me turning pages even while Barcelona beckoned. Her characters, as I hope I've managed to convey by now, are so real you feel as though they must surely exist somewhere, and her style is simply gorgeous. It's beyond me why she doesn't top the list of the the most iconic contemporary British authors. (I mean, look at her. Have you ever seen anyone who looked more canonical or English? Her appearance alone should be enough.) Perhaps she is more well-known in England. For her sake and yours, I really hope you'll help her gain some of the recognition she deserves elsewhere by reading both of these short, addictive novels; you won't be able to stop recommending them to friends if you do.

...and Two Makes Nine

The 2012 New York marathon is still 130 days away, but on Sunday I qualified for 2013 marathon by running my 9th NYRR race of the year. (I sure hope I like the marathon the first time I run it...) On Saturday I ran a five-miler and followed it up with another on Sunday, meaning two early mornings in a row and tired legs to boot. In honor of Pride Week, the first race was organized by the New York Front Runners, a GLBT running club and athletic organization. I ran this race last year and it was one of my favorites; there's tons of support from some very colorful characters on the sidelines, and the Front Runners do a great job of coordinating everything. Upon registering, I got a fashionable t-shirt (or, rather, Ed did; they were out of sizes that would fit me) plus a bag made from biodegradable tapioca root and filled with coupons, samples, and goodies. After the race, there were lots of booths set up, and I assume the usual drag queens were on hand to distribute awards and announce the raffle winners, though I took off right after finishing to get ready for our supper club that evening. It was a mellow, fun race, which I took at an easy pace and enjoyed.

I got up early again on Sunday morning and headed back to the park for the Achilles Hope and Possibility Race. I couldn't even remember whom this race was supposed to be benefiting, but it became clear as I neared the starting corral and began to see wheelchairs and t-shirts advertising prosthetic limbs. I jogged past two women pushing adult-sized wheelchairs, each containing several children. One was talking about going to "watch daddy," and so I assume the husband/father had handed off his everyday wheelchair in favor of one of the sleeker, sporty models. 


This race felt like a combination between a standard road race, the Special Olympics, and the Paralympics. Ten minutes before able bodied runners were scheduled to start, the wheelchair competitors took off. Then we were greeted by surprise guest Jon Stewart, who cheerfully told us he was going to kick all of our asses. And then we were off, too. I was glad I had decided to take this one at a gentle pace, because racing it would have been just about impossible. There was the usual early race gridlock, but this was compounded by the fact that able-bodied runners were frantically dodging participants with all manner of disabilities who were moving more slowly. Some, both adults and children, were blind and were jogging just behind their guide runners. Some were being pushed at either a walk or a jog in their wheelchairs. Some rode in their chairs backward and helped push off with their feet. I saw runners missing one or both legs, and several people crutching along at a pace that would have terrified me if I'd been in their shoes. After the first two miles, I'd passed most of the participants whose mobility was severely compromised and things thinned out, so I began to concentrate more on trying to spot Jon Stewart. (No luck.) I did, however, see a lot of pretty inspiring things. A little after mile 4, for example, I passed two kids running in single file. The girl was probably 9 and the boy looked 7, and both were missing a leg. I don't know many 9- or 7-year-olds who could run 5 miles, period, let alone on a prosthetic leg, which takes far more energy than running on two legs of your own. I was astonished that it had taken me so long to catch up to them, too. I never caught up to the serious wheelchair athletes, many of whom were war vets, even at a fairly brisk pace and with all my body parts in working order. 

The illusive Jon Stewart

I will definitely do this race again next year. For one thing, I loved seeing the determination of all these athletes who, as one supporter's sign said, both "rock[ed] and roll[ed]." For another, this thing seems to be a magnet for celebrities. Jon Stewart has attended for the last two years, and Prince Harry participated in 2010. 

Supper Club, Southern Style

Ed and I have a group of friends that gathers at someone's apartment every now and then for what we call a supper club. The host picks a theme and cooks a main dish, and everyone else contributes an appetizer, side dish, dessert, or beverage that fits the theme. At least, that's the idea. In reality, we've only met once this year. The supper club was the brainchild of our friend Maggie, and she hosted the first one (Mexican night) and has been keen to get a second one up and running for months. So Ed and I volunteered and had everyone over this past Saturday. Or almost everyone; turns out it's impossible to pick a weekend that works for everyone during the summer. Since Ed is from Texas and I lived Tennessee for a while, we decided to do a southern theme and make fried catfish, and I added a few appetizers to the line-up since no one was going to bring any. Turns out that all southern food is either a) fried, or b) heavily reliant on mayonnaise. There was hardly an item on our menu that didn't involve one or the other, and Ed has already started strategizing about coating the catfish in mayonnaise before frying next time. It's a good thing we exercise a lot.

Collard green dip (with a small, vegetarian version to the left). I served it with optional hot sauce for extra kick.

