Nero burning Rome

I spent the last two days greedily feeding on information from the homeland. I wonder if the self-exiled émigré has the right to comment on what is going on back home, or is he just the passive receiver of pictures of extreme violence with only permission to despair.

Thousand miles away, in a country that draws its national identity from the pride of being the place where democracy was born, these last two days democracy died a thousand deaths. A police officer was fed up with being called names and attacked with stones all the time by random youths. A mere boy was shot dead, just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong moment. A country was in shock.

School children attacked local police stations with stones and oranges to protest for the killer state. “Come out and kill us we are only 15 years old!” People went on the street to demonstrate armed with their pride. But so did anarchists, armed with clubs, fire bombs, knives and anger. And the riot police attacked the wrong group.

The émigré is too far away to feel the real flow of events. The anger and despair remains the same. Friends from across Europe exchange their views: - I am proud people still protest in my country, at least we are still citizens – You know that shop I got your Christmas present last year... it’s burned – Did your father park the car in a safe place? – Someone should catch these anarchists there is nothing left standing… - the government is useless, the police is useless… How can we save this country? – Do you think we should go back and do our best or just stay here and be happy we are saved?

Questions scaring the hearts of émigrés. No conscience is clear, of those who stay or those who have left the sinking ship.

These anarchists, burning and robbing in the name of democracy found asylum in the grounds of universities. Greek universities are symbols of democracy and freedom of speech, a refuge to all those who want to express opposition. This freedom will no longer be abused as the universities for the first time since restoration of democracy allowed the police to go in. Democracy died one more time in a fake attempt to be saved.

And university buildings are burned; the statues of the muses are headless.

It is the right and duty of citizens to protest when an authority sworn to protect the people abuses its power. We all cry for the boy. But we also cry for the abuse of the protest itself. Police targeting peaceful crowd and letting groups spreading terror to keep on destroying people’s property and what is more, peoples faith in this state.

As if they were not hopeless enough. Abandoned in a difficult life with no hope of improvement.

Political parties keep playing their blame tennis, hoping that one of them will miss a shot.

Émigrés, just like everyone, are trying to make sense of all this. Are trying to find where the blame lies, and how if possible, to make this lost country a better place.

Do you have to burn Rome to the ground to build it again?

Dr. Health, the Greek

Two old friends in central London….

Englishman One: Oh hello! How are you?

Englishman Two: Not too bad, yourself?

Englishman One: I am all right. Thanks.

…

[Uncomfortable silence]

…

Englishman One: Bad weather today…

Englishman Two: [good! Something to talk about!]

Yes indeed! The rain did not stop all day!

[10 minute rant about the weather]

Two old friends in central Athens…

Greek One: Oh hello! How are you?

Greek Two: I am fine thanks. Just this stomach ache is killing me!

Greek One: Oh really? Is it something you ate, or maybe stress?

Greek Two: Well, it started three days ago, I had eaten at my sisters, and you know how she cooks…

Greek One: Yes I remember last month I had dinner at hers… very spicy food. My stomach was hurting. Lots of acid and burping.

Greek Two: Yes me too. But you know now the acid stopped and I have this weird muscle pain every time I have a cigarette.

Greek One: Maybe it is ulcer?

Greek Two: You think?

Greek One: Or… now that I am thinking about it, your grandfather had cancer didn’t he? If I were you I would go have an endoscopy just to be sure you know…

Greek Two: Oh God, don’t say that! I am going to the doctor right away! Good to see you again!

Greek One: Yes you too, and let me know!

You now know why the Greek health system works unlike the NHS. Greeks are natural born doctors. Asking a simple “how are you” can lead the average Greek to providing a full medical history of himself and his immediate family. Discussing symptoms of illness is as common as “please” and “thank you” in the English everyday language. Trained for an early age to use medical jargon, combine symptoms, give a diagnosis and provide remedies for cure, Greeks find NHS inflexibility unbearable.

The whole nation has opinions about all kinds of ailments, a simple cold to cervical cancer. This combined with our natural mistrust to any type of authority (yes blame it to the Turks) does not allow a moments rest if you have to rely on the diagnosis of a single doctor. How can you trust the opinion of just one doctor, when you need at least three to create a simple majority? And if their opinions clash, the better!

The average Greek is very aware of the type of doctor needed, so he wants to go see the specialist right away. What’s with this go to your GP first and then get referred to whoever…. Nononono!

Being a doctor in Greece is almost like being a politician. You have to convince the electorate, hmmm yes sorry the patient, that your diagnosis is actually the right one, and yes please come again. And just like politicians, doctors have their constituency, their special friends and their supporters. Oh yes, and their secret funding… do not forget the secret funding (commonly known as the “little envelope”). So if you want to live happily ever after in Holy Greece, consult at least three doctors (state pays for that) and have your own doctor-friend to operate you. He wont ask for money, but if there is no “little envelope” be sure to have a grave-slot with nice view.

I hear you say that’s harsh, I hear you say its unfair. Well no. Having friends always pays off, being inquisitive always pays off, and having money… well that ALWAYS pays off. After all NHS is for free, but somehow you always end up buying your own medicine suggested by the Indian at the Boots counter.

Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. What about boys?

J’s latest obsession is diamonds. The bigger the better. She dreams of the day her boyfriend will pop the question and offer her the precious stone, man made, as she does not want the smell of human exploitation on her ring. Her, being a practical person despite all the princess dreams, keeps buying him rugby shirts and nice food. It works for them both.

