23 Nov 2010
My KL Syndrome
There are essentially three things that make me sick every time I confront them: a dish of Slavic sour green beans, spit on the street and crawling insects. You get a lot of each of these in Kuala Lumpur.
I booked my flight for a weekend in the Malaysian capital while we were living in Singapore. The trip takes just about an hour and there is a steady flow of people going both directions every day: Malaysians commuting to work, Singaporeans traveling for leisure. Ethnically both cities are similar and they share a common colonial heritage. The two countries were joined in a political union for a period of time after they gained independence. The similarities end here.
While Singapore is organized, squeaky clean, safe and rule-abiding, Kuala Lumpur is chaotic, filthy, polluted and susceptible to terrorist attacks. Interestingly enough, it is still a relatively safe city due to the strong business community and the government’s commitment to build a new business hub.
The day I arrived I walked in the city from dawn to dusk until my feet hurt. After sunset I checked into the first hostel I found. It was a busy weekend so there was only one room available. I didn’t really mind. I had been on my feet since five in the morning and could have slept anywhere.
The room smelled vaguely of Durian, a South-Asian fruit that emanates a pungent gasoline-like odor. The inside is juicy and prickly on the tongue, leaving a terrible aftertaste long after you have eaten it. In spite of this Malaysians love it. I don’t usually get migraines when traveling – but the next morning I woke up with a terrible headache. Durian might be the most delicious fruit in the world but after breakfast I checked out of the hostel and went looking for a less ‘toxic’ accommodation for the second night.
Then I consulted Lonely Planet for a recommendation and picked a hostel that the guide described as ‘spotlessly clean, cozy, comfortable and friendly ambient’. I was given an attic room with no window but with nicely smelling hardwood furniture, paintings on the walls and a private bathroom. More than satisfied I let out a blissful sigh and went exploring the city once again. I came back in the evening, tumbled into the bed and immediately fell asleep.
Sometime later a slight itchy feeling on my arm woke me up. Still half-asleep I scratched and underneath my fingernails felt something soft and mushy. I opened my eyes, switched on the lamp and shot off the bed, shaking. My arms were covered in light-brown bugs of various sizes. They were crawling on my T-shirt, on my neck, in my hair, on the sheets. Anxiously, I lifted the pillow and gave a shriek. There was a whole bug nest, about the size of a small orange, swarming with little beasts. My heart beat wildly. I literally thought I would die. The only thing that I could think of doing was covering the whole bed with a thick, woolen blanket I found in the closet. Then I went to take a shower and stayed there for a good half-hour, still trembling. All the time I thought that the Durian room was, after all, not so bad.
I put my pajamas in the sink and poured hot water over it. Slowly the bugs bobbed to the surface. I sprinkled them with the toilet cleanser that was in the bathroom. Die, you motherf***er, die. I probably never felt such hatred toward a living creature before.
After I calmed down I thoroughly inspected the other bed in the room and, having discovered no other aliens, went back to sleep. In the morning I woke up refreshed and full of energy.
Ever since my trip to Kuala Lumpur I always check underneath the pillows in every hotel room I stay at. I once even did this in a hospital and a nurse looked at me strangely, not understanding. ‘It’s just my Kuala Lumpur syndrome!’ I explained.
18 Oct 2010
Learning the Art of Improvisation
On 30th Street in Chelsea, tucked between wholesale stores with fabric and fur coats, is a training studio for aspiring improvisation actors. Magnet Theater rents these three extra studios and small closet-sized office. Two of the studios have a stage with a few rows of chairs for the audience. The third, smallest studio consists only of a carpet in the middle of the space. This is reserved for the advanced training sessions.
I come to my first improvisation class ten minutes ahead of time. A few people are already gathered in the largest studio. My stomach is a bit queasy, and I begin to regret that I signed up for what will surely be mental torture. I’m a naturally spontaneous person who doesn’t usually get stage fright before speaking in public. But this is totally different. How am I supposed to improvise in a foreign language? How can I possibly understand (and respond to!) all the cultural allusions that I know nothing about? What if they speak of American football? Will I sound silly making all kinds of grammatical mistakes? Will they understand my Eastern European sense of humor? I slump into a chair and for a moment fear the worst, though it actually takes me exactly a minute to realize that I’m not the only foreigner in the crowd. A dark-haired girl is speaking to her neighbor with a distinct French accent. If the French girl can manage it, so can I.
A group of three students is discussing their fall schedule. An Indian-looking guy is wearing a black suit with a tie stuffed in his front pocket. Two sisters are giggling over some iPhone pictures. The clock on the wall strikes seven. Mark, a seasoned comedian and improvisation teacher, welcomes his new students. The first Level 1 class begins with everyone standing in a circle. Mark tells the students to introduce themselves with a body gesture. He starts the round using a gesture from fencing which looks like a thrust of a sword and exclaims ’Mark!’ A man in his thirties next to Mark cups the palm of his hand on his mouth as he yawns and says ‘Doug’. I gesticulate with my arms in the air in the YMCA style and say my name LUD-MI-LA, each syllable accompanied by a different arm position. After the round of names and gestures the game continues with different variations until everyone remembers all the names and the movements associated with them. It takes less than ten minutes.
Next the students are asked to try different short spontaneous conversations in pairs or larger groups. What I really love about Americans is the fact that they take initiative. When Mark calls six volunteers to come on stage, eleven people stand up at the same time. (Not me). Mark chuckles and says we shouldn’t worry because everyone will get a chance. Those who perform are on stage, the rest sit in the audience. Every now and then the audience bursts into laughter. When it is my turn to try ‘ranting’ about something on stage I just say what first comes to mind. ‘I hate when our doorman asks me how I am but as soon as I start to tell him he turns away.’ The audience laughs. I can’t believe I made them laugh with such a simple confession. I relax a little and my brain slowly warms up. Each short scene is followed by a loud round of vigorous applause. After each round Mark steps on stage and provides a short summary of the rules for each improvisation method used. Each time he stresses the importance of ‘yes anding’: the power of improvisation and comedy lies not so much in argument and confrontation as it does in accepting everything that our scene partners establish as facts. For example, if someone introduces a scene saying, ‘Lizzy, you should stop smoking pot,’ then it is a fact that you are Lizzy and you smoke marihuana. Your task is to embrace this fact and to build on it and say something like ‘Yes, I know. I should have switched long ago to cocaine like all of you guys. I guess it’s just a matter of willpower, isn’t it?’