Appetizers
Southern Living was a great source for southern appetizer ideas, and all three I made turned out wonderfully. Here's how we started the evening:

• Sweet Potato and Smoky Sausage Bites with Lemon-Garlic Aioli (recipe) - These turned out great, though there was tons of the dipping sauce left over afterward. If you made it, I'd recommend halving the dip (or doubling the sweet potato and sausage skewers.)
• Deviled Eggs (I used one of Paula Deen's many recipes)
• Warm Collard Green and Bacon Dip (The recipe actually called for turnip greens but I couldn't find them. Turned out great, but made a lot.)

Fried Catfish
Ed was the mastermind on this one. The first batch he tried to make while we were testing recipes wasn't very crispy and the breading was a bit more floury than I like. So the second time we tried breading the fish in a 2:1 mixture of flour and cornmeal instead of a 4:1 mix like most recipes recommend. Ed mixed some Old Bay into the flour for an extra kick. We also let the oil get a lot hotter before adding the fish on the second go-round, which resulted in golden goodness. Of course great catfish needs great tartar sauce, so I used the recipe from my great grandfather's restaurant: mayo, Worcestershire, lemon juice, garlic powder, and chopped dill pickles. I'm not sure what the proportions are - I just keep dumping stuff in and tasting until it seems right - but if you try it I can advise that you should add as many pickles as possible, and that if you find you've added more garlic powder than mayonnaise, you've done something wrong.


I'm happy to report that everything turned out great! Maybe a little too great... Everyone ate so many of my appetizers that there was hardly any room left for the actual dinner part of it, and Ed and I have about six pounds of fish left over, with at least three cups of tartar sauce to go with it. Good thing it's tasty...

New Features - Change You Can Believe In

Happy Friday, everyone!


I want to mention two changes I'll be making to the blog. First, though, a play-by-play of how these decisions came about:


My sister-in-law has fabulous taste in literature. I emailed her with some book suggestions lately and she wrote back to say that I should review books on the blog. I thought this was a great idea; this would give me great material to make up for those weeks that are slightly less exciting than others, plus be a convenient way to make book recommendations to friends and family. Now that I walk to work, I find I am reading less and really miss it, so this will be a great motivator for me to read more in order to review more books, too. Done. So:


Change #1: I will be reviewing books on my blog! Hooray!


I figured it would be a good idea to make those book reviews easy to find so that readers who had already been fully updated on the thrilling events in my life could visit the blog with the express purpose of finding something to read next. (There is a search function already, but I wanted something geared more toward browsing than searching.) So I decided I'd better label my book posts. And then I decided I should label my posts that are NYC-centric, too. And then some posts turned out to be about running. So I went into a bit of a labeling frenzy, and the result is visible in the toolbar in the right column of the blog. 


Change #2: Most of my blogs are labeled! Wahoo!


For those unfamiliar with labels, all you have to do is click on one to find a list of posts on that topic. Current labels are:

• New York - Cool stuff I do in the city
• NYC Arts - Cool performances/artistic exhibits I see in the city
• Travel - Cool stuff I do outside the city
• Food - Restaurants I visit and food/drinks I attempt
• Authors - Author talks I attend
• Legit Lit - Books I think you should read 
• Note: As of today, no Legit Lit label exists because I have not reviewed a book yet. It's on the way!

The larger the font of the label, the more posts there are on that topic. I'm not even close to being finished labeling, but I've noticed that there are far more posts about New York than anything else. While this makes sense, I'm going to make more of an effort to diversify. For example, I go to lots of fantastic restaurants that I think would be fun to write (me) and read (you) about. 


I hope these changes help make the format of my blog more navigable and the content even better! I welcome comments and suggestions. Thanks for reading!

Ani Rocks

Ani

When I was in high school, Ani DiFranco was all the rage. I'd never heard of her before my first day, but it seemed that her songs wafted out of the windows of every girl's dorm room on campus. Her lyrics were plastered all over everyone's online profiles. My friend Meredith did an art project inspired by her song "Little Plastic Castle." Ani was everywhere. Several friends made me mix tapes either featuring Ani or else made up entirely of her songs. I, too, found her melodies infectious and her lyrics thought-provoking. The summer before my senior year, I visited my friend Virginia in San Francisco and we went to Ani's concert at the Berkeley Bowl. For a girl who had grown up in a small, conservative farm town, this was an eye-opener. Ani is a feminist icon. She identifies as bisexual and most of her song lyrics were about relationships with women. Looking around at the other concert-goers, I felt like I was in a movie; one man was wearing a flowing, flowered skirt that matched his girlfriend's. Lesbian couples looped their arms around each other's waists. It's funny to think about now, but my eyes nearly popped out of my head back then. If you'd asked me, I'd have said that I absolutely supported gay rights, but it was sort of like lobbying to save the polar bears when you'd never been to the North Pole or seen one up close. I knew it was the right thing to do by instinct but had no direct experience with homosexuality or anyone more than just a touch liberal. After the opening act, though, I found my eyes glued to Ani, and there they stayed. She was a fantastically magnetic performer, and Virginia and I sang and bobbed along until I didn't feel out of place anymore.