M. seems to have a serious problem. Her boyfriend has it all, and what he does not have he does not want either. She never knows what to buy him. So she just does what he can’t do. Organize.

E. likes feeding her boyfriends little obsessions. So, presents come in the form of computer games, books, bottles of wine and so on.

F. likes travelling. The best present for her is to share the excitement of exploration with her beloved. So he offers a trip to Rome as a present, while she boosts his vanity and natural beauty with excellent pieces of clothing.

There is a certain balance in these relationships.

Myself, I never care about the actual present. I am more touched by the fact that someone made the effort to think of something that I might want. Time and energy spend to buy the present are nothing comparing to the small glimpse I get of the persons perception of me, his affection, and his values.

I always blush. The perfect unworthy…

But I also blush when I know I made a good choice of present.

The best present I ever made to a special someone is a phone call. There is no material memory of it. Maybe he does not even remember after all those years. But I know at the time it made him happy and excited. After all the feelings of the moment are the most precious, as life is now and this now changes constantly.

K. was stuck in Italy. Myself being in Greece went to the concert of his favourite singer. He was all envious and unhappy. After the show I went backstage and after 2 hours of queuing I had my chance to get an autograph signed. But… I did not ask for that. To the singers surprise I just asked her to use my phone and call K. in Italy so he can have a 2 minute phone call with his favourite voice of all times.

The singer was impressed. K. was deliriously happy. And I was blushing.

Bad hair day

My cousin keeps saying I am not a real person, but a cartoon. I wonder why she says that!

EPOP-ing

The name hints towards light alcoholic drinks up to 5% and normally of a non-edible looking colour. If you chose that option your error term would hit the ceiling. (And if you did not understand this comment, give up reading this entry now.)

In a weekend full of numbers and various ways to operationalize concepts so abstract that could not be described with anything less a three volume edition of 200 different academic definitions. And yet, call me weird (cause of course this is what I am) I felt like a fish in its well known waters.

I mean think about it. An academic conference is the best type of holiday one can ever wish. It is in a new place, with all trivial matters left for skilled admin stuff, accommodation and food sorted, and endless amounts of coffee and good quality wine. The people there are more or less familiar to one another. But even if you end up in the wrong corner full of strangers at a coffee break there are endless options for conversation. This structured environment allows even those with the worse social skills to find common ground and engage into meaningful and fruitful conversation. It is a very inclusive event, bridging the gap among generations, genders and all kinds of other categorizations. There is only one thing that you can be discriminated against: Your inability to interpret statistics. And by statistics I do not mean percentages, means and standard deviations. I mean econometric models. If you cannot tell a story just by looking at numbers on the given table, then you are regarded with pity (Poor chap he needs work to do) or disrespect (What do you expect of qualitative analysis? Or - God forbid - theory??)

Each and every one of the delegates can come up with a theoretical model to explain even how many times tony Blair farts during an electoral campaign, and for sure at least a thousand different was to test this model. The Nomad is no different. She runs models for living. And not the models with breasts and long legs, but rather the ones with constant values and beta coefficients.

Socializing in such environment is very rewarding, you never get challenged in personal terms, the only criticism is on your numbers and the ability to make jokes is considered just as a positive extra. Any romance appearing in such conference has definitely a statistical connotation and inevitably a huge standard error. There is only so much stats one can take to his bedroom. Although my personal belief is that two theorists (aka philosophers in disguise) are truly a nightmarish combination, and the end of human breeding, come to that. I wonder though what is a better gene pool. A number cruncher or a theorist?


On my way back from the conference, I feel refreshed, motivated, completely ego-boosted and while the others around me in the train read their books, I explain their political behaviour running a brand new econometric model. If only they knew, ignorant lot…that while they are just being transferred from one place to the other a genius political scientist is using them as unwilling guinea pigs!

PS. The term genius used here has no empirical evidence. It is an opportunity for further research. (Someone switch off the EPOP mode on the Nomad please!)

It’s Queer up North!

No, I am not playing with words, so I do not mean gay, although gay pride plays a big role in Manchester culture. I mean surprising, funny, astonishing, unexpected, and all that in a good way.

Gothic buildings stand in reconciliation next to super-modern glass’n’ wire constructs giving the palpable feeling of human continuity in the space. People walk through the architectural centuries without even noticing, which shows exactly the extent of success.

And in this parade of centuries art has a dominant position. Street art, music, fashion, sculptures. My surprise was too big to express when I realized that the crowds in the Manchester Art Gallery were no tourists, but students, mums with babies and normal working people in their lunch break checking out the newly installed exhibition. Not that all were interesting. I mean, I could not care less about the history of buttons (the ones on my clothes). But definitely they were an escape from the daily routine and the weekly visit to consumption temples.

In less than 24 hours in Manchester I already feel that had I to stay here for ever, I would have accepted my fate quite happily. In the 12th hour of my visit I even chose the area of my potential residence, my local bar, and my favourite coffee shop. What else does one need to live happily ever after?

Well, yes, I might have some problems with the accent. But then again, my first night at Essex I had to spend a night at Stansted airport just because I misunderstood a coach driver. Now I blame it to his Suffolk accent. Back then I was not even aware of the very existence of Suffolk. I bet the Northern accent would take me less than four years to decode.

The local ales look very promising too. Joseph Holt seems to be doing a way better job than Adnams oyster ale. Yeah I think this place has won me over.

