WOTblog

Speaking Without Tongues

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 07:40:00 +0000

by Jane Monson©

Their conversation rustles in the manner of Edwardian skirts; the talk of the passengers around them clicks like the tap of heels. The sound of sign is of clouds snagging on trees, of a line cast over a river, the distant race of water heading across the stones, the catch of a glug as the stream falls between rocks. Shadows animate the train windows; they puppet the textures of silence, flight-ways of hands catch and knit words mid-air. Rings pick out the light like eyes. Outside, the mammoth breath of cows, the push of crows against the sky, the windblown climb of bough and leaf, the itch and sweep of rain and grass, etch out their talk till dark.

By night, their conversation twins in the glass.

Prose Poem from Speaking Without Tongues (Cinnamon Press: Oct 2010)

Nectarine Upside-Down Cake

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 08:52:00 +0000

1/4 c light brown sugar
3 medium nectarines, sliced
1 c gluten free oat flour
1/2 c buckwheat flour
1 t baking powder
1/2 t baking soda
1/4 t salt
1/2 t ground nutmeg
1/2 t ground ginger
2 large eggs
1/4 c agave syrup
1/8 c olive oil
1/8 c virgin, unrefined coconut oil
2/3 c plain greek yogurt
1 1/2 t vanilla extract
Preheat oven to 375 F

Put oven rack on lowest position. Lightly grease a 9 inch pyrex pie plate with coconut oil. Sprinkle the bottom of the pan with the brown sugar and using the back of a spoon press the sugar down evenly. Arrange the nectarines on the bottom of the plate in the design of your choice.
In a mixing bowl combine the flours, baking soda, baking powder, salt, nutmeg and ginger whisking them until blended.
In a separate bowl combine the eggs and agave and whisk until smooth. Add in the oil, yogurt and vanilla stirring until mixed, then fold the flour mixture into the liquids.
Pour the batter over the nectarines in the pan being sure to spread the mixture evenly.
Bake for 30-35 minutes. It will be done when the top is golden and the cake starts to pull away from the sides. Remove from the oven and use a knife to loosen the cake from the sides of the pan. Place the serving platter over the pie plate and invert so that the cake falls upside-down onto the platter. Let cool and serve.
The cake is best when it is cooled but fresh out of the oven, as the nectarines and sugar lightly caramelize. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy!

Recipe by Christine Curran of Well Being in the Kitchen

Little Sisyphus

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 14:38:00 +0000

by Jane Monson©

The earth parts above its head and light pours through the hole like rain. Until now, the dark had been its roof. Then broken by a crown that could thread the eye of a needle, this smooth patch of mud is undone; unlevelled from below. In one burst, this lowly penny-sized plot of land is given character; from a single shove, a hill is formed; the effect barely more than a pin’s journey through a wall, the plaster behind the paint opened into, the silt falling, moving and settling either side of the wound. Outside, the weight of sun and rock barely felt upon its back, the ant starts to build with the earth. In the journeys between one boulder of soil and the next, paths are being formed. The ant returns again and again to the same hill through crevices, drying lakes and a particularly windblown stretch. Soon the land starts to behave like a place; a setting without a name, where the ant goes about its business, deafening the world below as it works between the light and the dark, carrying the rocks to the top of the hill, grappling its mouth around the earth’s crust, speaking all day in stone.

Dropping the sounds like bombs and starting again.

Prose Poem from Speaking Without Tongues (Cinnamon Press: Oct 2010)

bosphorus sunset

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 14:32:00 +0000

The boat turns round. The Asian shore to the left, so close, slides silent, composed. Restored yalis line the shore; these Ottoman palatial houses have had their wood replaced, some are painted in a sugared almond palette, some in faint butterscotch off-whites, others in rusty red. Some are perched on the lush hills rising close to the Bosphorus. There, they sit alone, serene, engulfed by a sea of green. Their oxide-red keeping them in perennial autumn. Somewhere, the sun is bidding farewell, its light bathing the yalis with the calm intensity of a moment suspended in time. The windows; alight with the last rays, cast back a subdued goodbye before settling for the night. We pass the massive military academy, its long rectangular mass pinned by square towers, their black peak-like roofs standing out against the white body. Further down, the spectacular flame-red sunset unfolding over Istanbul hits my chest and makes me gasp. An invading background, dwarfing the minarets of the majestic mosques, turns the Galata Bridge with its rows of men fishing on the Golden Horn into an inflamed, modern day Canaletto and its hundreds of seagulls, intoxicated by the ignited sky, into directionless arrows piercing the Bosphorus intent on catching the last meal before dusk.