By the end of the class I’m not nervous anymore and find myself comfortable saying the very first things that come to mind. Sometimes they’re funny; other times clearly awkward or absurd. What I notice is that some of the students are just naturally funny. Doug, a recent Harford graduate, hardly says a word during a scene, but when he finally does it’s usually hilarious. For example, during a family scene the grandfather Dough says to his grandson, played by a sixty-year-old, ‘Kid, when in doubt - smile.’ For a straight minute the two grin like Cheshire cats. ‘OK, that will do,’ says Doug. ‘Now, try to seduce me.’
The class ends shortly after ten. The students continue to chit-chat on the way out of the studio and into a nearby bar.
8 Oct 2010
On Caring for Others
When I moved to New York, a friend of mine, an Australian special needs teacher recommended that I contact New York Cares. She said it was a large organization that coordinated hundreds of volunteer projects across the city. I would be able to use my free time doing something useful, seeing different neighborhoods and getting to meet new people, often locals who devote their free time to helping others.
I always pictured New York as a city that didn't care. Communist ideology would have you believe that Americans would rather let people die on the street than to take the time to extend a helping hand.
‘New York is a very caring city.’ This was the first thing I heard from Linda, a mother of two who moved to New York from Chicago. I am only now beginning to understand what she meant by this.
I went to an orientation meeting at New York Cares and immediately felt connected. The registration process for each project is very simple and basically consists of a single click on the mouse. De-registering is equally simple, with very few restrictions (like, for example, the need to de-register from a project two days before at the latest). There are no requirements concerning the number of projects you register for, or how many hours you work. For two no-shows, however, you need to attend the orientation again. But this is not such a big deal anyhow. (So far, I have one no-show, since the Inwood Library turned out to be on a totally different address than I thought.)
Thanks to New York Cares, I went to a public school in Chinatown where I assisted teaching ten-year olds about financial literacy.
Together with a girl from Curacao (which, I learned, was a town in the Netherlands Antilles off the shore of Venezuela), we sorted donated children clothes at Baby Buggy, an organization that caters to single mothers and women living in shelters.
Another time, Jeung from South Korea and I formed a perfect team in Materials for the Arts, which collects and re-distributes arts and crafts supplies.
In Times Square Hotel, a shelter home for former homeless and people living with HIV, I met Cathleen, an Irish banker who moved to New York to follow her husband who had been offered a job here. We helped to coordinate a tag sale for the residents who could buy donated items for symbolic prices, such as a TV set for 3 dollars.
At Kateri Residence, together with Melissa, a Columbia student, we socialized with seniors at an afternoon cocktail party. I was lucky to get a ‘dancing table’, since all the residents around me swayed in their wheelchairs to the rhythm of live music performed by Michal, an employee who took on an extra role of a musician.
Then I met Marlene, a team leader from New York Cares during a volunteer project at Yorkville Common Pantry. I talked to her while we prepared grocery packages for local disadvantaged community. She would put a few potatoes in a smiley-faced bag and pass it to me, so that I could add some bagels and bananas. Then I would pass the bag over to Joyce who was in charge of tomatoes.
I asked Marlene my usual question,
‘What made you join New York Cares?’
‘I volunteer because I don’t have a job now. I used to work as a facility manager for Red Cross but was laid off,’ said Marlene.
‘Why?’
‘Well, they are a big financial trouble in New York. Had to close quite a few sites. I was no longer needed.’
‘Really?’ I asked surprised, holding a pack of bananas in mid-air, unaware of the intricacies of New York’s non-profit sector. ‘I thought the American Red Cross was big enough to avoid this kind of problems.'
‘Well, what was the last big disaster in town?’
How would I know. Maybe back in 2001, when the Twin Towers collapsed as a result of hatred towards American capitalism.
‘What about Katrina?’ I suggested.
‘All the money donated for Katrina went directly for the project. Nothing stayed in New York.’
‘Well, it sounds logical to me. Help should go where it’s needed.’
‘But you know what,’ said Marlene, pointing a spiky potato at me. ‘Every day, tens of small disasters happen in New York that the Red Cross has to solve. But who would send money to something happening every day? Burnt-out apartments, collapsed roofs, shootings, people jumping under subway trains.’
We finished a hundredth package, starting to fill a new box. For a while, we worked in silence, thinking about our own situations, our own little disasters, Katrinas, our twin towers collapsing, and our own internal aid agencies coming to rescue. Many researchers have showed a positive effect of non-profit work on the self-esteem and confidence of individuals. However, while aid is clearly beneficial to the one providing it, it is less obviously beneficial to its recipients.
As the clients lined up to collect their weekly grocery bags, I wondered who was on the winning side in my case. Was I helping others because I genuinely wanted to help others? Or was I using them to help myself feel better, more useful and valuable in the society that I have just joined as a newcomer?
I always pictured New York as a city that didn't care. Communist ideology would have you believe that Americans would rather let people die on the street than to take the time to extend a helping hand.
‘New York is a very caring city.’ This was the first thing I heard from Linda, a mother of two who moved to New York from Chicago. I am only now beginning to understand what she meant by this.
I went to an orientation meeting at New York Cares and immediately felt connected. The registration process for each project is very simple and basically consists of a single click on the mouse. De-registering is equally simple, with very few restrictions (like, for example, the need to de-register from a project two days before at the latest). There are no requirements concerning the number of projects you register for, or how many hours you work. For two no-shows, however, you need to attend the orientation again. But this is not such a big deal anyhow. (So far, I have one no-show, since the Inwood Library turned out to be on a totally different address than I thought.)
Thanks to New York Cares, I went to a public school in Chinatown where I assisted teaching ten-year olds about financial literacy.
Together with a girl from Curacao (which, I learned, was a town in the Netherlands Antilles off the shore of Venezuela), we sorted donated children clothes at Baby Buggy, an organization that caters to single mothers and women living in shelters.
Another time, Jeung from South Korea and I formed a perfect team in Materials for the Arts, which collects and re-distributes arts and crafts supplies.
In Times Square Hotel, a shelter home for former homeless and people living with HIV, I met Cathleen, an Irish banker who moved to New York to follow her husband who had been offered a job here. We helped to coordinate a tag sale for the residents who could buy donated items for symbolic prices, such as a TV set for 3 dollars.
At Kateri Residence, together with Melissa, a Columbia student, we socialized with seniors at an afternoon cocktail party. I was lucky to get a ‘dancing table’, since all the residents around me swayed in their wheelchairs to the rhythm of live music performed by Michal, an employee who took on an extra role of a musician.