I only see one fault: Curry.
In the whole length of the curry mile I have not found a single curry house that would resemble Alishan Tandoori in Colchester or Tiffin Club in Southampton. Someone has to tell these people that concentration of Indian restaurants in one street does not necessarily mean good quality. Look at Brick Lane. You can find the best and you can find the worse. It looks like Curry Mile found only the worse.

So for now on I vote Manchester. I will only make sure to cook my own curry.

Weddings: Crete

August full moon stars in more Greek songs than Virgin Mary. Its bigger, brighter than any other full moon of the year… and its red. It’s the lover’s moon, and the moon that makes lonely souls more lonely.

What you have to do that night, is to swim in the moon’s path in the black sea. Ideally naked. Ideally not alone.
What did I do? I went to a wedding (yes another one…)!

The couple was not even aware of the magic moon they chose to light their wedding…. Caught in their mundane preparations they forgot all about it. As it seemed, for the best.

A wedding in Crete is not a simple business. It traditionally entails a pre-wedding, a celebration that starts the night before the wedding, with lots of meat and wine and tsikoudia. What is that? A drink for tough men only, of the Cretan kind. The rest of humans would blow fire after the second glass and forget even their mother’s name. Dancing, eating, drinking to the extreme is not the only expression of joy. At the peak of the feast the men, dressed in black, take out their illegal Kalashnikovs and shoot in the air (at least that is the idea). Reminders of such great feasts can be found in all the rural street signs, and occasionally on the papers and national news under the headline “Another tragedy at a Cretan wedding”. The survivors of the pre-wedding, or better those who can still stand on two feet after the banquet dance the bride to the church.

The real wedding thankfully was not like this. Apart from the rivers of tsikoudia we had to consume. It is regarded as very disrespectful to refuse the host’s offer… It’s bad enough that you are not indigenous.
First thing a Cretan man asks when they meet you is about your place of origin. If you are not Cretan you get the look of pity. In my misfortune I was lucky. Coming from Thessaloniki I received positive remarks: “Crete and Macedonia! We are brothers!” (We are talking Greek side of Macedonia here… put your swords back in the scabbards).
That is a long story, I should write another time dating back to the beginning of the 20th century. Not many Cretans, nor Macedonians remember it. But we just say so 'cause it feels nice.

The wedding included many of the generic Greek traditions (see previous post) but also some very Cretan touches. Six hundred kg of Lamb meat (the whole Cretan population of lambs went extinct that night), local wine made by the godfather of the nephew of the sister-in-law of the aunt of the bride’s father (did you follow that?), and worse of all… gamopilafo.

This is a dish. Wasn’t very popular among the guests, I have to say. It translates into “wedding rice”. Or worse “fucking rice” depending on your mood. The idea behind it is that it provides the guests with enough fat and calories to a)lubricate their stomachs b)not throw up all this alcohol c)have enough energy to keep dancing. But also to give the groom the energy to perform well at the first night (that is the purpose of the wedding after all! Legalise reproduction!)
Why is it living hell to eat? It is rice boiled in sheep fat. It is eaten a bit disguised under full fat (or greek style for the UK bread) yogurt and lemon juice. I let your imagination do the rest.

The delicious dinner was concluded with a lot of dancing. Three hours of traditional Cretan music and very well built Cretan men dancing in their black outfits was all the payback I needed. Cretan men are compared to cypress trees. So perfect and proud. Pleasure of the eye.

Who has time for full moons???


Shooting Goodness
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h1HgjevcE6U

Dance
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cNDFCOqPCj8&feature=related

Weddings: Thessaloniki

End of August seems to be the new wedding season. On our way to the house of our friend, the bride-to-be we passed three “wedding cars”, those with the far too expensive flower decoration (Remind me to use a humble donkey to get to my own wedding, if it ever takes place).

Weddings as festivities score top marks on environmentally hostile celebration list. Lots of useless plastic and cloth decoration, just to make sure that the world is aware of the bride’s home location. Needless to mention that all the guests were frequent in that very house for the past 10 years the least, so no need for signposting…

In this celebration of modernity, some traditions were kept. The urban monster of modern Greek culture did not swallow them all.
The bride’s girlfriends helped her put on her wedding gown while singing (very badly) traditional wedding songs preparing the bride for the first wedding night… You know the stories about the snake that goes into the cave!
All the unmarried girlfriends got the chance to find out which one would be married first, by writing their name on the sole of the bride’s shoe. Whichever would get erased first is the lucky one. I refused to let luck dominate my life so I asked for my name to be on the upper part of the shoe meaning.. no contact to the floor. But knowing my friends reputation of dancing many nights away… I was sure that no names would be legible by dawn.

The rest of the wedding followed the bourgeois rituals of Thessaloniki’s middle class.

The ceremony took place on the church yard depriving the eager of all religious warmth. New dresses and designer shoes where on display without the annoying singing of the priest. I was the only one without my hair professionally done. That combined with its pink colour deprived me from much of the “desired” networking.

Ice cream sorbet was distributed to keep the guests cool while waiting for the necessary evil (the actual wedding ceremony) to finish. The nasty organisers included stone hard sweets in the rice that was thrown to the couple, that only by some miracle avoided concussion.

The reception was set in a magnificent garden with a swimming pool. One of those my academic salary will never be able to afford. But no worries. I won’t miss much… the food was not exactly memorable (thank God cause I would end up with nightmares).