I was excited to get an invitation to attend another of Ani's concerts last night from my friend Lia, a former classmate who also lives in New York. Lia was also an Ani fan during high school, but she's remained much more in the know than I have. She's up to date on Ani's albums and has seen her perform lots of times. One of her friends used to be Ani's drummer, and she knew all about Ani's husband and five-year-old daughter Petah (pronounced "pita"). She told me all this as we leaned against the stage at the Bowery Ballroom and waited for the show to start. I had a dentist appointment after work and so was delayed in meeting Lia, who showed up to wait in line half an hour before the doors even opened. Her patience was rewarded, however; she scored us spots literally against the front of the stage and made some friends, including a friendly guy who spent most of the concert waving at Petah in the wings, and a rather strange guy who had flown all the way from New Mexico just to see this concert. Goodness. 

Melissa Ferrick

Melissa Ferrick opened for Ani. When most people think of feminist musicians they think of hard-faced, angry women who yell their lyrics into the microphone. While this style doesn't describe Ani in the least, it fit Melissa to a T. She crackled with nervous energy, moving continuously in jumpy little jerks. She wore fitted men's pants and a button-down collared shirt topped with a vest and suit jacket. Her hair stuck up in a long, haphazard pompadour that bobbed crazily around her head as she moved. She was funny but bitter at the same time, and even her "happy song" had a melancholy air to it; a girl standing behind us had tears streaming down her cheeks as she sang along about not being afraid to be who you are. Most of her songs were angry though, and she twisted up her face as she sang so much so that several times I thought she'd burst into tears herself. She showered the microphone with spit. Apparently she's had a rough month, and based on her lyrics a lot of it is due to a failed relationship. Poor Melissa. She's a very talented musician, though, and I really enjoyed seeing her.

Then Ani came onto the stage, and the crowd behind us exploded. Although I saw her more than ten years ago, she didn't really look much different. She was wearing a white, ribbed tank top and olive green utility pants over black boots. The only jewelry she wore was a single silver ring on her right pointer finger (if you don't count finger tattoos as jewelry. I don't.) She beamed as she strolled onto the stage with the first of about ten guitars slung over her shoulder, and kept beaming throughout the set. I don't think I've ever been to a show where the audience showered the performer with more adoration. It was several minutes before it was quiet enough for Ani to tell us how happy she was to be there, and then the room exploded with whoops and clapping again. Ani played a mixture of old and new songs, which I appreciated, as I am unfamiliar with her newer material and was pleased to hear songs I knew and loved. The lull between every song was filled with screams of "We love you Ani!" "You rock!" "You're the best!" etc. She somehow left out the third verse of one song, and pointed it out after the song ended and just as one of her fans was pledging her undying admiration. "That's great," Ani beamed. "No third verse? No problem. Keep it up with that unconditional shit." Not only did Ani sing, she couldn't seem to stop chatting with us. Ani loves to talk, and she's a very dynamic talker. She made a comment at the end of one song about the G note, then paused and looked out over our heads. "Did I ever tell you about the time I played on a Prince album?" she asked, just as though she was sitting with each one of us individually over cups of coffee. She launched into a hilarious story (has there ever been a story about Prince that is not hilarious?) that had us all in stitches. She bobbed around, grinning and showering us with her clever, insightful lyrics. She read us a poem she'd written about "the 'p' word" (which turned out to be "patriarchy"). She talked politics, interspersing her sharp observations with tongue-in-cheek commentary that kept me riveted. I think one of the most appealing things about Ani is her ability to be both outspoken and charming at the same time. Instead of coming off as strident and grating, like so many feminists and liberals can, she's just, for lack of a better word, lovable.

Needless to say, I had a great time at the concert and am inspired all over again to listen to more of Ani's quirky, funny, insightful music. I highly recommend that the uninitiated check her out; visit her page at her label Righteous Babe Records (how cool is that??) or YouTube some of her songs for a taste of her style. Some of my favorites are "Virtue," "Little Plastic Castle," "Deep Dish," "Napoleon," "32 Flavors," "Anticipate," "Roll With It," and "Angry Anymore," to name just a few.

Ed's Wild Ride

Last Saturday, Ed met his friend Scott and a group of other cyclists at Penn Station at 5:00 A.M. They spent the next 10 hours riding their bikes to Montauk, a small town 150 miles away from Manhattan. (For the record, Ed thinks he could have done it at least 2-3 hours faster, but he took his time and cruised.) I'll pause for a few seconds to let the sheer lunacy of this sink in.