Perseus – Florence

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 08:11:00 +0000

Hunger

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 07:42:00 +0000

by Jane Monson©

She moves in over the land, picks a pebble from her last tide-line and swallows it whole. The earth stirs in grains. Wood baked light from a fire is siphoned from a shallow pit. High on the sand-bank, an abandoned boat begins to expand – in a constant state of drying out, the blue paint splinters in the wind. The dye unfurls over the body, lifts off the wood in little hands. They beg towards the ocean. Stones are varnished with the slide of each wave; nothing dries before the next onslaught. The colours have a sound, of breath held in anticipation. Gulls puncture the air. Trees on the cliff begin to wrench up their roots – the branches tighten over the nests and the birds begin to shriek as the leaves fasten their wings. Sap glues over the bones and the birds begin to slow their fight. Below the land is disappearing; the beach pulled towards the sea like a rug heavy with objects. The effect is of a child’s magic board, written on, pulled, then gone; written on, pulled, then gone.

Roasted Beet and Green Bean Salad

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 15:25:00 +0000

Ingredients:
2 large fresh beets (or more smaller ones)
3 handfuls green beans
mixed salad greens
olive oil
balsamic vinaigrette
salt
pepper

Preheat oven to 400 F

Trim beets and wash them clean. Place them on a baking sheet and roast them in the oven for about 1 hour. (The cooking time will depend on whether the beets are large or small.) Check them with a fork. They should be tender when fork is inserted. When they are ready, remove them from the oven and let them cool.
In the meantime, trim the tips of the green beans, rinse them, and steam them in a pot with a small amount of water, a touch of salt sprinked on them, and a lid. Steaming time depends on how “al dente” you prefer them. Personally I prefer them to still have a good crunch, so I cook them on the short side. Once the water is bubbling give them about 5 minutes and test them out to see if they suit your preference. If so, remove them from the steamer and let cool.
Once the beets are cool, remove their skins with a paring knife, and then dice the beets.
Next cut the longer green beans in half so they are bite-size.
Now you can incorporate your salad ingredients. In a salad bowl combine salad greens, beets, green beans, and season. Sprinkle with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper and toss. The beets will add their own beautiful juice to the dressing as well.
Variations: This salad is also wonderful with a small dash of feta if you each cheese, or you could also add some grapefruit for a bit of tang. In the summer you could use grated raw beets instead of roasting them. It is delicious this way as well. You can also add fresh parsley for a bit of contrast too.

Recipe by Christine Curran of Well Being in the Kitchen

The Speaking Cloth

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 22:26:00 +0000

by Jane Monson©

As she hid her mouth behind her hand, she recalled the woman with the scarf. Someone close to her, who shared her house and once her bed, had told her she was ugly; that her borrowed teeth unsettled conversations, that her mouth was without scaffolding, her face inarticulate, her skin the paper of creased up thoughts. So, one day, as the sun rose and bled between the curtains in a clean gash of light, she took a floral cotton scarf and wound it around her neck and over her mouth. At the sound of his leaving, she appeared and spoke through the scarf, the front of the material puffing in and out according to the thoughts she’d had that day. As her throat fills with the wind and the flowers, she hears the sun, ticking carefully over her head.