Not being a banker was a real issue at this wedding. Since the couple both work in a bank all their guests were bankers. The first question after what’s your name, was not “what do you do?” but “Which branch are you in?”. My non-banking nature was a real bore to them and soon they lost interest in me turning to a fellow banker to discuss credit cards and loans.

Suddenly the bride decided to incorporate the Hollywood introduced tradition of throwing the bouquet (obviously not the original one, but the one specially made to waste on single friends). Stupid me went with the bunch.
And the bouquet fell with force on my head.

I was supposed to catch it, but it caught me instead… by surprise. I wonder what that is supposed to mean.
The jealous eyes of all the single girls were on me. How could I apologize?

So I went to hide behind my wine glass.

Finally a cute guy in purple shirt came to congratulate me. Who said weddings are not a nice place for fashionable acquaintances?

4000 years and 1600 miles in a day

I left Southampton as a modern Titanic, all happy and full of hope, at 4.30pm on Sunday afternoon. Fair weather, no rain, no problems wearing my sandals (my only defence against the anticipated heat in the place of destination).

3am Stranded in Athens, I find myself unable to sustain warmth in my body. There is only one thing that is efficient in this country, and that is air-conditioning. The specific one in the El Vel (greek attempt to mock El Paso) airport can create arctic condition in central Greece mid August…

6.30am The Nomad has landed in a field disguised as Airport. Heraklion in magestic Crete. And from the fridge I end up in the oven. To make the most of the relatively cool temperature I head to Knossos in search of the Minotaur. I arrived there just on time for a spinach pie and a coffee, to feel like home again. Looking for a mythological beast without sleep requires at least a magic potion. Nescafe Frappe with ice (Greekness in all its Magnificence)

Knossos, the ancient Minoan capital was build to confuse. It did not contain Daedals’ labyrinth. It WAS the labyrinth. Thus I decided to hire a guide. Infallible Greek logic informed me that I needed to find another 13 people to share my enthusiasm and the fee for the guide. The lucky 13 never arrived and there was no recorded guide either.

So I ventured in the labyrinth alone searching for the Minotaur without even Ariadne’s clue to anchor me to reality.

The palace’s ruins were partially rebuild according to the imagination of the English archaeologist Arthur Evans who discovered them. Inevitably his imagination is part of the exhibition, mainly because he was wrong.
I sneaked in different groups of people to listen to the appointed tour guides contradict one another showing how archaeology is as bad as interpretation of literature.

Full of European firsts, Knossos is not incorrectly considered by the Myth the motherland of Europe. First staircase, first multi-storey buildings, first cooling and heating system (better than the El. Vel. Airport) first sewage, first amphitheatre and first road (which I walked on!).

Europe daughter of mighty king Minoa was seduced by Zeus in the shape of a white bull who kidnapped her, crossed the Aegean sea and brought Europe… to Europe.

American tourists dragged to the site from their luxurious cruising ship kept asking where they can see the Minotaur. Mythical beasts, half human half bull, are more interesting than boiling ruins in the heat.
Truth is I could not see the reason why the bull was so important and sacred in this civilization. Crete’s ecosystem cannot sustain herds of such big animals (which the current population consumes like there is no tomorrow… long live Mediterranean diet!). The bull appeared everywhere. But even the size of the amphitheatre did not allow much acrobatics on the back of a running bull either. Somehow the scalling did not make sense…

It might have been the lack of sleep or the massive change of temperature but by 10am I was hallucinating. Under pine and olive trees listening to the familiar “home” sound of cicadas jumping from stone to stone… For a moment I thought I saw the Minotaur. He was there, ignoring my presence with only one target. Devouring the place. Short attention spam, heat and boredom made him irritated. He did not even notice that he was transformed into a queue of tourists.

I had to escape to the familiar city buzz of modern Crete.

Berlin: Bleibtreu Cafe

The change in my father's voice gave me all the proof I needed. It suddenly became 40 years younger, became jumpy and excited, as if these 40 years were a heavy coat, he just through of him to run out and show me.

Sunday morning is sacred for Berliners, not for any religious reasons, no not at all. It is their traditional breakfast meeting with friends. So there we were, proud son and daughter of two 1970s Berlin émigrés. Two poor young men who found in Berlin a safe place to study, but mainly to escape from politically troubled little Greece in the dictatorship years.
From stories I know that they used to meet in dark Cafes in Charlottenburg, spend as little money as possible and hunt for those few bits of painful but precious news from homeland. More often in Bleibtreu cafe. It even became a song by the famous musicians of the Greek émigré community. Stay faithful.

And so we did. 40 years on with our parents well back in Greece, established and retired, we retraced their steps. K. lead me to a stylish street that definitely lacked the dynamic character of the new east quarters of the city. Prezlauberg it was not. But he said: "You know, here was the field of action" It's here they met, lived, worked, fought their daily wars. Can you feel it?

Yes I could.

The area aged gracefully. It accepted the fact that it was no longer the “field of action” of modern émigrés’ kept the wisdom of its past and gained in style. Just like the old hippies who come to terms with reality, accepting that they lost the battle, that the world will never change… but at least they know they tried.

West Berlin was full of memories. Not mine. But somehow I could feel my blood moving faster, getting warmer. Maybe after all strong memories and big loves of one’s youth pass on to the offspring and in that way they achieve immortality. They live on.

Maybe this is how you stay faithful to yourself; to your youth and its companions.
Bleib treu

I should ask my father. He'll know.