*                    *                    *

Got it? OK, good. I drove out there with Scott's girlfriend Genevieve to pick up the boys and their bikes. Under normal circumstances the drive should be about three hours, but there was stop and go traffic through much of Queens and the Hamptons, meaning that we spent closer to 5 hours getting there; the trip back was much quicker. To make matters worse, Scott's car is a manual, which Genevieve didn't know how to drive, so I ended up spending all of my time behind the wheel. I felt like I used about as much energy pumping the clutch as Ed did pumping his pedals. (This is a ridiculous conclusion.) And while I was grinding my teeth in standstill traffic, Ed and Scott were rolling through lovely, green countryside and enjoying rest stops stocked with water, Gatorade, and PIE. No one offered me any damn pie. But it was very beautiful, and Genevieve was excellent company and a great navigator. The course ended by a lighthouse on a point with lovely ocean views, and the weather couldn't have been more lovely, though I'd have loved about ten more degrees... I also got to ride on a car ferry for the first time, which was quite exciting. At the end of the course, there were trailers with showers in them for the cyclists to use, so Ed was a pleasant dinner and driving companion instead of being a smelly and salty one.


This was my first time at Montauk, and I look forward to going back again and checking it out further. I'll probably take the train next time so that I don't have to worry about traffic. It's lovely in summer, but I'd like to go in winter, too. People think I'm crazy, but I think it would be pretty fantastic to see snow on a beach. And I'll bet there will be virtually no traffic.

Ed Tris and Succeeds

My boyfriend has been relentlessly training for a summer filled with triathlons since... February? March? I can't even remember, but it seems like forever. He does two workouts most days and absolutely thrashes himself, so he was very excited about testing his mettle at Tri #1 last weekend. This was to be a sprint tri, so it seemed like a good way to kick off the season. Olympic distance tris, the longer ones which Ed has been training for, require competitors to swim for almost a mile (1.5k), bike for 25 miles, and run a little over 6 (10k). Sprint triathlons cut most of those distances in half: after a half mile swim, competitors bike 10 miles and then run 3. This one, the Seaside Sprint, was to take place in Connecticut on Sunday morning, so Ed and I drove up Saturday afternoon. I'd gotten up early to run a race of my own that morning, so I napped in the hotel room while Ed fiddled with his bike, drank Gatorade, and lovingly fingered his new wetsuit.


It was a good thing I got that nap in, because we left for the course the following morning a little after 5:00. The gun was scheduled to go off at 6:30, but they were closing the transition area at 6:00 and Ed wanted to be sure to stake out a good spot. Once there, he registered and had his number written on his arm and his age written on his calf in Sharpie. He organized his bike and running stuff in the transition area in such a way that he could get to them quickly, while I busied myself with people watching. This was a fairly small tri, with 270 competitors of both sexes and all ages. The gulf between the different skill/commitment levels was huge. Some people looked horribly out of shape while others seemed to be made of nothing but muscle and sinew. Some had state of the art, aerodynamic bikes and helmets while others strapped running shoes onto their feet and mounted old road bikes that looked like they'd been in the garage for at least 30 years. It was all pretty interesting, though I noted that sophistication of equipment did not always correlate with performance; it turned out that the guy who lined up in nothing but a Speedo finished long before most of his wetsuit-clad contenders.

Ready to go (with his cheerleader)

Start of the swim

Ed finished getting his equipment set up, pulled on his wetsuit, and joined the group on the beach. After instructions about the course, he lined up and then they were off. It was very exciting to watch them go charging into the surf. They ran out a little farther, and then a little farther. And then they kept running. On shore, we spectators began to look quizzically at each other. Was the water ever going to get deeper? After two or three minutes, it did, and the runners-turned-swimmers made it to the first buoy and swam parallel to the shore until they reached a second one and turned for home. I lost Ed pretty much immediately, so I was relieved to see him running out of the water, pulling off his wetsuit and goggles as he went. (Hey, people drown in these things sometimes.) 

Goofy aerodynamic helmet? Check.

The competitors had to run from the water to the transition area, where they stripped off all their swimming things and leapt onto bikes. Ed had his shoes already clipped to the pedals, so he ran with his bike to the exit of the transition area, jumped on, and began to pedal with his feet on top of his shoes. He raced off, and when I saw him again he'd gotten his shoes on. The bike course was made up of 3 laps, and I lost him after the first one as all the other people made it out of transition and joined the laps, too. Of the three sports, swimming is Ed's worst and biking his best, so he was looking forward to making up ground during the bike. He did, too, passing several people who'd swum faster than he did. (I know this because he told me, not because I saw it happen. He was in view for only moments during the whole event.)

Then it was on to the run. Back in transition, Ed racked his bike and pulled on his running shoes, which have cool laces that cinch down instead of tying to save time, and was off again. The running wasn't exactly riveting to watch. The course led the runners away from the transition area to a point 1.5 miles down the shore, at which point they turned back again. It was fun to watch them come in, though. Ed seemed to finish with the front part of the pack. He gave me a sweaty hug, then dashed off to check his results, which were posted quickly. He ended up finishing 15th overall and 2nd in his age group, a result he was very pleased with.