Prose Poem from Speaking Without Tongues (Cinnamon Press: Oct 2010)

The Seasoned Listener

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Mon, 31 May 2010 12:10:00 +0000

by Jane Monson ©

The audience are in winter; it is visible in their backs, in the hills they make that lower into the wind and wait for snow. They are stopped from the cold and the hunger bred by silence. They are tightly mooded, curled up in a half listen, the eyes turned inwards and the face down, the floor of the room cast back at them, dimming the skin with shadows. The author stands before them, opens his book, removes his hand from the blanketing of the pages, leans his head towards the print, peers over the view and opens his mouth. His story leaves him, with the apologetic gait of a new boy at school. The small crowd remain unmoved; the breath reserved, a small bare mist that comes and goes. The author moves towards the centre of the page. Men seen from the road play chess outside their doors; the game is balanced on a tilting table that follows the slant of the street; a light shout ensues from the slow slide of a chess piece. Over the page crickets set off their songs like laughter in the dark. Waves bruise the shore. The sky turns and reflects black over the sea. The air freezes. He leaves it there. Rises to show he has finished, and looks out from his book. Stretched before him is the ocean. The audience are gone. The room is pitch black and steel wintered. Something like an echo sounds itself out near his toes. He watches himself listening. Listens to himself watching.

Prose Poem from Speaking Without Tongues (Cinnamon Press: Oct 2010)

Church Falls

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Sun, 16 May 2010 16:53:00 +0000

by Jane Monson
©

The roof quotes Gothic, then Romanesque. The floor understands neither, its aisle stone tongue cracked and splintered, each flag its own fit. The ground looks starved. Rugs are cast like bones; the dips and folds make flesh or skeleton of the faces that pattern the cloth. Each look is of a tight or a loose order according to the flow of the weave. Smoke contorts above the fabric, then cuts out and sinks into the design. Incense fills the unstitched gaps. Stutters from the organ mark the air. The minister opens his mouth as if to yawn, falls away from the lectern; static returns in his voice.
A marble falls from the pocket of a boy and tells us where the rug ends and the stone begins; he lifts another to his smile and swallows it, tugs at his mother’s sleeve. Tugs again.

Prose Poem from Speaking Without Tongues (Cinnamon Press: Oct 2010)

SMALL WORLD©

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 13:01:00 +0000

GASTRONOMIC JOURNEYS

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 14:31:00 +0000

by M.E. Romero

There are many gastronomic traditions in Spain. I'm not talking about famous dishes like paella or tortilla or culinary styles like the über famous tapas, a miniature showcase of abundance reminiscent of roman bacchanals, medieval feasts or royal excesses, conveniently sized to fit modern eating habits and most importantly, all pockets. Gastronomic traditions are a completely different experience to me, they have the attraction of the ritual, they are firmly rooted in the land where they were born, they don't travel well, in fact they don't travel at all, they celebrate local indigenous products and techniques making them impervious to outside experimentation and interpretation. This hard-to-get attitude and the promise of a unique culinary experience is what makes them irresistible. Whilst easily exportable dishes and styles are the reserve of the passive gourmet, traditional culinary experiences are sought out by those who desire to take a journey of a different kind. What makes people travel to Alba when the white truffle season begins to enjoy the exquisite simplicity of fried eggs with white truffle? Is it just to try Alba's best known delicacy? To partake of a gastronomic festivity? To join a seasonal harvest celebration that brings a more modest dimension to our consumer ego?
To me, it's a mixture of all of them and a pinch of the hunter-gatherer nomadic journey to the source.

I've made it a yearly ritual to enjoy a Calçotada in Valls, a town in Tarragona – a province little known to tourists – nestled between Barcelona and Castellon on the Mediterranean coast. Its traditional calçots, a type of re-sprouted giant spring onion that looks like a leek, have been celebrated since the late 19th Century. Calçots go through a lengthy growing process and are harvested between November and March. This delicious onions are consumed massively, usually in large groups or communal calçotadas. The traditional way to cook them is to make a fire on the ground with local vine shoots and spread hundreds of them over the rack until they are thoroughly chargrilled. They are served in the hollow of terracotta roof tiles. There's a "pinching" technique used to undress the creamy white sweet onion that hides inside – any local taking part will guide you with gusto – the calçot is then dipped in a luscious romesco sauce. To eat it you must tip your head back and consume it in one go. The calçots come accompanied with lamb chops, grilled chorizo, white beans, butifarra sausage and barbecued artichokes and lots of wine and cava. The wine is served in the typically Spanish porrón, a rounded glass bottle with a spout and again, you must tip your head back extend the arm holding the porrón and let the wine flow, if you miss your mouth, not to worry, you will have been given a bib on arrival. Calçotadas are a fun and freeing communal gastronomic experience. I hear you can eat calçots in some posh London restaurant these days but quite frankly, I rather get my hands dirty, cover my face in wine and be surrounded by a celebrating crowd in calçot land.
To join in this season's calçotada visit this page.