Then I met Marlene, a team leader from New York Cares during a volunteer project at Yorkville Common Pantry. I talked to her while we prepared grocery packages for local disadvantaged community. She would put a few potatoes in a smiley-faced bag and pass it to me, so that I could add some bagels and bananas. Then I would pass the bag over to Joyce who was in charge of tomatoes.
I asked Marlene my usual question,
‘What made you join New York Cares?’
‘I volunteer because I don’t have a job now. I used to work as a facility manager for Red Cross but was laid off,’ said Marlene.
‘Why?’
‘Well, they are a big financial trouble in New York. Had to close quite a few sites. I was no longer needed.’
‘Really?’ I asked surprised, holding a pack of bananas in mid-air, unaware of the intricacies of New York’s non-profit sector. ‘I thought the American Red Cross was big enough to avoid this kind of problems.'
‘Well, what was the last big disaster in town?’
How would I know. Maybe back in 2001, when the Twin Towers collapsed as a result of hatred towards American capitalism.
‘What about Katrina?’ I suggested.
‘All the money donated for Katrina went directly for the project. Nothing stayed in New York.’
‘Well, it sounds logical to me. Help should go where it’s needed.’
‘But you know what,’ said Marlene, pointing a spiky potato at me. ‘Every day, tens of small disasters happen in New York that the Red Cross has to solve. But who would send money to something happening every day? Burnt-out apartments, collapsed roofs, shootings, people jumping under subway trains.’
We finished a hundredth package, starting to fill a new box. For a while, we worked in silence, thinking about our own situations, our own little disasters, Katrinas, our twin towers collapsing, and our own internal aid agencies coming to rescue. Many researchers have showed a positive effect of non-profit work on the self-esteem and confidence of individuals. However, while aid is clearly beneficial to the one providing it, it is less obviously beneficial to its recipients.
As the clients lined up to collect their weekly grocery bags, I wondered who was on the winning side in my case. Was I helping others because I genuinely wanted to help others? Or was I using them to help myself feel better, more useful and valuable in the society that I have just joined as a newcomer?
1 Oct 2010
The Boot Generation
They are green, black, yellow or red, and they are ubiquitous. They come in different sizes, calf or ankle-high, with colourful patterns, comic stripes, leopard prints, polka dots, even equipped with fur cuffs. It might have been a quick downpour, or a whole-night monsoon rain. Whatever the amount of water on the street, whatever the terrain, mud or sleet, fashion has for once come up with something irresistibly practical.
Rubber Rain Boots.
Born out of… laziness?
The legend has it that rubber boots owe much to the laziness, willpower, and ingenuity of Native Americans. The Indians would, more out of boredom than out of scientific inquiry, carve out white latex sap from rubber trees and then put it on fire. Then they would rotate it ever so slowly, just like modern-day scouts roast their s’mores. Sometimes, the story goes, Indians would wrap their own feet in the rubber, and roasts them over the fire, until they could not stand the pain any more.
A few centuries and experiments later, Charles Goodyear, a native of Connecticut, invented a process known as vulcanisation (after the Roman god of fire) in which rubber, combined with sulphur and other additives would become hard and more solid.
Wedge Wellies, a hit or miss?
Specifically made for the Glastonbury festival, Hunter introduces a new hit (or miss) shoe, Wedge Welly. A dedicated pink website announces that wedge wellies ‘have been designed with festivals in mind, the surface patterns are inspired by this season’s trends, and our wedge design acts as a cushion, offering extra comfort (we know only too well how painful it can be wearing your wellies all weekend’.
Rubber Rain Boots.
Source: http://tinyurl.com/2499m6d
Born out of… laziness?
The legend has it that rubber boots owe much to the laziness, willpower, and ingenuity of Native Americans. The Indians would, more out of boredom than out of scientific inquiry, carve out white latex sap from rubber trees and then put it on fire. Then they would rotate it ever so slowly, just like modern-day scouts roast their s’mores. Sometimes, the story goes, Indians would wrap their own feet in the rubber, and roasts them over the fire, until they could not stand the pain any more.
A few centuries and experiments later, Charles Goodyear, a native of Connecticut, invented a process known as vulcanisation (after the Roman god of fire) in which rubber, combined with sulphur and other additives would become hard and more solid.
From Trenches to Opera Houses
Rubber boots experienced their first big-scale manufacture during World War I. Deadlocked in flooded trenches, soldiers would find comfort in rubber, knee-high boots. The Wellingtons, or wellies, were named after Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington who stood at the beginning of what is now Hunter Boot Ltd, producer of Hunters, the most beloved brand of rubber boots.
Fast-forward into the 21st century, it is quite common to see fashionable women in miniskirts and black wellies in an opera house. Something has changed in the perception of rubber boots. They are no longer reserved for peasants, soldiers and hippie festival-goers. They are as much in vogue as Dansko Stapled clogs or woollen Bronte boots worn by teenage girls year-long. Unlike the latter two, rubber boots do look sexy and charming.
Rubber boots experienced their first big-scale manufacture during World War I. Deadlocked in flooded trenches, soldiers would find comfort in rubber, knee-high boots. The Wellingtons, or wellies, were named after Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington who stood at the beginning of what is now Hunter Boot Ltd, producer of Hunters, the most beloved brand of rubber boots.
Fast-forward into the 21st century, it is quite common to see fashionable women in miniskirts and black wellies in an opera house. Something has changed in the perception of rubber boots. They are no longer reserved for peasants, soldiers and hippie festival-goers. They are as much in vogue as Dansko Stapled clogs or woollen Bronte boots worn by teenage girls year-long. Unlike the latter two, rubber boots do look sexy and charming.
Wedge Wellies, a hit or miss?
Specifically made for the Glastonbury festival, Hunter introduces a new hit (or miss) shoe, Wedge Welly. A dedicated pink website announces that wedge wellies ‘have been designed with festivals in mind, the surface patterns are inspired by this season’s trends, and our wedge design acts as a cushion, offering extra comfort (we know only too well how painful it can be wearing your wellies all weekend’.
Well. Up to you to judge.
Broadway, Broadway....
A song by Drifters is playing out in my mind, as I push my scooter bike off the ground to gain momentum.