Ed posing with 1st and 3rd place in his age group

The most interesting prize awarded was to a thin man with a thick, gray ponytail. Sunday was his 80th birthday, and so he won the first, and only, prize in his age group. It was pretty impressive. He looked like he was in his 60s, but then everyone there seemed to look younger than the age written on the back of their calves. Apparently competing in tris is the fountain of youth. 

After taking his picture with the other place winners, I escorted Ed to a huge breakfast and we drove back to New York. His next big tri will be in July. I think I am as excited to watch it as he is to run it!

A Midsummer Night's Dream

In seventh grade, my incomparable English teacher guided my class through both a reading and a performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream. (I played both a fairy and Flute, one of the tradesmen who rehearses and performs "Pyramus and Thisbe" for Duke Theseus and his court.) It's been one of my favorite Shakespearean plays ever since, so when I saw that the New York Ballet Company was going to perform it, I leapt at the chance to buy tickets.

Puck, with the magic flower, watches Helena moon over the sleeping Demitrius.

Ed and I saw it last night, and while it was not what I expected, I was not disappointed. As we waited for the curtain to open, Ed wondered aloud whether someone who didn't know the story would be able to follow it without the words. I wondered the same thing, but by the end I was convinced that the intricate plot, while shortened and simplified, was definitely clear. I was surprised to discover, however, that there were only two acts, and that the entire story is told in the first act! The second act begins at a wedding ceremony for Lysander and Hermia, Demetrius and Helena, and Theseus and Hippolyta, and then continues with plotless dances all glorifying true love. I wouldn't have belived it if you'd told me that the whole plot could be conveyed clearly in a little over an hour through dance, but it certainly was.

I loved the choreography and thought the dancers themselves performed brilliantly. Each managed to make his/her character completely unique by the way they moved their bodies. Both Puck and Titania could perform exactly the same leap, but Puck could use it to convey his barely contained energy and mischievious nature, while the imperious Titania made it look dignified, graceful, and regal. The music was beautiful as well (Mendelssohn is the composer) and while ballets are generally set to purely instrumental music, this one surprised us with a small group of sopranos in the orchestra pit who sang some of the loveliest passages in the play, like the lullaby the fairies sing to Titania as she falls asleep and the benediction Oberon and Titania speak after they have made up at the end.

Enchanted Titiania fawning over enchanged Bottom

A Midsummer Night's Dream is one of the Shakespeare's funniest plays. I'd never seen a funny ballet before, so this was a first for me. Lysander and Demetrius were hilarious as they chased each other through the forest, occasionally spotting each other and engaging in love-addled duels until Puck, with his own sword, pulled them apart and led them in different directions for his own amusement. Even Hermia and Helena had a spat, pulling each other's hair and flailing until Puck separated them, too. And of course Nick Bottom was very funny as a donkey, looking longingly at piles of hay as Titania cuddled him, to his great bemuseument.


This put me in the mood for more Shakespeare. Luckily, there are plenty of opportunities in New York. I'm going to start entering the daily lottery for free Shakespeare in the Park tickets again this summer (not sure what they're performing, but I'm sure it will be good), and, failing that, there's always Shakespeare in the Parking Lot.

Barcelona: Dos

I woke several times during the night to the sound of booming thunder and driving rain. When I finally opened my eyes for good and peered out the window, I saw that heavy rain was still pounding into huge, spreading puddles. I'd slept pretty late, which wasn't really all that surprising given the late night I'd had in a different time zone. After reading for a bit, I wandered downstairs to find Ferran. He poured me a cup of coffee in the kitchen, and I looked out the window as I sipped it to see hail bouncing out of the sky. Ferran said it was a good thing I'd seen all of Barcelona the day before. We foraged in the kitchen for a bit, and then a quick online search told me that the Picasso Museum was not only open on Sundays, but free! Perfect for a rainy/hail-y day. 

As we waited for the train, things were clearing up a little bit, though it would drizzle on and off throughout the day. Because the weather was improving, Ferran decided that we should go to the National Art Museum to check out the view for a bit before going to the Picasso Museum. I was glad we did. The museum itself was beautiful, from the outside, at least; we did not end up going in. The best part, though, was the view. It's on top of a fairly high hill, and after climbing up endless stairs, we had a lovely vista of Barcelona with Mt. Tibidabo in the background. I remembered seeing the museum from Tibidabo the day before, so it was sort of cool to get a perspective of the city from the opposite side.

View from halfway up the museum hill. Mt. Tibidabo is the highest point in the range of hills in the distance.