ABOUT THIS BLOG

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 10:12:00 +0000

We want to bring together some of the immense female energy and creativity scattered around into this melting pot of a blog. Consider it your blog. A communal space where you'll find interesting information and opinions. Made by women contributing from different countries, made by you. A space where women can discuss issues, air their views, share knowledge and have their daily dose of fun and inspiration. A communal blog for those unwilling to build and feed their own blog to send contributions whenever they wish or for those happy to just visit and enjoy. To send your contributions or suggestions click here. All articles will be considered but we cannot guarantee publication.

OPINION –The title says it all. Everyone has an opinion, let us know about yours. You can write about absolutely anything here.

RANT CORNER – Yes, we all get mad at times. Get your anger out, it's healthy. Better out than in.

YOU RECOMMEND – Please, share with us a book, a dish, a bar, a restaurant, a cure for water retention, a spa, a destination...anything you love or swear by.

RECIPES – Here we'll publish our favourite recipes and yours too, send us your own or someone else's. A section to share tasty discoveries.

VISUAL MORSEL – Send us a gorgeous image, please...

LOCAL KNOWLEDGE – Whether you live in a hamlet or a vast city, share with us an insider's story or account of life in your community. There's no limit to expanding one's knowledge about other cultures.

CREATIVE – A mixed bag of inspiration. Anything from short stories to flash fiction, non-fiction, poetry...the sky's the limit.

REGULAR CONTRIBUTORS

We are proud to announce our regular contributors. If you'd like to become one, please, write to us.

Christine Curran is a web and graphic designer, a bodywork therapist, and an avid traveler who loves to cook and bake. She is a vegetarian with vegan tendencies, and loves to create recipes for the gluten-free diet. Christine finds cooking and eating to be a mindfulness practice that influences the well being of her life. For more recipes by Christine you can visit her blog at: http://kitchen.goodfoodforwellbeing.com

Jane Monson works as a freelance writer and teacher. She teaches Creative Writing courses in Cambridge, where she is based, and in Harlow and London. Jane was short-listed for an Eric Gregory award and commended by Poetry London and the New Writing Partnership. She has reviewed poetry collections for Magma, and the British Journal of Canadian Studies. Her poetry is widely anthologised and published in the following magazines: Aesthetica, Magma, The Liberal, Poetry London, and online at Double Room. Her debut collection of prose poems, Speaking Without Tongues is forthcoming (Cinnamon Press, 2010).

Sally Wells, our city-savvy London girl loves life and its many treasures and has had lots of adventures. She is between London and Barcelona. She hopes to stay open to change and to grow wiser and kinder.

M.E. Romero is a full time busy-bee and woman about town, she ranks her curiosity as the number one culprit for her inability to settle into an established community. Amongst many other things, she writes and photographs what she sees under the name of mescal. You'll find many of her pictures scattered around the blog.

CUENCA - JOURNEY THROUGH SPAIN ©

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 22:45:00 +0000

MARJORIE, SKINNY-DIPPING

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 07:35:00 +0000

by Ruth Thompson

There is something about
our bones as we grow old -
they get more porous,
thinner, hollowed out
like those of birds, and light.
Marjorie, already winged
(her bow arm unimpeded)
and poised beside the water
seems likely to take flight
but then, in small swift
movements, sheds
her clothes and plunges in.
Surfacing, hair slicked
back in a heron's quiff,
she gleams - half bird,
half water-sprite

a big thank you to writer Ruth Thompson, participant in WOT's creative writing holidays.

THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF LONGING

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 12:03:00 +0000

By Sally Wells

For me September is the time that really feels like a new year. Everyone rolls back from their summer adventures, suntans are flaunted, holiday stories swapped. Kids go back to school, wearing their winter uniforms, and grown-ups grab an adult education institute’s prospectus to choose a slice or two of enrichment for the autumn. It’s thrilling to be torn between Indian massage techniques or life drawing, or jewellery design, or beginners’ Italian, or choir, or.... there are nearly as many courses as leaves falling from the trees.

It’s almost October now and we’re having an Indian summer. London’s parks are beautiful, full of crackling beds of leaves to scrunch through, and shining conkers to gather. We gathered about three kilos of them on Saturday, and scooted home in the golden light of a low sun, the air so crisp and fresh. It didn’t feel at all like the city centre of the city; in fact I was reminded of my Mediterranean home, and days of big sweaters and sunglasses, silver light streaming across the sea’s slightly rippling surface, the light passing through a beer bottle to make an amber pool on my La Vanguardia. Autumn always provokes nostalgia in me; when I’m in Barcelona I daydream about big brown teapots and crumpets whilst the rain lashes against the panes of a Georgian sash window, or toast and Marmite and toffee apples and sparklers. When I’m in London I remember bright mornings on a terrace with an almond croissant and cafe con leche, or an Estrella and calamares, slowly riding my bike along the Paseo Maritimo.

Nostalgia’s fine, so long as it doesn’t turn into full-blown longing for what you can’t have, souring the enjoyment of life where you are. I’ve been around long enough to know there is no single place or person with everything I want – life’s joys are scattered here and there, not concentrated in one perfect place or person. I acknowledge the world is too varied and vast for one short, small life, and I accept that I won’t live long enough to know it all. Pero bueno...

WOT's WRITING HOLIDAY

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 15:39:00 +0000

A Villanelle composed by the participants of Women On Tour's creative writing holiday who, inspired by the place and the Spanish red wine wrote this:

In the hills the sun will shine

while we slave and work and write
and later on we’ll have some wine.

Outside, the breeze brings scents of thyme
and our writing takes to flight
in the hills. The sun will shine

and the shepherd’s bell will chime
and the plain will flood with light
and later on we’ll have some wine.

We are looking for a sign
and, even if it’s out of sight,
in the hills the sun will shine

as we write this line by line
trusting end will come by night
so later on we’ll have some wine,

but in the meantime here’s our rhyme
in this casa in the light
in the hills, the sun will shine
and, later on, we’ll have some wine.

Passage ©

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 15:04:00 +0000

AYVALIK

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 11:38:00 +0000

by M.E.Romero

‘Is this Ayvalik?’ I ask the driver as he gestures for me to leave the coach.
‘Evet, Ayvalik,’ he replies.
I call Hilal.
‘Alo?’ she asks with her soft voice.
‘Hi Hilal! I’m really sorry to bother you again at work,’ I say embarrassed.
‘That’s ok, don’t worry. Everything alright?’ she asks.
‘Well, I need to get a Hotel room and I don’t want to ask the taxi driver, might end up back in Istanbul!’ I explain . ‘Could you please have a quick look in Google for me?’
‘Sure, give me twenty minutes. I’ll call you back,’ she says.
‘Please, can you make sure that it’s located near the ferry dock? That’ll save me time tomorrow,’ I explain.
‘Sure!’ she confirms.
‘And don’t worry about the cost, it’s just for one night. I want to be in comfort so, five star is ok,’ I say.
‘Ok, I’ll call you back,’ she says.
I spot a cafe by the entrance and sit outside. I get a çay. The tulip glass too hot to handle. The flies an intermittent pain.

The heat is beginning to subside. The sun paints Ayvalik’s coach station in golden hues.

The smell of peynirli tost diverts my attention back to the cafe and I order one. A toastie arrives oozing cheese. I devour it before the flies do.
A man walks about the coach station dispensing orders to uniformed drivers. His stocky trunk precedes him solemnly. His hair is thick and has been given a flat top. So flat and thick it is that you could balance a book on it. His nose shoots down pointedly from the centre of his brow and his eyes are big and round. An owl comes to mind.