Feet dialogues

My feet hurt. They feel betrayed. You see, everyone, from ordinary people to creative important poets have celebrated the greatness of braking one’s routine and doing joyful active things that give meaning to life. So I did. But my feet did not feel the glorious touch of novelty and fun. My feet did not share that belief.

They long for their routine. The monotonous repetition of well-known steps, expected needs, and comfortable rest.
My feet think that whoever does not value routine is a fool. No.. I did not stress that enough. Not only a fool… a delusional fool. A hyperactive idiot in self-denial… after eating a huge amount of sugar.

So my feet say to each other at night. They keep talking about me especially when they can’t sleep after a strenuous day I have put them through just for the sake of new experiences or having fun. I am sure they hate me.

Routine and repetition. Keystone of feet-happiness.

The Nomad is so confused. The mind jumps out of the couch every time a new opportunity of exploration/seeing old friends/braking the weekly routine comes to play. But the body is reluctant to materialize that jump, to dress it with flesh and bones and teeth and whatever else should be included make a human being. And the feet, especially the feet, go on strike.

So the Nomad is in constant conflict of interest… within.

Stag versus Hen

Leaving the big, dirty, stressful, noisy (blah blah blah) city, I am heading South.

The blond lady next to me does not have much to say. She stoically accepts being the centre of male and female attention in the train, just because she is made of inflatable plastic. Her name is Lisa. She is the involuntary companion of the groom-to-be sitting in front of me. She is the celebrity of the train. Everybody looks at her, wants to touch her or take a picture with her.

And her? Like a true celebrity is completely apathetic. Not that she has a choice…

The groom is covered in plastic too. In an attempt to give him graceful curves, he has a pair of generously sized boobs, round bottom and an afro wig to add some exotic tint to the curves’ effect. All is cheery, loud and smells of alcohol, the cheap kind… beer and some more beer.

Just at the point that the stag group’s excitement about the groom’s plastic tortures died down a hen group enters the train. And it all turns pink.

Now plastic Lisa has competition. The real "flesh and bone" Lisa (how unfortunate name coninsidence!), bride-to-be, surrounded by giggly teasing ladies. No plastic there. At least no visible plastic. And their alcohol is more sophisticated, bubbly wine (and approach to life I’d say) and gin and tonic. True Ladies.

Both parties are immediately interested in one another especially after realizing that they are both heading to the same beach town in the South of England.

I am in the middle of it all. I keep quiet but… inevitably my transparency does not last. I end up being something like a hostage and a referee silmutaneously.

And all this time I keep wondering. Is this really fun? Or am I just jealous I am not part of it? English pop culture intrigues me. But I never know if this is good or bad.

It’s all plastic… it’s fantastic?

My little farewells to London: Camden

Camden will never be too far away. I just need to open my wardrobe or look through my selection of earrings. I suppose in a way I had Camden in me before I actually moved there.

It was love at first sight. I was 22, at my belated teenage rebel time and I found myself surrounded by pretentious Goths, lost in time hippies, colourful weirdoes. Back then that was paradise. Utopia in London.

Now it is simply the place where I could blend in and feel comfortable in any mood, any outfit, any face. Camden is not the intellectual place where I could conceptualize complex theories and construct abstract voting behaviour models. Thus, not the office. The home. Wannabe bohemian with a hint of commercial taint it is exactly the place where my gypsy heart could float happily, wearing a life vest. Exotic enough but in the familiar wrapping.

Oh and most importantly it is the only place where I can actually stand shopping. Preferably on Monday mornings, not to avoid people, but to have my home to myself!

Camden is the living room of the house. To go to the bedroom, where one relaxes and dreams I head north towards the Heath. My Sundays were full of it.

And home is not a place you leave from, it is a place you return to.

My little farewells to London: Bloomsbury

We never really said goodbye. It was one of these casual relationships that you merely say “See you later” when you make your leave. Considering I lived in a dungeon office – chained to my desk, as JK, my boss, used to say – on the main square of Bloomsbury campus I have to say we kept it pretty unemotional.

It is a place that gives me a cool breeze and sharp thinking all year round. No matter the temperature outside, when I stand in Tavistock square I feel ready for the most rigorous academic thinking, the most sarcastic comment, the most cynical view of the world.

If it was a person, Lord Bloomsbury, would be a frisky aristocrat in his late 30s. With cool skin, and flawless white shirt; phlegmatic humour and sharp calculations. Lots of “indeed, my dear” and “lovely weather”. He would use the same condescending smile both to invite you for dinner and to shoot you in a dark alley (as long as he did not get blood on his shirt).

The buildings are flawless, the once private park squares still reflect the intellectual snobbery of their famous frequents, immaculate perfection that even the drunk students are not able to affect. They get swallowed by it.

The university buildings add to the feeling. Especially the big Senate Big Brother presence. But turn left and you are in front of SOAS. The only place in the area that managed to add its own colour. Curry smells, colourful ethnic clothes, colourful people, music… A spot of red wine on Lord Bloomsbury’s white shirt!

I like him. Not sure he likes me back. But you never know with these upper class fellows. We might meet again, who knows. But next time on more equal terms.

My little farewells to London: Soho

Another meeting with friends is over. I should be heading home, but tonight I think I will take my time.

I am in Soho, the posh side. Expensive bars and well dressed people.

