Winter Senses.

I have greatly enjoyed this Saturday afternoon, walking through West London, visiting the Design Museum and musing over the “Ferrari: Under The Skin” exhibition.

I have greatly enjoyed walking back home from my local tube, feeling the crisp and cold winter air. It reminded me of Scandinavia and of when I was thinking of moving there for a couple of months to better experience their lifestyle.

“And what is so wrong with being personal anyway?”*

J: “It wasn’t personal.”

K: “What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means was that it wasn’t personal to you. But it was personal to me. It’s personal to a lot of people. And what is so wrong with being personal anyway?”

J: “Nothing.”

K: “Because whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal.”

*The time that Kathleen Kelly, Meg Ryan’s character, nailed the issue of taking things personal(ly) in “You’ve Got Mail”, Warner Bros, 1999.

The Wall.

Today I learned that one way of breaking down a wall, in this case physical limits, is to stay on the path and push through – the desire to stop when you arrive at the point on the path where you normally do tend to take a break; the desire to say that you will break those limits tomorrow or on another occasion. The feeling that you will literally die if you push yourself just that bit further.

I pulled myself from the ladies’ locker room today, went up the flight of stairs to where the treadmills are in the gym and ran another 10 kilometers, because I knew I could not go home without giving myself the victory over this now-to-be-beaten boundary and breaking the promise I had made to myself that I would break through the 15 kilometers mark two weekends ago.

The New York Marathon takes place on the 4th of November 2018. There are numerous other walls and limits to push through until then, including the walls and the limits that are associated with the actual day of the event. But I have seen runners push through those last few miles of the marathon on previous occasions in New York and they seem more exhilarated by the prospect of finishing their race than by the pain they have endured to get there.

That marathon has a finishing line – and I will cross it in nine months’ time. This is resolve, not arrogance.

The rest is process.



“Dirty Martini, Dirty Bastard.”

Ever since Samantha Jones threw a Dirty Martini in Richard Wright’s face in Series 5 of Sex and the City, managing to relatively cool off after catching him eating another woman’s “sushi” and probably receiving a lot of “Yeah, Samantha!” praises from the women watching from behind the screen, the said drink has somehow been top of mind – should I ever need to throw something in a guy’s face and get even – for a variety of reasons – or simply get a drink.

And so it happens that I managed to get a first sip of the vindictive liquor in the American town of Fredericksburg, Virginia, last autumn, as I went out for dinner with a close friend and her fiancé. I was told they made good Martinis in the respective restaurant – and indeed the glass that was offered included the right proportion of vodka, vermouth, olive brine, not to mention the adequate olive. My Martini was alcoholic enough to be … well, alcoholic, and bitter-y enough to make sure I didn’t get drunk straight away, which is always a 10 out of 10 probability given my infantile consumption of alcohol. The Brits find it shocking.

This first experience was enough to make me want to take additional sips of this dirty drink, which I managed to do just fine on a recent party in Shoreditch, when I consumed a whopping! two glasses. Though I have to confess, that on this occasion there was perhaps a little too much vodka and the olive brine was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it did not want to get in the glass, who knows? Hm.

And most recently, I am pleased to say that I have started my 2018 with a somehow late brunch at The Hoxton near Holborn. Food and flat white almond latte later, I felt like a drink to wash down the calories and sophisticatedly welcome in the New Year. Therefore, I went for – you guessed it – a Dirty Martini with gin instead of vodka. I will most likely not repeat the spirits combo again and keep to the traditional vodka – I am surprised with myself right there – but one thing is for sure.

There are plenty of Dirty Martinis in this girl’s future social opportunities. Let’s just hope the potential men will not give me the opportunity to throw it in their face. Yes, I did just say that. And yes, you should take it literally.

In the event of this (unlikely?) situation, as flight attendants would put it, let’s allow Sam to show us how it’s done.

Men + white socks = Big “No-no”, please.

They say fashion is always changing, but aren’t we supposed to learn from our mistakes? Or does that apply to our personal and professional lives only?

I beg to differ I am hereby typing out loud a question that has been on my mind for a couple of months now: where have all these young men in their white socks come from?

We have been telling men for the past twenty something years that the colour of their socks should ideally match that of their trousers, jeans or shoes and be, the occasional exception aside, non-white.

Is there some sort of an 80s revolution (should I say, involution) happening in the world right now, with men rebelling against the non-white rule and sporting white socks ideally with above-the-ankle jeans and Nikes, just so you see all of that sock and all of that whiteness? Kind of like in a Colgate commercial? (Shot in Shoreditch?)

Could we go back to black and manhood, please? The John Travolta Grease age is so over and you’re no Andy Murray on the courts at Wimbledon sweating it out for a world tennis championship title either.

Sorry. Not sorry.

In the words of a friend who recently told me she lost it at the sight of a Whole Foods opening up in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, “I can’t even deal”. She’s American, so in British English that translates as “It is very upsetting” or even “Quite troubling”. Which means it is really serious business, indeed.

Avenues of Bones.

In my many walks around London this spring and summer, I have come across a forgotten part of this city. Its disused cemeteries.

These cemeteries were used from medieval times and up to the 18th century, when they became overflown and the administration ordered them closed and others built outside of the central part of town.

Cemeteries pushed outside of Central London aside, the reality is that the city is sprinkled with the graves of the past. There are graves sprinkled randomly in between two residential buildings near Blackfriars Bridge. I wouldn’t like to see them if I looked outside my window at night. There are some other graves and mortuary stones sprinkled in a garden not far from St Paul’s Cathedral (again, to give residents something fun to look at night). For sure, graves are under our feet when we walk down the street. It is just that there is no stone to mark them as such.

Back to the old cemeteries for now and to the places that have captured my attention.