They say the neon lights are bright
On Broadway
They say there's always magic in the air
But when you're walkin' down the street
and you ain't had enough to eat
The glitter rubs right off and you're nowhere
Before I reach Broadway from the 71st Street, I pass a large pile of discarded furniture. Our apartment is fully furnished by now, owing largely to Craigslist and people succumbing to my Eastern European accent (I believe that many of them associate it with hard-work and poverty). But I still find myself scanning the heap for what other people don’t want anymore, hoping to find the perfect dresser or a bar stool. Not surprisingly, the pile consists largely of plastic IKEA containers and a sturdy table with a broken leg. Before I can even start ruminating about how I could put the table on the scooter platform and transfer it to our apartment for further inspection, I hear a sharp siren. It could be a fire in a run-down Harlem basement, or it could be President attending the U.N. General Assembly. I take is as a sign of fate and abandon my almost adopted cripple table.
On the sidewalk, I dodge a woman carrying a large Blue-and-yellow Macaw on her shoulder. I met them once before in Gigi Café across the street. She was typing out a message on her silver-clad iPhone, while the Ara was munching on an organic cookie. Later on, I posted their picture (which I secretly took on that occasion) on my Facebook wall, captioned, “Dogs are not allowed in cafés”. In any case, the parrot seems to be accustomed to eating out and socializing.
The street book vendors are covering their stalls with plastic foil. A storm is coming to sweep through Broadway. The books always stay covered like this overnight. I wonder if the theft rate here is higher than in the New York Public Library. It is kind of funny, though, to see that nobody cares to steal books. I find myself thinking that there is essentially something wrong about it.
At the 72nd subway station, an impromptu brass band is playing Fly me to the Moon by Frankie Sinatra. The first raindrops slide down their instruments as they finish the song with a grandiose trumpet solo. A small crowd of commuters then gives them an enthusiastic applause. I peep into the trombone case, which serves as their piggy-bank. Not more than twenty dollars for six people. A street musician’s job is a hard-earned one.
On Broadway and the 76th street, a youth is sitting with his back to the Chase bank, shielded by the scaffolding (remember their advertisement, whenever there’s a scaffolding, we are under it?). ANYTHING HELPS, says the boy’s cardboard sign, attached on his worn-out backpack. A frappuccino Starbucks cup is almost full of small change and one-dollar bills. The boy looks not more than twenty; maybe a student who ended up broke in the big city. He has dozed off, and his messy hair looks like he hasn’t had a shower for a few days. When he wakes up, I hope he’ll appreciate the hospitality of Manhattanites. I leave an apple by his side, a Christian gesture with a tinge of faith in good Karma. Frankly, I hate beggars. There is nothing more absurd then asking people money for not doing anything. But sometimes I make an exception, aware that things which are beyond our control do sometimes happen.
It is raining for real now. Water is spattering from the sides of the scooter tyres. Before I reach the 87th street, I have brown spots all over my light-blue pants. But it doesn’t really matter. I am heading to an ‘arts exploration project’ by New York Cares with seniors from the Kateri Residence. Ridden by osteoporosis, many of them can barely hold a paintbrush; some unintentional smudges on clothes are therefore expected. Before I turn into the 87th street, past a falafel stand, a large rat skitters out from underneath the counter. I almost run over it. The second it passes through my vision, my heart stops. I have bought kebab here before. I will never, ever doing it again. Never ever again. Not for a thousand smiles from the Middle Eastern vendor, who always asks me how I am with an almost genuine interest. In a city where lunches can take as little as five minutes, he is the ultimate master of double talk. Falafel never takes long to prepare. What takes long is the time between when I pay and he seeks the correct change. It usually takes a complete conversation about any random topic, such as the last one about the best winter Olympic Games. I was about to say something about my recent trip to Lake Placid, but then realized that the vendor was a smart guy. I had on a T-shirt from Lake Placid, commemorating the 1980 Olympic Games. Well played, Mr. Mohammed. But still, I hope the rat was not your pet.
They say the neon lights are bright
On Broadway
They say there's always magic in the air
But when you're walkin' down the street
and you ain't had enough to eat
The glitter rubs right off and you're nowhere
Before I reach Broadway from the 71st Street, I pass a large pile of discarded furniture. Our apartment is fully furnished by now, owing largely to Craigslist and people succumbing to my Eastern European accent (I believe that many of them associate it with hard-work and poverty). But I still find myself scanning the heap for what other people don’t want anymore, hoping to find the perfect dresser or a bar stool. Not surprisingly, the pile consists largely of plastic IKEA containers and a sturdy table with a broken leg. Before I can even start ruminating about how I could put the table on the scooter platform and transfer it to our apartment for further inspection, I hear a sharp siren. It could be a fire in a run-down Harlem basement, or it could be President attending the U.N. General Assembly. I take is as a sign of fate and abandon my almost adopted cripple table.
On the sidewalk, I dodge a woman carrying a large Blue-and-yellow Macaw on her shoulder. I met them once before in Gigi Café across the street. She was typing out a message on her silver-clad iPhone, while the Ara was munching on an organic cookie. Later on, I posted their picture (which I secretly took on that occasion) on my Facebook wall, captioned, “Dogs are not allowed in cafés”. In any case, the parrot seems to be accustomed to eating out and socializing.
Two blocks further north, an irresistibly sweet smell is coming from Mr. Softee’s van. A pair of five-year-old twins, sporting oversize orange helmets are leaning over their pink Lilliput scooters, and ordering ice cream for their Nanny, a stout woman of the Carribeans. I recognize them, too. I saw them once whizzing down the slope to the Riverside Park, with their Dad pretty relaxed about their safety. If helmets were obligatory, the two of them would have been young delinquents. The big helmets look shiny and new, apparently the same wise Dad bought them with the aim that the heads would grow into the size of the helmets. The whole purchase was probably preceded by some sort of accident, I assume.
The street book vendors are covering their stalls with plastic foil. A storm is coming to sweep through Broadway. The books always stay covered like this overnight. I wonder if the theft rate here is higher than in the New York Public Library. It is kind of funny, though, to see that nobody cares to steal books. I find myself thinking that there is essentially something wrong about it.
At the 72nd subway station, an impromptu brass band is playing Fly me to the Moon by Frankie Sinatra. The first raindrops slide down their instruments as they finish the song with a grandiose trumpet solo. A small crowd of commuters then gives them an enthusiastic applause. I peep into the trombone case, which serves as their piggy-bank. Not more than twenty dollars for six people. A street musician’s job is a hard-earned one.