From there, we headed back into the heart of old Barcelona and toured the Picasso Museum. It was pretty cool. His work was arranged by period, and as this was a guy who went through a LOT of very different periods there were lots of rooms and surprises around every corner. I really liked seeing the chronological progression of his career. Everyone thinks of cubism and "Guernica" when they think of Picasso, but when he began drawing and painting his work was very realistic. He ventured into more experimental art only later, once he had pretty well mastered capturing real life as it actually looked. (Contrast his early painting of the doctor and patient above with his later self-portrait below.) One whole room was filled up with Picasso's reinterpretations of Velazquez's "Las Meninas." I didn't know he'd done these, and they were fascinating. Each one was different, and he must have spent months, or even years, churning these out. Google it if you're bored one day - it's interesting stuff.

We finished the evening with beer and authentic tapas, which meant lots of fried things and bowls of olives at a seedy bar. Then we headed back to Ferran's place, where his father had just returned from hanging out at the family's new vineyard/winery. They've owned it for a few years, and it's only just starting to be productive. He brought me a bottle of their very first red, which survived the trip back to the US and which I am excited to try. The next morning, after picking up some manchego and jamon for Ed and the people back at the office, I boarded a plane and was back home in plenty of time to get a full night's sleep before work on Tuesday.

It was a whirlwind trip to be sure, and much like my trip to Paris in that I got a taste of a country I'd like to explore much more. But it was a great taste, and I can't wait to go back!

Barcelona: Uno

I get more days off than the average nine-to-fiver, for which I am very grateful. My days off do not roll over, however, and so I was bound and determined to use every one of of them before my opportunity to do so expired on May 29th of this year. In late April, I realized that I had one left that I had no plans for, so hastily got in touch with my friend Ferran. Ferran and I met in grad school. We were not in the same program, but we lived on the same hall in the dorm for a while. He became one of my closest friends and we spent lots of time together before last summer, when he finished his coursework and headed back home to Barcelona. He had been bugging me to visit, so I decided to find out if he was serious about hosting me for a few days. He was. Turns out that a weekend trip to Europe is pretty do-able from the east coast, as Ed and I demonstrated with our jaunt to Paris in April. So the weekend before Memorial Day, I hopped a plane for Spain.

After a smooth, Ambien-dominated plane ride, Ferran picked me up at the airport and we headed immediately to Mount Tibidabo to check out the view. The forecast called for rain, but it was mostly just cloudy as we drove up the narrow, winding road. We stopped at a turnout along the way for a view of Barcelona and the ocean spread out below us:

There is a large church on top of Tibidabo and, of all things, a small amusement park. The carousel, mild-looking "roller coaster," plane on a robotic arm, etc. weren't exactly overrun with customers. Perhaps it was the weather. Anyway, Ferran and I drank coffee and he pointed out interesting areas in the panorama at our feet.

Next stop was Parc Güell . I took a Facebook poll about must-see attraction in Barcelona and everybody said this was a key spot to visit. The park was designed by the revered architect Gaudi and was filled with whimsical features inspired by nature. We wandered under a covered area held up by a series of columns rising up at irregular angles which reminded me either of mushroom stalks or tree trunks, then through a sort of tunnel made to look like a cresting wave from the inside. More walking revealed that roof above the covered area was actually the underside of a large, elevated plaza surrounded by a very long, curving bench decorated with mosaic tiles. There were nice views of the park and the surrounding city from the edges. The park was very nice, but quite crowded. I liked it a lot, and I think if I'd just stumbled upon it without warning I'd have been mightily impressed. As it was, the place had been hyped up so much that I was a tiny bit disappointed. Honestly, I don't think the Garden of Eden could have lived up to all the praise my friends heaped upon Parc Güell.

Plaza bordered by a bench in the Parc

After lunch and a much-needed shower at Ferran's parents' house (it is located in a suburb of Barcelona and is beautiful and filled with eastern art), we set off into the city. The clouds had cleared, and it was a good thing, because Ferran had planned a walking route that can most loosely be described as comprehensive. (It ended up lasting about six hours.) We started at the famous Sagrada Familia cathedral, another brainchild of Gaudi's. It is still very much under construction with no end in sight. Many people have said that it looks like it is melting, and I can't disagree. I liked it, but it was hard to label it a "cathedral" in my head, as it was so advante garde. (I went into several other cathedrals later which were beautiful and much more traditional.) The line to go in was enormous, so we didn't even try.

Sagrada Familia, with its ever-present cranes

Next, we walked along a wide, tree-lined avenue between streets for a while. There were benches and playgrounds scattered here and there, and it was all very  nice. Then we turned down a narrower street and Ferran announced that we were in Gracia, a very popular neighborhood of late. Gracia was, for all intents and purposes, a barrio; the buildings were all two or three stories high and left little space between for streets. (The picture to the left isn't really as typical example since there is a sunny cross street so close by. It made this little street seem brighter, whereas most of the rest of the neighborhood was fairly dim.) Still, there were bright murals on the walls and lots of little cafes. Further, the longish stretches of cobblestone were punctuated by open squares in which churches, basketball courts, cafes, and playgrounds drew people to spend the afternoon. Ferran said that the squares were what allowed the barrio to breathe. The place felt very friendly and vibrant. Ferran compared it to Brooklyn; it used to be sort of a dodgy area, but it's becoming increasingly hip.