Bunhill Row, near Old Street. The resting place of William Blake, Daniel Defoe and John Bunyan, of another 150,000 souls and possibly the most spoiled pigeons and squirrels in the world.

Cross Bones, Southwark. A fence full of mortuary memorabilia signals the presence of this cemetery: cards, photos, ribbons left by those who have lost someone greet visitors at the gate. Cross Bones has been disused for some time now as well, however it is known in London as the cemetery of the destitute. Throughout medieval times and later centuries, it became a burial place for those who society could not bury in “mainstream” places: prostitutes, their babies, and thieves. Of all the cemeteries I have seen this year, this one seemed the saddest. 

St Anne’s Church, Soho. The interesting part about this cemetery is that it lies 2m above ground level due to the high number of people that have been interred here. There are no mortuary stones to signal its existence, only a serene patch of green turf to cover its grounds. As such, it is one of the places that you pass by without much awareness of what lies beneath the ground.

“Going To See The David.”

There is a lot of hype around Florence and its cultural treasures. Rightfully so, as the city was the home of the Renaissance and of all its creative minds and they have left a living treasure behind.

For this reason, every morning is a cultural rush around the streets of Florence and an attempt to grab a spot at the front of the queues that align outside of the Accademia, the Gallery of the Uffizi, and all other significant locations in the city.

For the same reason, every one who joins in the queues shares the same feeling of excitement that, at the end of an hour’s wait or at the end of two hours’ wait, there will be at least a piece of internationally acclaimed art to look at.

The one that did it for me was the sculpture of David by Michelangelo. It is a masterpiece in its own right and the shining star of the Accademia. It is waiting for visitors on its own pedestal and graces them with its presence from afar and close by. They say that the Gioconda looks like she is looking at you from every angle. With “The David”, as the Italians refer to it, it feels like you want to look at it from every angle. – And you want to go around and around it lots of times.

Face to Face with The Grand Master.

I decided several years ago that Salvador Dali was going to be my favourite painter for life. What does “for life” mean? It means for as long as I live.

There is a certain fluidity to his art, with all the different shapes flowing not only into one another but also into the background and all else on the canvas. This fluidity means that you can never stop interpreting his work, which is exactly what you need when you interpret art.

And it is this fluidity that draws me in, keeps me interested and also gets me confused. I swear Dali paintings play with your mind as much as they play with your artistic eye, which only adds to their beauty and to the interest they trigger in people.

On my recent visit to Tate Modern, I came face to face with three of the master’s works – and I was flabbergasted. The only reason I moved away from them was to let other people take them in, too.

A Black & White Welcome.

We don’t usually like to say or think that things are black and white. It feels like we are leaving a lot of options behind and we are being pristine about our choices. So we move in between the black and the white and we choose some shades of grey and then some shades of other colours to give us choices until we feel we have a complete spectrum.

I didn’t feel the need for additional colour options at Tate Modern. The building of one of the most representative art institutions in the UK is black and white. The halls, the corridors, the exhibition rooms all have high walls and high ceilings, making the monochrome set-up even brighter. It is true that the way finding around the gallery is in a variety of colours, but it only punctuates the blackness and the whiteness. It does not take away from it.

Probably one of the most impressive buildings I have ever seen, the Tate Modern also reminded me of the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

It is a good idea to use black and white in museums. It invites people in and puts the focus on the art.

I Have Developed A Pavlovian Relationship With Italian Food.

Courtesy of my recent trip to Florence and of the splendid food I experienced on the occasion, my salivary glands go into overdrive whenever I hear or see words such as “Italian Food”, “Italian Restaurant”, or “Tagliatelle al salmone” in my proximity.

I was planning on a relatively innocent weekend, at least in as much as going out and eating out is concerned. Saturday lunchtime yoga class done and dusted, subsequent sauna session done and dusted, I underwent a quick decision-making process as to what I should be doing with the rest of the day. And The Other Art Fair on Brick Lane came out a winner.

On my way there on Aldgate High Street, a lovely restaurant window caught my eye. It sported some finely cured meats and jars full of delicacies. You know the kind I am talking about: those jars with carefully and simply-executed packaging that make you think that the goose and all its golden eggs are tucked in inside.

Then my eyes rolled onto the inside of this mysterious place, through the window, falling on a sign that read “Tagliatelle” and something else. Bells went ringing and the whole digestive alarm went off when I actually noticed that I had been inspecting an Italian restaurant.

Satyrio opens at 5pm on Saturdays, so my visit at The Other Art Fair was a mix between taking in all the beautifully talented work that was on display and asking myself “Is it 5 o’clock yet?”.

Alas, it finally struck 5pm and I made my way decisively and intently towards the restaurant that I could not get out of my head and that was promising to delight my taste buds. I can say for sure that I was their first client this Saturday afternoon, as I arrived promptly around 5 and a half and already had my mind set on a serving of tagliatelle with whatever they had on the menu.

I opted for tagliatelle with king prawns and truffles, which washed down beautifully thanks to a lovely glass of white. I loved the flavours on the plate, the juiciness and the softness of the prawns and the taste of the truffles, although in hindsight the only thing I would have liked done differently is for all of this goodness to arrive in a bigger-sized dish.

I even went for dessert and a decaf espresso after my meal, which transported me back to August and to the mornings I spent at La Menagere sipping my coffee and taking in the life of the nearby streets.

In addition to making and selling Italian food, Satyrio is also a wine shop. Its wall full of bottles of “Bacchus’s finest liquor” is something else. Pity their sommelier was off duty when I visited – I would have picked his brains about some of their wines.

I left Satyrio feeling happy with my overall experience and wanting to return. Now I just need to work out how to marry my love for dining out, Italian dining out, and instant gratification with a sense of moderation. It sounds very Marcus Aurelius of me, but when in Rome…

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