Just one street further north and the picture changes. Bars, restaurants, cafes, a catholic church hosting an order of capuchin monks, a van full of alcohol and a group of people drinking in the back of it, some dark gay bars, not the flashy main stream.

What I like in this ambience is the colourful collection of people that would not fit together if seen in any other place. Soho has an impressive dominating effect on visitors, even on the regulars. It makes you believe that there everything is possible. Any time of night or day you can see anything. Just pretend you were expecting it.

I give my best friend a call to share the experience.

Sitting in his comfy bed in his familiar suburban environment has the most mum-like reaction I would (or would not) expect. You are in Soho? Be careful! It’s late!

Calm down silly!! Who would harm ME, in my bright yellow dress? Says confident me.

(Do not seek the logic in this, there is none!)

I like the dirty side of Soho, the one that you have the slight feeling of fear in the back of your head but you know that every corner is full of excitement and new experiences. I keep heading north. There I see empty restaurants, tired waiters cleaning up, and some Italians complaining about their recent loss in Euro 2008… oh well… next time boys.

My little farewells to London: Southbank

It is this time again for the Nomad to take her leave. It is like a wind blowing to the direction of “exit”. I know I have a little more time left just to kiss London goodbye.

Some places you conquer and some other places conquer you. London falls in the latter category. Too big and powerful, too many impressions. So, this time the Nomad leaves with slow careful steps not to awake Julius César inside her.

My first little farewell was to the Southbank where the old and new combine, where the planned and the unintended mix together. It is a normal indecisive day typical for London, when the sun and the clouds just cannot agree whose turn it is to rule the sky (and our moods come to that). The planned feature of the day is an eastern European festival. The unintended picture I took home with me is a black man forging his Caribbean dance to fit the gypsy rhythms. I walk on.

A woman in the sand performing her rituals to awake it; to give it a new form that will last only for as long the almighty tide allows it.

Few steps further I enter the wildlife world. I come face to face with tigers, pandas and other paper creatures in a not so successful exhibition. What is a cheetah doing next to the Thames anyway? Or is this part of the collection of impossible faces that constitute London?

This city fascinates me and frightens me as I still cannot grasp the over arching logic that rules it. I understand square things. And this city is round. There is only one place where its minimalist nature allows you to believe that you understand. The Tate. And from there I try to understand London again.

And this is the result:

And the name of obsession is....

I am one of these weirdoes who never watch TV. If you ask me my main reasoning would be that I have better things to do than just watch this trash. I would most likely beautify my anti-TV speech with an assortment of mildly offensive words, even some one should not repeat in front of ones mum.

Whatever I say… this is a lie.

The REAL reason I do not watch TV is that I get obsessed with whatever I see. My brain absorbs the information, tries to analyse it and submerges to the blissful passivity of a flat-pack reality. The one that comes in a box.

It happened to me in several occasions. If I watch something again and again I start thinking in terms of it, judging the world (the real one, not the one in the box) using borrowed morals from my fake reality.


Obsession One: Sex and the City
Alter Ego: Miranda Hobbs (boys do not hate me now...!)


That was one of the harmless ones. It only made me more aware of the fact that relationships are not for ever and that I could actually break up with the boyfriend who I did not really like any more and that would not mean I would burn in hell. The problem only started when these oh-so-smart tests came out that assessed your personality using the four SATC girls as archetypes. When my male (and straight, come to that) best friend told me that he was 40% Carrie, that was the point I knew I had pushed it too far.







Obsession Two: Babylon 5
Alter Ego: Ambassador Delen (undecisive in terms of spiecies)
For months I preferred watching negotiations between alien and human forms of life instead of spending quality time with the poor boyfriend who made the fatal mistake of introducing me to Sci-Fi. Honestly that was not big loss, but that was not part of the obsession. Various races and lots of inter-galaxy tensions occupied my mind at a time that I should be writing up my PhD. By the end of the series I was wondering if as a Mimbari ambassador I would actually decide to become the first human-mimbari hybrid. Oh what a torture! Big choices for my small trivial existence!







Obsession Three: Heroes
Alter Ego: Peter Petrelli (I just want to be able to do it all but be a loser out of choice)
If you say that you do not secretly aspire to be Peter Petrelli you are a big fat liar. I was so intrigued by the series that after I finished watching the first season I went deeply underground and watched the second season on very illegal Chinese streaming website. It was like bad wine. You know it tastes like vinegar, you know it will give you the worse headache in the morning, you know than when you wake up you won’t remember a thing of what you did while you drunk it… but still you do it simply you need your doses. Some are heroin addicts. I was a hero addict.

I could name some more... including some greek ones: Firefly, Dio Ksenoi (Two strangers), Xfiles, even... (hold your breath) Nightrider....

So, an advice to whoever wants my attention: Do not switch on the TV while I am in the room. If you do that you lost me as my brain will enter a virtual world without escape (unless you pull the plug!). At least I do not dress up thinking that the people in the box can actually see me...

Frivolity

My knowledge of Russian poetry is limited and traditionally destilled through Natalia's taste and traslation talent. But this one was specially chosen. So true, so me... so us!

Frivolity – you are such a sweet sin
My sweet companion and enemy of mine,
You injected music in my skin
You injected laughter in my eyes.

You taught me not to keep rings,
No matter whom this life weds me to;
At random start things from the ends
And finish before the beginnings are due.

Taught me to be like stem and to be like steel
In this life, where we can do so little.
How with chocolate sadness to heal,
And laugh in the faces of people.

