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.
Sunday 21 September 2008
Monday 15 September 2008
Bad hair day
My cousin keeps saying I am not a real person, but a cartoon. I wonder why she says that!
Sunday 14 September 2008
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!)
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.
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.
Tuesday 2 September 2008
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
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