From humble Gracia, we headed for Passeig de Gracia. This was sort of like a leafier, somewhat less crowded version of 5th Avenue here in New York. There were loads of designer stores, as well as two more buildings designed by Gaudi. Ferran walked up to a tall building and pulled a tricky move by telling a hotel conceierge through an intercom that we were guests in room #2. Fooled, the concierge unlocked the main door of the building. We went inside, giggling, and took the elevator straight to the roof where we gazed down on Plaza Catalunya, a large, fountain-adorned square. 

Next stop: Las Ramblas. This is a very famous shopping street that has turned very touristy, unfortunately. Apparently it used to be really well known for selling pets, and tourists could gawk at iguanas, ferrets, and tropical birds as they strolled between the graceful trees. But there's a law against that now, and most of the little kiosks sell either postcards/keychains/t-shirts or flowers. I had read that this place was a haven for pickpockets, and I could see why: It was packed with people, and I heard more Italian and French than Spanish. Ferran pointed out prostitutes lounging around here and there, too; it's not legal in Spain and they didn't look like prostitutes, but apparently it's a huge problem in this particular district. There was a lovely tile mosaic by Miro in the middle of the street, which we stumbled upon unexpectedly. It sort of reminded me of the way the Gaudi buildings were just scattered throughout this beautiful city, where art is part of the landscape instead of being consigned only to museums. We turned into a covered market called La Boqueria, where wares from fruit to chocolate to hocks of smoked ham were piled everywhere, but it was so crowded we didn't spend much time. This was too bad, as I'd have liked to wander around for a bit. I love that kind of thing. Ferran says that very few locals shop there anymore, as the crowds have gotten too bad.

Giant Miro mosaic on Las Ramblas

Hanging pig parts in La Boqueria

Rambla del Born at night

We walked through the Gothic section of town next. It reminded me of a rabbit warren, with dark, narrow streets that all seemed to smell like urine. Somehow, it managed to be both pleasant and spooky at the same time. Interesting as it all was, I was pleased, to emerge on the beach, an area called Barceloneta, after about 20 minutes of tortuous meandering. The sun was just beginning to think about setting, and so I was very surprised to see a clock showing that it was almost 9:00! Ferran confirmed that this was correct; it stays light very late in Barcelona in summer. We walked along a stretch of beach lined with hotels, sand volleyball courts, and stacks of lounge chairs ready to be rented to patrons the next day. Dinner was at a fantastic seafood restaurant near the harbor with a beautiful view of the water and the city. We ordered a bunch of things to try, but my favorite by far was the paella. I also discovered that a fish called hake a) exists, and b) is delicious. Stuffed, we wandered back through another neighborhood called Rambla del Born, which was only slightly less populated now that it was night. The streetlights, which I had hardly noticed during the day, were beautiful.

Somehow, our route took us back through the Gothic quarter again, where Ferran showed me an eerie reminder the not-so-distant violence in Spain's past. During the Civil War, Spanish and Catalan people fought in this city. During one battle, Spaniards chased a group of Catalans through the narrow corridors of the Gothic quarter. The Catalans raced toward an ancient church, knowing that inside it they would find sanctuary from the Spanish bullets. Most of them were too late. They were gunned down feet away from the doors. The church's facade is still pockmarked with bullet holes. Most other walkers wandered right by the wall, either uninformed or unmoved by its past. I felt lucky to have Ferran as a tour guide.

Bullet holes outside the church door

We had a quick beer, but my long night and longer day were beginning to catch up with me. We caught a train back to Ferran's suburb and I fell into bed a little after 2:00 in the morning (Spanish time), wondering what could possibly be on the agenda for tomorrow since we had seen virtually the whole city already.

Warm and Fuzzy

My boss attended a retirement ceremony for an educator with whom my learning center has worked closely for a long time. She wasn't officially affiliated with us, but she really liked our work and sent a lot of families to us for assessment, then helped them implement our suggestions. The good doctor is sort of a touchy-feely guy, and he wrote us the following email about his experiences at the ceremony. Makes me feel pretty good about the work I do:

Dear Colleagues,

I just wanted to share with you my experience last night attending the reception honoring Laurie Boone Hogen’s retirement from the Resurrection Episcopal Day School (REDS).  First, Laurie publicly acknowledged our work, our influence on her work, and what we have done to help REDS and their families.  We even had reserved seats in the front row at the Church of the Resurrection, which was a wonderful experience and not something that happens to us every day.  By the way, it doesn’t look particularly impressive on the outside, but was magnificent on the inside. 