By Marina Tsvetaeva, the romantic revolutionary for the self not the whole.

Thousand and one coffee cups of Istanbul

My tired tourist legs are complaining, they want to be on a bed, not to hang off from a pink hard wooden chair, but I promised them it is worth it. I take the first sip of Turkish coffee just brought to me by young woman dressed in pink. Crap! It’s sweet. I like my coffee bitter, no sugar, but the lady gave me the one destined for my friend, who has a sweet tooth. I hope that will not have a consequence on the actual purpose of this coffee.

Obviously this is not an ordinary coffee hence I have to be outside my comfort zone when I drink it. We both suffer in our way while drinking it and hope that fortune telling “Turkish style” is worth the pain.

I look at the pink walls around me; they are supposed to give you the feeling of happiness and reassurance. After all that is why the women around me are here. The coffee cup is the clue to glimpsing ones future, you only need to drink the black liquid (that was not prepared according to taste in my and my friends case) and reveal the secrets of future.

My Western mentality expects to see the place full of uneducated lower class old ladies full of superstitions. There is a couple of that sort, is true. But the place is packed, all three floors of it. Sever fortune tellers are working hard to reduce weighting time to under an hour. So, who are all these women who wait holding their coffee cups upside-down?

I look around and I see almost no headscarves. Loose hair women of all ages, well dressed, and some quite sophisticated are discussing about what they expect the fortune teller to see in their coffee cups. Most of them wish that the coffee remains on the cup will reveal a man’s love, marriage, children. Mothers come with their daughters to ensure the boyfriend will marry the girl, friends come to support each other, big groups of friends come for a laugh but secretly hope for good news.

Turkey is not that different than the rest of the world. Definitely not much different than the rest of the EU. People always want to know their future, women always hope for a good man. The only difference with the EU is that western coffee stains less … which makes it difficult for the fortune teller to read the signs.

In the ladies-only coffee shop I feel I am faking it. I am not there because I want to know my fortune, but to look at the people who do.

Above the clouds

I have entered digital age. I am blogging while sitting in the airplane looking at some white fluffy clouds. I have finished my presentation for the next conference and I am enjoying my flight (with my legs against the back of the person in front of me due to lack of flight space).

I gather I am the only technologically advanced person on the flight. Go me! I can be isolated from the rest of the passengers more successfully that before. My bliss lasts until the person in front decides to have a nap and put his sit in the resting position. Then I will either have to accept having the laptop digging into my vulnerable intestines or I will have to start communicating with the fellow passenger.

Disaster!

I always need a mental and physical buffer zone between me and other passengers, especially when the plane is on a flight to Greece. The demographics on the plane vary depending on the time period. Two weeks before Christmas and the end of June students are in season, just before Christmas young Greek professionals populate the plane and all the rest of the time it the average Greek tourist dominates with his presence not only the plane but also the airport. The first thing you notice at this unfortunate period (alas I am going through it now) is the level of noise. Greeks (yes okay and Italians) are much more noisy than other Europeans. Secondly, there are no queues; just a random mob trying to avoid any order. The most striking thing for airport stuff is that all passengers in a flight to Greece happen to have tickets for the seats that are called to board first. Magic I would say.

I can be accused of being against my own people. That would not be entirely wrong. But it would not be entirely correct either. Being away for so long I have developed a very romantic and ideal perception of Greeks and the country. And now wherever I go, wherever I see it Greece hurts me.

Here I admitted it, the great behavioralist and rational choice front line fighter has a romantic soft spot for the homeland.

You can shoot me now!

Hair: Lost in Translation

I chose yet again to be a sacrifice for education, of course not for any kind of higher morality push, but merely due to the attractive £4.50 student friendly price of the haircut. Last time it worked fine I though... so happy jumpy smiley I walked down the road of vanity and reached the crazy school of hair care.

My experience there before made me believe that there is a whole science behind the way they cut your hair. I bet it is… But in every science there are different approaches one can take to reach the desired outcome. That’s assuming that the desired outcome is the same for everyone. For example, my desired outcome was to have descent hair, without white parts in it and no split ends. Plain desires you would think… I should put more art and colour in my life (or on my head) you would think… but would you tell me that? Well they did.

(His Excellency) The Hair Master described with vivid words and expressive movements his creative vision of my humble hair. I was convinced. What he proposed surely was out of the ordinary but still acceptable for little plain me. Yes yes I know. He should be a politician… but I did not tell him that. I think he would find life around the parliament lacking passionate hairstyles.

So H.E the Hair Master brought in his minions to perform the task. They are supposed to learn you see, my dear blog. That was the reason of my presence there after all. Help education in every shape or form, or so I keep telling myself… not the money! H.E. was German. His minions were from Japan and Italy. How Second World War of him! So in this Axis meeting he explained to the Japanese minion (who was way beyond retirement age where I come from… but then again the new pension’s law has not passed yet) all about his vision of my hair.

And here is the root of the problem. Execution. The Japanese minion could not speak English.. nor German! His Excellency could not communicate in Japanese, but he believed he could… as I was informed by the translator that H.E. the Hair Master in his attempt to say: “I like your work” he said “I want to sleep with a squid”.

Can you imagine the result of this on my head, my dear blog?

Simply lost in translation…

A traveller's life

Just before enjoying the fruits of my efforts I feel the wind of restlessness coming my way again. I just wonder when it will touch me... I know it is close.