On Broadway and the 76th street, a youth is sitting with his back to the Chase bank, shielded by the scaffolding (remember their advertisement, whenever there’s a scaffolding, we are under it?). ANYTHING HELPS, says the boy’s cardboard sign, attached on his worn-out backpack. A frappuccino Starbucks cup is almost full of small change and one-dollar bills. The boy looks not more than twenty; maybe a student who ended up broke in the big city. He has dozed off, and his messy hair looks like he hasn’t had a shower for a few days. When he wakes up, I hope he’ll appreciate the hospitality of Manhattanites. I leave an apple by his side, a Christian gesture with a tinge of faith in good Karma. Frankly, I hate beggars. There is nothing more absurd then asking people money for not doing anything. But sometimes I make an exception, aware that things which are beyond our control do sometimes happen.
It is raining for real now. Water is spattering from the sides of the scooter tyres. Before I reach the 87th street, I have brown spots all over my light-blue pants. But it doesn’t really matter. I am heading to an ‘arts exploration project’ by New York Cares with seniors from the Kateri Residence. Ridden by osteoporosis, many of them can barely hold a paintbrush; some unintentional smudges on clothes are therefore expected. Before I turn into the 87th street, past a falafel stand, a large rat skitters out from underneath the counter. I almost run over it. The second it passes through my vision, my heart stops. I have bought kebab here before. I will never, ever doing it again. Never ever again. Not for a thousand smiles from the Middle Eastern vendor, who always asks me how I am with an almost genuine interest. In a city where lunches can take as little as five minutes, he is the ultimate master of double talk. Falafel never takes long to prepare. What takes long is the time between when I pay and he seeks the correct change. It usually takes a complete conversation about any random topic, such as the last one about the best winter Olympic Games. I was about to say something about my recent trip to Lake Placid, but then realized that the vendor was a smart guy. I had on a T-shirt from Lake Placid, commemorating the 1980 Olympic Games. Well played, Mr. Mohammed. But still, I hope the rat was not your pet.
24 Mar 2010
At the doctor's
- Step on the scale, snapped the doctor.
The man remained motionless.
- It's about two steps right in front of you, I interfered, wondering what nurses were for.
The man made a tiny step, then another. Then made a circle with his right foot. Still couldn't reach the machine.
The nurse sighed, got up from her chair, and pushed the scale to the man's direction.
As it hit the man's tip-toe, I felt she was taking revenge, because we had knocked despite a no-knocking sign.
- You've put on weight again, said the doctor, looking at the scale.
- You know, wintertime. I was afraid of walking on ice, said the man.
- You will always find excuses, summed up the doctor.
- Next time, wait at the door, until we call you in, said the doctor in lieu of goodbye.
The man didn't move.
- Do you need anything else? asked the doctor
- Oh, sorry. I was just waiting for you to say thank you, goodbye, but I guess I'm going deaf as well.
With that, the man clutched my arm and we walked out from the office.
The man remained motionless.
- It's about two steps right in front of you, I interfered, wondering what nurses were for.
The man made a tiny step, then another. Then made a circle with his right foot. Still couldn't reach the machine.
The nurse sighed, got up from her chair, and pushed the scale to the man's direction.
As it hit the man's tip-toe, I felt she was taking revenge, because we had knocked despite a no-knocking sign.
- You've put on weight again, said the doctor, looking at the scale.
- You know, wintertime. I was afraid of walking on ice, said the man.
- You will always find excuses, summed up the doctor.
- Next time, wait at the door, until we call you in, said the doctor in lieu of goodbye.
The man didn't move.
- Do you need anything else? asked the doctor
- Oh, sorry. I was just waiting for you to say thank you, goodbye, but I guess I'm going deaf as well.
With that, the man clutched my arm and we walked out from the office.
20 Mar 2010
Pet's Machine (a short story)
Slowly, Pet crawled out from under the bed. The muffled voices of the three hooded men gradually faded away in the distance. As they left the house, they carried the unconscious body of Pet’s father. Pet sat on the bed, still tensely tugging at the corner of his lucky cushion, pondering what to do. His hyper-alert senses told him the men would not be gone for long. They would return to rummage the house once again, until they found IT. How long could he go on pretending to be nothing more than a retarded child, blissfully unaware of what’s happening around him? Read on...
12 Mar 2010
Three Asian men in a boat...
Here'a a nice joke I found, explaining the intricacies of the Lao-Vietnamese-Japanese relationship.
Once upon a time, three people were stranded out at sea - A Japanese, a Laotian and a Vietnamese. The boat started leaking and if they do not act fast they would all die.
The Japanese (as usual) was the first to take the initiative. He threw all his Japanese gizmo - CD player, laptop, hi-fi, radio etc. off the boat. The Laotian and the Vietnamese looked at him in disbelief. The Japanese said, "Don't worry...still got a lot more in my country...BANZAIIIEE!"
But the boat was still sinking. The Vietnamese without hesitation started throwing aboard all his dog jerkies, nuoc mam, Pho noodle, etc.. He comforted the other two, "Don't worry. Still have a lot more in my country".
But still the boat was sinking. The Japanese and the Vietnamese looked at the Laotian. Suddenly, without any hesitation and with stride, the Laotian threw the Vietnamese overboard. The poor guy couldn't swim and drowned. The Japanese was shocked. The Laotian said, "Don't worry...still got a lot more in MY country!!!"
Once upon a time, three people were stranded out at sea - A Japanese, a Laotian and a Vietnamese. The boat started leaking and if they do not act fast they would all die.
The Japanese (as usual) was the first to take the initiative. He threw all his Japanese gizmo - CD player, laptop, hi-fi, radio etc. off the boat. The Laotian and the Vietnamese looked at him in disbelief. The Japanese said, "Don't worry...still got a lot more in my country...BANZAIIIEE!"
But the boat was still sinking. The Vietnamese without hesitation started throwing aboard all his dog jerkies, nuoc mam, Pho noodle, etc.. He comforted the other two, "Don't worry. Still have a lot more in my country".
But still the boat was sinking. The Japanese and the Vietnamese looked at the Laotian. Suddenly, without any hesitation and with stride, the Laotian threw the Vietnamese overboard. The poor guy couldn't swim and drowned. The Japanese was shocked. The Laotian said, "Don't worry...still got a lot more in MY country!!!"
5 Mar 2010
Mme Reuter, you know what?
This is a response to the previous post.