Hilal calls. ‘Ayvalik Palas Hotel say that they have applied for stars and are waiting for them,’ she explains. Being the most promising prospect near the ferry dock , I take it.

A white reception greets me. I walk through to the desk. Behind it, a round, balding man sits. I say hello and he replies curtly in Turkish. I try my best with the aid of my dictionary but we just cannot understand each other. I call Hilal, apologising profusely at abusing her hospitality, asking her to tell the man that I need a room for one night.
I offer my mobile to the receptionist – he looks at me confused. I extend my arm even further towards him; shaking the mobile and raising my eyebrows in unison. He takes it.
He warms up to me a bit on the way to the room. He shows me the room and I say harika!- he smiles proudly and nods in agreement; he also thinks the room is wonderful.

Outside, the vanishing sun sets the Aegean on fire.

I check out after breakfast and manage to ask the receptionist if I can leave my suitcase until my ferry leaves. He assents, pointing at the wall. I decide to explore Ayvalik before calling Uğur, Hilal’s friend. Walking down the narrow cobblestone streets, I pass a bakery enticing me with a delicious smell and displaying a myriad of breads. Just baked, they sit tantalising- plump with spinach, peynir and sucuk sausage stuffing. Sesame covered simits line the bottom shelf, looking like edible buoys. Opposite, an unisex hairdressers displays a sign reading ‘Magic Hair kuaför’ and I wonder if owl-man is a customer.

I call Uğur. He’s coming to pick me up with his motorbike. We are going to Cunda beach.

Back in the Hotel, three words and some gesturing suffice, plaj, bikini, tuvalet. The receptionist takes my suitcase. I follow him. He offers me the use of a staff bedroom to change. I thank him profusely. Before leaving, he directs my attention to a square metal plaque attached to the door frame- he flips it towards him then moves it back. He points at the door. I understand that’s the locking device.

I change into my bikini. Ready to go, I pull the metal plaque towards me. It resists. It’s solidly fastened against the door. I try again much harder whilst levering the door handle and pulling towards me. There’s not an inch of movement. I get my fingers on the edge of the plaque, trying to ease them under it, pulling so hard that my eight fingertips turn white. It doesn’t move. I pace around the room. I need to think. I shoot back towards the plaque, determined to get out. Huffing and puffing I try again. ‘Come on you fucker!’ escapes through my clenched teeth. My fingertips become lily white. The door solid as a granite slab, my mouth as dry. I’m sweating. I look around inside my worst nightmare- no windows. A lonely lightbulb sheds a cavernous light. I pace circling the shrinking room. My heart is pumping fast. I need air. How long before I raise the alarm? I’ve got to call the receptionist. I picture him outside, unable to break the door in. He’s too short and fat. He’ll have to call the fire brigade. Is there a local one? My God! I lurch towards the plaque one more time. Nothing. I dial reception, the phone jumping out of my trembling hands. The receptionist answers leisurely talking too much. There’s no time. I interrupt him, ‘ I’m the Spanish woman, listen to me! I can’t get out, please help!’. He’s talking, I understand nothing. I need to let him know that I’m here, I haven’t gone for the day, I’m trapped. ‘ Ispanyol! bikini! still in the room!’. I don’t know what he’s saying. I hang up.

‘Hilal!’
‘Hi! how are you? Did you call my…?’ she begins cheerfully.
‘Listen to me! Please, listen to me! I’m claustrophobic, I’m trapped, in the Hotel!’ I pause, inhaling frantically the soon-to-run out precious oxygen. ‘The door lock…it won’t open!’.
‘Ok, don’t panic, I’ll…’
‘Please listen! Oh my God! I don’t know…which number room, it’s not my room! The lock…it won’t open!
'I’m with you, I’m calling the Hotel now from the landline, I’m here, stay with me,’ she says.
I’m hyperventilating. Unable to stand still I walk to and fro, my arms twitching. I’m drenched. Salty threads run across my forehead finding their way into my eyes.
‘It's ok, the receptionist is coming. In the meantime, he explained to me how to open it,’ she says.
Only, I know it’s a waste of time, it won’t open, it’s stuck!
‘You need to slide the plaque to the right and then pull towards you,’ she explains.
Before she’s finished the sentence, I’ve flicked the plaque open, away from the door, in a smooth, easy movement.