Over the course of the evening, I was approached by numerous families that we have seen over the years.  The theme was consistent.  They thanked us for helping them recover their hope after it was dashed by their child’s result on the ERB’s.  Next they told me how our profile helped them anticipate and understand what was to come.  One mother in particular told me that when her child’s teacher shares what she is finding out about her abilities, she smiles both because she enjoys hearing it, but also because it confirms what she already knew based on what she learned from us.  Finally, I was approached by the Chair of their Board and the President of the Parent’s Association to make sure that we would still be available to support their staff and families. 

As I reflect on all of the feedback that I received last might, I feel fortunate to be able to do this work, privileged to collaborate with each of you, and grateful to each of your for what you bring to this important work every day.  I also felt that, with Laurie’s retirement, the children of our city will be losing an important advocate for their inherent right to become who they are meant to be and not be defined by labels, scores, or other’s expectations, biases, or needs.  Those of you who know Laurie know that she is irreplaceable.  However, we must all make sure that we don’t ever lose sight of those values and redouble our efforts.

I hope you all have a wonderful weekend, take a deep breath as another academic year is winding down, reflect on your important contributions to this work, and think about the exciting road ahead.

Thank you all for being who you are and for being part of our team.

Occupying the Wall Street Run

I haven't blogged much about races this year. This doesn't mean I'm not running them - far from it - though I'm not running too many half-marathons these days. Mostly I'm doing just 5 and 10Ks and working on getting 9 races on my record for 2012 so I'll qualify for the 2013 New York Marathon. For the record, I've done 5 so far, and I have another one coming up on Sunday. While I feel like I'm pretty well out of material when it comes to writing about most races, last night's race was worth blogging about.

I ran in the American Heart Association Wall Street Run. The run itself was 3 miles, and there was a walking course as well which was around a mile long. It was a huge race, with over 12,000 people in attendance. I can't remember being in another race that so many companies had entered teams into. There were huge groups of people from Siemens, Citibank, Deutsche Bank, Merrill Lynch, Chartis, etc., all wearing matching company t-shirts. I guess these companies must have all donated money to the AHA, because they told us the event had raised about $1.7 million. Pretty impressive.

This was great for the AHA, but I wondered how much the race cost the city of New York. Most races I've run are held in Central Park, which means no major roads need to be closed. Occasionally there will be a course that takes us slightly outside the park, like the mini-marathon I ran last year that began in Columbus Circle and headed up Central Park West for about half a mile. But that was only one part of one road. For this race, big sections of fairly major roads had to be closed down. The start of the race was delayed by about 5 minutes (this is pretty much unheard of at NYRR events) because the race officials were waiting for confirmation that all the roads were clear. Must have taken NYPD longer than they thought it would. Luckily, the Financial District (FiDi) pretty well shuts down by 6:00 most evenings, and the race began at 7:00. It's always interesting to walk around down there late at night and be surrounded by huge buildings but not see a single other person or car.

The streets in FiDi don't run in straight lines and all have names instead of numbers, making it very confusing for someone like me who has lived with the grid for years. Just finding registration took ages. It also makes it tough to design a 3-mile long racecourse. Below is a map of the course. I've never had to make more sharp turns in a race than I did last night.

Once I'd picked up my number, I went into the corral for people who thought they'd be running somewhere between 8 and 9 minutes per mile. At least, that's what the sign said. Looking around, I realized that virtually none of these people were going to be able to run that fast. I think everyone just sort of lined up without any real regard for where. As it turned out, however, I didn't run as fast as I thought I would either, though it wasn't my fault. The gridlock was unbelievable. There were so many people clogging the corral that by the time the crowd carried me across the starting line I wasn't even jogging yet. I spent the first mile trying to make headway before settling at last into a steady jog. Passing people was way more effort than it was worth; as soon as I got by someone, there was another person directly in front of them to squeeze past. I saw a man nearly push over a woman who was plodding slowly along in front of him. She made an annoyed "tsk" sound, and said to her companion, "Doesn't he know this isn't a real race?" To anyone stuck in the middle of the pack, she was absolutely right. The crowding is typical of any race, but this one never really thinned out. The swath of bodies made it feel hotter than it was, and though the buildings blocked the sun, they also blocked most of the breeze, making this the warmest race of the year so far. The finish line felt nearly as claustrophobic as the starting corral had. Irritating as it was, it was sort of cool to see so many runners pounding through the narrow canyons of the Financial District. This is why I'd signed up for the race in the first place.

In the end, it was a fun race to run, but I was relieved when it was over. I was hot and sweaty, but I had plans to meet Isang in half an hour for dinner. I hoped she wouldn't be offended by the state I was in and so was relieved to see her walk through the door in sweaty running clothes, too. Turns out she'd just finished a training run herself. It's good to know a kindred spirit.