I've just received an email from the Directorate‑General for Translation...[...etc. etc.]..., DGTRAD for short, in Luxembourg. The content of the message is of bureaucratic nature and not so interesting.
What made my day, however, is the CC field. Deliberately? By accident? Ommission? Neglect? - it contained email addresses of all of my fellow trainees.
Mme Reuter, you know what? I bet your elusive Ukrainian and Greek locataires will appear on the DGTRAD list.
I've just received an email from the Directorate‑General for Translation...[...etc. etc.]..., DGTRAD for short, in Luxembourg. The content of the message is of bureaucratic nature and not so interesting.
What made my day, however, is the CC field. Deliberately? By accident? Ommission? Neglect? - it contained email addresses of all of my fellow trainees.
Mme Reuter, you know what? I bet your elusive Ukrainian and Greek locataires will appear on the DGTRAD list.
Tatakizmus
Gréckokatolícka vierouka, zasadená do prostredia rusínskeho Šariša, so sebou nesie veľmi silný koncept nechávania sa unášať okolitým vetrom. Filozofiu, vyvierajúcu z tradícií rusínskeho náboženstva, pohanských povier a zvykov čergovského pohraničia, som si preto sama v sebe kedysi nazvala ako tatakizmus.
Nepamätám si žiadny iný výraz, ktorý by moji rodičia a prarodičia používali častejšie a s väčšou obľubou, ako povestný povzdych ta-tak. Je bodkou, čiarkou, pomlčkou za čímkoľvek, čo niekto povedal, potvrdením zdieľania denných radostí a starostí. Ide vlastne o hornošarišskú verziu románskeho vanitas vanitatum.
- Ta som si dnes kupila nove čižmy, take pekne, z koženky. Ta- tak.
- Ta taka zima bola dnes v robote, že sme sedeli v kabatoch až do tretej. Ta-tak.
- Sme v nedeľu varili segedinsky guľaš. Ta sa zjedlo všetko. Ta-tak.
Ta-tak je hlboký povzdych nad márnivosťou ľudského snaženia, symbolom vzájomnej solidarity. Vedomie, že človek je prach a na prach sa obráti. Ta-tak.
Nepamätám si žiadny iný výraz, ktorý by moji rodičia a prarodičia používali častejšie a s väčšou obľubou, ako povestný povzdych ta-tak. Je bodkou, čiarkou, pomlčkou za čímkoľvek, čo niekto povedal, potvrdením zdieľania denných radostí a starostí. Ide vlastne o hornošarišskú verziu románskeho vanitas vanitatum.
- Ta som si dnes kupila nove čižmy, take pekne, z koženky. Ta- tak.
- Ta taka zima bola dnes v robote, že sme sedeli v kabatoch až do tretej. Ta-tak.
- Sme v nedeľu varili segedinsky guľaš. Ta sa zjedlo všetko. Ta-tak.
Ta-tak je hlboký povzdych nad márnivosťou ľudského snaženia, symbolom vzájomnej solidarity. Vedomie, že človek je prach a na prach sa obráti. Ta-tak.
3 Mar 2010
So, you've never lived away from home?
Yesterday I went through some serious culture shock.
On the phone in Luxembourg, my future landlady refused to tell me anything about my flatmates-to-be. When asked whether she could send me their emails, so that we could get to know each other before we share a common kitchen, she exclaimed, "have you never lived away from home? I can't give you this information. This is not the way things work."
I guess not. Sharing spoons and plates and dish-clothes, not to mention washing lines, does not entitle you to others' personal information. Or does it?
Maybe it's still the delayed effect of Southeast Asia. Many travel agencies have make-shift offices in the front part of people's bedrooms. Somehow I got used to giving away my personal information, such as country of origin, age, marital status, email address, telephone number, country of birth...
But not once did I feel as used as on the phone with this law-abiding citizen. Looking forward to meeting you in person, Mme Reuter.
On the phone in Luxembourg, my future landlady refused to tell me anything about my flatmates-to-be. When asked whether she could send me their emails, so that we could get to know each other before we share a common kitchen, she exclaimed, "have you never lived away from home? I can't give you this information. This is not the way things work."
I guess not. Sharing spoons and plates and dish-clothes, not to mention washing lines, does not entitle you to others' personal information. Or does it?
Maybe it's still the delayed effect of Southeast Asia. Many travel agencies have make-shift offices in the front part of people's bedrooms. Somehow I got used to giving away my personal information, such as country of origin, age, marital status, email address, telephone number, country of birth...
But not once did I feel as used as on the phone with this law-abiding citizen. Looking forward to meeting you in person, Mme Reuter.
1 Mar 2010
Na laoskej svadbe
(Kúsok knihy, ktorá možno raz bude, možno nie.)
- Party. Stop.
Boli necelé štyri poobede a obaja s Nickom sme na nášho šoféra vypleštili otáznikoplné pohľady. Cesta sa vyvíjala omnoho lepšie, než sme vôbec mohli dúfať, popretkávaná nečakanými udalosťami.
Na veľkom statku pri dome bolo pod šírym nebom rozložených zo tridsať plastových stolov, okolo ktorých sedeli dedinčania. O múr domu bola pristavená aparatúra a DJ práve púšťal tradičnú laoskú muziku. Uprostred dvora asi desať mužov tancovalo spomalený lam lao. Ide o bezkontaktný tanec, pri ktorom najviac pracujú boky, zápästia a paže, ktorými tanečník pomaly opisuje osmičky, do rytmu chytľavej hudby, ktorá mi rytmom a melódiou trochu pripomínala romantické westerny z divokého západu. Takto nejako som si v mysli predstavila prvý pokus o tanec spomaleného eunucha. Muži ladne pochodovali do kruhu, zatiaľ čo ženy posedávali alebo upratovali zo stolov.
Okolo pobiehali deti a mlátili do rytmu prázdnymi plastovými fľašami.
Nevestu som našla až po polhodine. Skláňala sa nad lavórom so špinavými riadmi a práve drhla veľký hrniec od lepkavej ryže. Mala na sebe červený sin, dlhú vyšívanú laoskú sukňu, červenú jednoduchú košeľu a jediné, čo ju usvedčovalo, že sa v ten deň vydáva, boli vlasy vyčesané do kužeľovitého drdola, omotaného zlatými stužkami. Na zápästí, ktoré máčala v saponátovej vode, mala omotaných zo dvadsať bielych nití, symbol manželského puta. Keď som ju s fotoaparátom oslovila, narovnala sa, chvíľu na mňa zízala, potom sa začervenala a ostala stáť ako skamenená. Odfotila som si ju, s kŕčovým úsmevom. Mohla mať tak pätnásť rokov.