I open the door and a wide-eyed receptionist is waiting there with a woman holding a bottle of eau-de-cologne. I try to look normal. He looks worried and springs into action drying my forehead with his shirt sleeve. He takes my hands, turns them upwards, gets the bottle from the woman and sprinkles a copious amount on my wrists. He shakes the bottle over my head and lovingly spreads the scented water over my hair and forehead with his hand. I feel a tremor gurgling inside. I try to keep it there; to control the spasms travelling upwards, but my smile grows increasingly overstretched until, unable to contain it, I burst out.

Still laughing, I leave the Hotel. Looking at the doctored photo on their marketing flyer, I notice three stars shooting downwards towards the Hotel. ‘I hope he gets them’ I say to myself, having experienced the best five star treatment ever.

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 11:30:00 +0000

BONDING WITH IBIZA

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 16:51:00 +0000

BEST DAYS AND NIGHTS IN BCN
By: Becky Blake

When: Saturday night
Where: El Raval
Who: 2 Belgian friends and me
What: First excursion on my new bike and Festa del Raval

“I’ve got a bike you can have,” said a friend of mine after listening to me complain for the umpteenth time about the unreliability of the Bici system. “Although it might need a bit of cariño.”

Hmm. I knew what that meant. I could picture my future bike, rusty and orphaned, forgotten under a leaky tarp at the back of his roof terrace. “How much cariño?” I asked.
An hour later I was struggling home on the metro with a folding bike that was missing a seat, and a seat post. There was a gigantic lock with no key attached to the back. The tires were flat, possibly from a puncture. The bike was really, really dirty.

I was not feeling super confident about my mechanical skills, but after an afternoon of trips to the ferretería for tools, and to Decathlon for a seat, I felt like I had bonded with “Ibiza” and we were ready to go for our first ride.

I was planning to have dinner with a couple of friends who had also offered to help me with the repair, if necessary. I figured they were going to be pretty impressed when they saw that I had fixed the bike myself! I set off down Passeig de Sant Joan. After a couple of blocks, I was picking up speed and feeling really proud of myself when the seat suddenly tipped skyward causing my bum to descend quickly towards the ground. I gently applied the brakes. Something was wrong.
I very carefully rode/walked Ibiza the rest of the way to my friends’ house.

“Could you guys maybe bring down your tools?” I asked sheepishly, into the intercom.

After my seat was repaired, we headed off for dinner, Ibiza and I taking up more than our fair share of the narrow sidewalks of El Raval. When we got to the restaurant, there didn’t seem to be a good place to park the bike. The only options were a couple of street posts that both had broken chain locks clustered around their bases. Dodgy looking guys were already eyeing my little beauty from the shadows.

“Maybe we can take her inside?” I suggested.

After a bit of huffing and puffing, we managed to get Ibiza folded up and through the restaurant without causing much of a stir. The Bici system was starting to make a little more sense to me.
After dinner, we wanted to go for another drink. But where to go? We all looked at Ibiza who was sitting in the corner and seeming more and more like an unwelcome tag-along friend that nobody really liked.

We started walking through the streets and ended up in front of MACBA where a large crowd was standing in front of a stage. It was just after midnight which seemed like a good time for a show to start. Plus, there was a bike rack. We decided to stay and see what was going on. I locked up Ibiza, giving her a couple of nervous backward glances as I walked into the crowd.

Usually, if there’s an event going on in front of MACBA, it’s going to be something cool. The concert that night was different though. The show began with eight performers in sequined costumes running out on stage and wiggling their sparkly bodies everywhere. There was one performer who looked like it might have been her first time dancing without a pole, and another whose hands kept flicking out at us like the tongue of a lizard. The band seemed to specialize in cheesy pop songs from the 70’s and 80’s, but the crowd was loving it, singing along to Addicted to Love, All Right Now, Highway to Hell, I Will Survive, YMCA, I Feel Good, Simply the Best, Walking on Sunshine.