"a traveller's life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the stretch; and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties."

Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

Politics of Suicide

Lately Goethe entered my life and provides a critique that makes reality hilarious.

The Sorrows of young Werther, Goethe’s first widely read novel, ended with the suicide of poor emotional Werther, and caused the suicide of at least 2,000 of its readers. Now that is what I call success.
Goethe, of course, was not very pleased (he was losing devoted readers) and neither were the authorities that had to collect all these bodies of successful Werther wannabes, and to try to reduce this Werther fever. That was Germany in the late 1700s.

A new Werther Fever outbreak has occurred in Greece of 2008. This time the suicides were unsuccessful. A wave of unsuccessful suicides, this time not inspired from a book on unfulfilled love but from a DVD on fulfilled passions. I rather not go into detail, especially because the corrupt politician starring in it is fat and naked.

The scandal involved sex, money, and little favours. The media focused like always to the one that sells the most.

These right wing government officials unsuccessfully tried to take their shame to a different world, since this one would not vote for them again despite the entertainment value of their unlawful deeds. Maybe they can go govern in one of the seven circles of hell. I am not saying they are evil and have to go to hell. It is just that heaven is a divine monarchy. Hell is much more democratic, pluralistic and has catch-all parties! Thus corrupt politicians stand a chance of winning the hellish elections.

However they failed to succeed. Or, since life is the highest of all commodities, they succeeded by failing.

The question remains though, since they were incompetent to even kill themselves effectively… what does this tell us about the effectiveness of the right-wing government that chooses such incompetent people for important positions?

Gordon Brown presents: McEdu

Forget about the PhD... I will go do a Diploma in flipping burgers!

Life tailored education, that is what I need. A multinational corporation to give me values and skills for life.
Gordon Brown once again has shown his concern for his people. He finds the best solutions for every problem. He even creates more future problems so the next generation politicians do not lose their job because their position is made redundant.

Everybody needs education more or less in the same way everybody needs food. The quality and long term implications are not important. First fill yourself up with whatever you can get hold of and face the consequences later.

So here it comes, McEdu in several variations. McAs (A-levels) and McDiplo (Diplomas).

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/education/7209276.stm

Miss Haversham and the semantics explanation to spinsterhood

My flatmate pointed out to me that the house is cursed.

The core of the curse lies in the power of words. Apparently the name of the road we live in has cast its weird magic on us. But the spirit of the road (assuming it has its own spirit) can’t spell. Not all road spirits are literate you see, and this one that is, got a really low mark in spelling. So instead of the curvy letter C that gives a certain femininity, and puts the seeds of great expectations being the letter starting Cupid, the road spirit spelled our address with H. Harsh lines implying the unimaginative emotionless stability of a building and one and only –though unwanted- connotation without great expectations. Miss Haversham.

Changing the C into an H makes the tenants into Miss Havershams and that is the reason of their love misfortunes.

Miss Haversham’s curse complicates relations to the opposite sex. We have not yet found out how exactly this happens or which of Miss Haversham’s attributes do we inherit as time goes by, but at least we know the root of evil.

And there are only two ways to solve it. We either move out of this road, or we teach the road spirit how to spell.

I have already bought a dictionary and a “Spelling for dummies” book. Never give up!! I have taught worse things in the past. You cannot convince me that teaching theories of voting behaviour to hormonal English 19-year olds is easier than teaching a road spirit how to spell!

London mornings

Bike in the shop for service makes a great opportunity to use alternative methods of transport to get to work, which at morning rush hour can only be my own two legs. Busses, trains and the tube are just out of the question on a cold winter morning, because they are defined by the very combination of conditions that can guarantee nausea. Since me and my stomach have a very special relationship… I choose to listen to its voice of reason, so I walk to work.

And oh so many wonderful things I discover!

Kentish Town Road at 8am is full of people, but none of the shops are open. The area is full of young professionals who wait for the bus or walk purposefully. As I make my way south the amount of white people drops and more colourful skin tones catch your eye – and by that I do not mean any green skins! I have not reached Camden Town yet!

The more south I go the later it gets, so more shops are open and the streets get more populated. Hitting Euston station I stand in front of an urban revelation. The people here look like an updated model of the people in NW5. Better clothes, better hair styles, better shoes. And by better here I mean more expensive, more elaborate, closer to the fashion trends set by Vogue and other such magazines. The last phase of my journey is full of young university student faces, clearly unhappy that they had to be dragged out of bed to have a 9am lecture.

What struck me in this morning adventure was the fact that I did not see a single happy face. All, and I mean ALL, of the people that crossed my chosen path, had but this in common. People of all different races, colours, ages, financial backgrounds had the unhappy, indifferent face in common.

I was the only one sticking out. Not fitting.

And wondering what was that made them all unhappy. That it was a Monday? That is was so early? The fact that they had to work? The cold? The stupid silly rain? And are all these things enough to give every single person this expression?

Of course one could argue that the only other thing apart from unhappiness that these people had in common was that I crossed their path. So logically… that would make the perfect causal relationship. Oh... the effects I have on people. (nononono I should not be that paranoid)

Or is it London (and my infection is just in its incubation period)?

Refurbishment

Even Billy Gates left Microsoft, so why would I stay?

Considering that whoever takes over will be even more focused on enhancing the monopoly than the charitable founder of the corporation then there is nothing left for me to do there. I can store my thoughts on a different bank.

So here we are. New storage, new name. Hopefully more regular payments.