Za chrbtom som začula pokriky. Keď som sa obzrela, podnapitý vydajca vliekol na svadobnú fotografiu ženícha. Ten mal na sebe svetlosivé texasky a košeľu, rozopnutú až takmer na pupok. Tiahlo z neho ako zo suda. Bol od nevesty o niečo starší, ale nie príliš. Svadobná fotografia sa podarila. Na pozadí modrého stanu, pod ktorým ženy umývali riady, stála dvojica mladých ľudí, ktorí sa práve vzali, ale stáli vedľa seba ako úplní cudzinci. On sa pozerá kamsi za fotoaparát (asi na kamarátov, ktorých pri stole opustil), a pôsobí tak ušľachtilo, ona má trošku sklonený pohľad a na tvári jej ešte stále žiari rumenec. Takúto fotku by si mohli spokojne vystaviť doma na kuchynskú linku medzi polievkové misky. Nevzala som si od nich ani mená, ani email, ani fyzickú adresu.
Nikomu však nevadilo, že fotky pravdepodobne nikdy neuvidia. Podgurážení a rozveselení svadobčania stáli v rade pri modrom stane a jeden po druhom si odo mňa nechali urobiť svoju vlastnú fotku. En face, z profilu, s manželkami a deťmi, vážne, aj také, na ktorých mi ukazovali rôzne západniarske symboly, napríklad známe Churchillovo véčko za víťazstvo alebo americký znak OK.
Dodnes sa občas pristihnem pri tom, ako plánujem, že im fotky pošlem, v obálke, na ktorej bude uvedené len, niekde medzi Xieng Khouangom a Paksanom leží dedinka s dreveným domom, okolo ktorého je statok. Dňa 20.11.2008 sa tam konala svadba. Samozrejme si tento text najprv nechám preložiť do laosčiny, ale ešte predtým budem musieť nájsť laoského prekladateľa. Alebo môžem fotky poslať do Passassonu alebo Pathet Laos, národných týždenníkov. Možno tam pracuje redaktor, ktorý bude so mnou zdieľať zmysel pre posielanie fotiek ich právoplatným majiteľom. Možno ich uverejní v prílohe Laoská rodina a protagonistov vyhľadajú samotní čitatelia.
Nicka som hľadala o niečo dlhšie než novomanželov. Bol schovaný v hlúčiku Laosanov, ktorí ho kŕmili bravčovým mäsom, lepkavou ryžou a pivom. Čochvíľa išla okolo aj fľaša tvrdého. Nick, ktorý pred pár dňami dostal hysterický záchvat z toho, že má určite maláriu, sa neočkovaný na žltačku napchával po laosky prstami zo spoločného hrnca. Ja som nápojom aj jedlu odolala presne do chvíle, kedy ma prišiel o tanec poprosiť samotný vydajca. Spôsobne sa pred Nickom uklonil, zamumlal niečo po laosky, ukázal na mňa a znázornil niekoľkými pohybmi to, o čo mu ide. Nick mu rovnako spôsobne pokynul, že proti tomu nemá výhrady, a tak som kráčala spolu s Laosanom na trávnikový parket. Na názor sa ma samozrejme nikto nepýtal, ale v tej chvíli to vôbec nevadilo. Možnosť zatancovať si na pravej dedinskej laoskej svadbe som si nemohla nechať ujsť.
O pár kilometrov ďalej do vnútrozemia stredovýchodného Laosu, keď sme prechádzali okolo chatrčí pokrytých palmovým lístím, mi napadlo, či do tohoto zapadnutého kúta Laosu vôbec chodia nejaké noviny. Či tu má vôbec niekto televízor. Či tu má vôbec niekto elektrinu. Či tu vôbec niekomu záleží na tom, aby mali dvaja mladí ľudia svoju svadobnú fotografiu.
- Party. Stop.
Boli necelé štyri poobede a obaja s Nickom sme na nášho šoféra vypleštili otáznikoplné pohľady. Cesta sa vyvíjala omnoho lepšie, než sme vôbec mohli dúfať, popretkávaná nečakanými udalosťami.
Na veľkom statku pri dome bolo pod šírym nebom rozložených zo tridsať plastových stolov, okolo ktorých sedeli dedinčania. O múr domu bola pristavená aparatúra a DJ práve púšťal tradičnú laoskú muziku. Uprostred dvora asi desať mužov tancovalo spomalený lam lao. Ide o bezkontaktný tanec, pri ktorom najviac pracujú boky, zápästia a paže, ktorými tanečník pomaly opisuje osmičky, do rytmu chytľavej hudby, ktorá mi rytmom a melódiou trochu pripomínala romantické westerny z divokého západu. Takto nejako som si v mysli predstavila prvý pokus o tanec spomaleného eunucha. Muži ladne pochodovali do kruhu, zatiaľ čo ženy posedávali alebo upratovali zo stolov.
Okolo pobiehali deti a mlátili do rytmu prázdnymi plastovými fľašami.
Nevestu som našla až po polhodine. Skláňala sa nad lavórom so špinavými riadmi a práve drhla veľký hrniec od lepkavej ryže. Mala na sebe červený sin, dlhú vyšívanú laoskú sukňu, červenú jednoduchú košeľu a jediné, čo ju usvedčovalo, že sa v ten deň vydáva, boli vlasy vyčesané do kužeľovitého drdola, omotaného zlatými stužkami. Na zápästí, ktoré máčala v saponátovej vode, mala omotaných zo dvadsať bielych nití, symbol manželského puta. Keď som ju s fotoaparátom oslovila, narovnala sa, chvíľu na mňa zízala, potom sa začervenala a ostala stáť ako skamenená. Odfotila som si ju, s kŕčovým úsmevom. Mohla mať tak pätnásť rokov.
Za chrbtom som začula pokriky. Keď som sa obzrela, podnapitý vydajca vliekol na svadobnú fotografiu ženícha. Ten mal na sebe svetlosivé texasky a košeľu, rozopnutú až takmer na pupok. Tiahlo z neho ako zo suda. Bol od nevesty o niečo starší, ale nie príliš. Svadobná fotografia sa podarila. Na pozadí modrého stanu, pod ktorým ženy umývali riady, stála dvojica mladých ľudí, ktorí sa práve vzali, ale stáli vedľa seba ako úplní cudzinci. On sa pozerá kamsi za fotoaparát (asi na kamarátov, ktorých pri stole opustil), a pôsobí tak ušľachtilo, ona má trošku sklonený pohľad a na tvári jej ešte stále žiari rumenec. Takúto fotku by si mohli spokojne vystaviť doma na kuchynskú linku medzi polievkové misky. Nevzala som si od nich ani mená, ani email, ani fyzickú adresu.
Nikomu však nevadilo, že fotky pravdepodobne nikdy neuvidia. Podgurážení a rozveselení svadobčania stáli v rade pri modrom stane a jeden po druhom si odo mňa nechali urobiť svoju vlastnú fotku. En face, z profilu, s manželkami a deťmi, vážne, aj také, na ktorých mi ukazovali rôzne západniarske symboly, napríklad známe Churchillovo véčko za víťazstvo alebo americký znak OK.
Dodnes sa občas pristihnem pri tom, ako plánujem, že im fotky pošlem, v obálke, na ktorej bude uvedené len, niekde medzi Xieng Khouangom a Paksanom leží dedinka s dreveným domom, okolo ktorého je statok. Dňa 20.11.2008 sa tam konala svadba. Samozrejme si tento text najprv nechám preložiť do laosčiny, ale ešte predtým budem musieť nájsť laoského prekladateľa. Alebo môžem fotky poslať do Passassonu alebo Pathet Laos, národných týždenníkov. Možno tam pracuje redaktor, ktorý bude so mnou zdieľať zmysel pre posielanie fotiek ich právoplatným majiteľom. Možno ich uverejní v prílohe Laoská rodina a protagonistov vyhľadajú samotní čitatelia.
Nicka som hľadala o niečo dlhšie než novomanželov. Bol schovaný v hlúčiku Laosanov, ktorí ho kŕmili bravčovým mäsom, lepkavou ryžou a pivom. Čochvíľa išla okolo aj fľaša tvrdého. Nick, ktorý pred pár dňami dostal hysterický záchvat z toho, že má určite maláriu, sa neočkovaný na žltačku napchával po laosky prstami zo spoločného hrnca. Ja som nápojom aj jedlu odolala presne do chvíle, kedy ma prišiel o tanec poprosiť samotný vydajca. Spôsobne sa pred Nickom uklonil, zamumlal niečo po laosky, ukázal na mňa a znázornil niekoľkými pohybmi to, o čo mu ide. Nick mu rovnako spôsobne pokynul, že proti tomu nemá výhrady, a tak som kráčala spolu s Laosanom na trávnikový parket. Na názor sa ma samozrejme nikto nepýtal, ale v tej chvíli to vôbec nevadilo. Možnosť zatancovať si na pravej dedinskej laoskej svadbe som si nemohla nechať ujsť.
O pár kilometrov ďalej do vnútrozemia stredovýchodného Laosu, keď sme prechádzali okolo chatrčí pokrytých palmovým lístím, mi napadlo, či do tohoto zapadnutého kúta Laosu vôbec chodia nejaké noviny. Či tu má vôbec niekto televízor. Či tu má vôbec niekto elektrinu. Či tu vôbec niekomu záleží na tom, aby mali dvaja mladí ľudia svoju svadobnú fotografiu.
26 Feb 2010
The Miners of Ijen
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U2NYNdoMtEk
A touching story of miners doing a back-breaking job at the Ijen volcano.
A touching story of miners doing a back-breaking job at the Ijen volcano.
Chimera (a short story)
It was raining hard, water poured down from steep, red roofs of old Prague houses. The storm had started quite unexpectedly, in the middle of a sticky and humid, summer day. The strapless red dress she’d been wearing for the first time was already soaked to skin. For half an hour now, she was hoping for a place to hide and warm up. A few hurried steps further down the street, she spotted a signboard, propped against a tree on the pavement. It only read Chimera: do come inside. The words were being beaten by the streaks of water falling through the leaves. From the window, the café looked cosy and welcoming. Before she realised, its dimmed lights and antiquated furniture lured her inside.
The tune she heard inside made her suddenly think of something. Something she couldn’t grasp, nor understand. She must have heard the song before but she didn’t remember where or when. She’d been in this city for less than a month but this café looked strangely familiar to her. There was no one inside, except for the waiter in a dark-grey old-fashioned suit. He was grey-haired and walked slowly, limping on one foot. He motioned her to sit in a dark-green sofa with Manchester upholstering. Then he brought her coffee and a small towel to cover her shoulders.
It struck her how much this whole scene felt known to her. As if she’d been in this place before, as if this whole afternoon was nothing more than a well-played déjà-vu. The waiter was saying nothing, making her feel special, welcome, expected.
Then, looking around the room, her eyes fell on a small painting, right opposite the sofa she’d been sitting in. At first, she thought it was a mirror. Coming closer, she realised it was an exceptionally detailed oil painting. Her heart almost stopped.
In the picture, a young woman in a red dress was sitting in the very same sofa. Her hair was clearly wet and she had a small, light-blue towel placed on her shoulders. On the table, in front of the sofa was a steaming cup.
The following day, the two women spent hours looking for Chimera. Although they crossed the same streets as she did the day before, there was no sign on the pavement, no café with old-time dark green sofa, no strange paintings on the walls. Chimera had disappeared.
It struck her how much this whole scene felt known to her. As if she’d been in this place before, as if this whole afternoon was nothing more than a well-played déjà-vu. The waiter was saying nothing, making her feel special, welcome, expected.
Then, looking around the room, her eyes fell on a small painting, right opposite the sofa she’d been sitting in. At first, she thought it was a mirror. Coming closer, she realised it was an exceptionally detailed oil painting. Her heart almost stopped.
In the picture, a young woman in a red dress was sitting in the very same sofa. Her hair was clearly wet and she had a small, light-blue towel placed on her shoulders. On the table, in front of the sofa was a steaming cup.
Source: http://fineartamerica.com/images-medium/red-awnings-impressionistic-oil-painting-daniel-fishback.jpg
An hour later, she left the café without a word. Her rational mind was struggling with the events of the afternoon. She decided to sleep on this and come back one day later, with a friend.The following day, the two women spent hours looking for Chimera. Although they crossed the same streets as she did the day before, there was no sign on the pavement, no café with old-time dark green sofa, no strange paintings on the walls. Chimera had disappeared.
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