Some elderly men who were selling warm beer from a makeshift tent informed us that it was the closing night concert of the Festa del Raval. In Barcelona, every neighbourhood has its own special festival during the summer, a chance for all sorts of people from the neighbourhood to come together to celebrate.

In El Raval, this neighbourhood mix means a blend of young and old, dogs and kids, locals and tourists. A chubby guy with a t-shirt that read “Dónde esta mi cerveza?” was getting his groove on in our direction – a cerveza in each hand. Sipping on our own warm beers we gave him the thumbs up, then spent the rest of the night dancing alongside swaying old ladies, skateboarders with rat-tails, and towering Dutch tourists.

When the concert was over, I nervously approached the bike rack. Despite our awkward beginning, I’d already grown attached to Ibiza. I shouldn’t have given her a name! When I saw her tiny frame waiting, I was relieved and promised myself I would buy her a better lock. She was, after all, the perfect companion for a summer in Barcelona. All I had to do was pedal my tipsy, dance-tired body back uphill to Gracia and then we were going places.

YOU RECOMMEND

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 22:55:00 +0000

recommend
Verb
1. to advise as the best course or choice
2. to praise or commend: I would wholeheartedly recommend his books
3. to make attractive or advisable: she has everything to recommend her [Latin re- again + commendare to commend]

THE BAROQUE ART OF SUCKLING PIG STACKING AND A RANCID SHOPKEEPER

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 17:01:00 +0000

by M.E. Romero

I've just come back from a visit to Madrid, a city I only discovered 2 years ago. An embarrasing fact given that I was born there ( by chance as my parents spent only a few years there) and I've lived many years in another Spanish city, Barcelona, close enough to allow many week-end breaks but, as it's often the case, one knows better other countries than one's own.

Madrid has been a pleasant discovery and very timely too. If I had known this city some years back when I was younger and easily dazzled by all things "designer" I would have dismissed it perhaps as a little rancid and passe. As it is, after 20 years living in London and a few less in Barcelona and having experienced the devastatingly bland effects that themed businesses bring about in the name of gentrification, it was a wonderful experience. I found myself realising that the uniqueness of Madrid lies in being able to find glimpses of long gone normality, right in the city centre. By normality I mean small shops that are useful to the community like non-designer butchers or fishmongers, a bar selling calamares sandwiches with not a branded package in sight, or a little shop selling bras and knickers and all sorts of ladies underwear accessories, even garters. Not from a "sexy vixen" style shopfront or from a budoir style interior but from an authentic early 1900's wooden shopfront complete with original etched glass door , perky brass bell announcing visitors and rancid shopkeeper dressed to the nines and topped with a cloud-like maroon hairdo and full make-up.

The centre of the city, around Santa Ana square, is a collection of small – mostly pedestrian – pretty and unassuming streets packed with little gems like a vintage barber shop or the deli bursting with mouth-watering products displaying dozens of different cheeses, cold meats and pates which I couldn't help to visit. It was the sheer beauty and simplicity of its shopfront and interior, covered with old, faded tiles and painted tiles showing seductive ladies holding products so en-vogue in the twenties and now long gone that attracted my attention. A handful of small marble-top tables and an inviting shop-owner couple were the prelude to the best mixed leave salad that I've ever had. An abundant amount of pear carpaccio and Cantabrian goat's cheese sat covered in a drizzle of orange and honey dressing on top of a mountain of fresh, crisp and flavoursome leaves, yum! For seconds, a cold salmorejo ( a gazpacho like summer soup) – big enough for two – was served with crunchy croutons. A couple of huge Ribera del Duero red wine glasses later and the best was yet to come...the bill, it was so low that it required a second take, at 18 euro I found myself counting the times I've been ripped off before ( still counting two weeks later).

Heading towards the Plaza Major I bumped into the oldest restaurant in the World, Casa Botin. I headed towards the door which was promptly opened by a smiling waiter – a rarity in Barcelona. The main rooms date from 1725 and the basement from 1590. The waiters invited me to look around. I was attracted to a large hatched door, it's top half was opened framing a vision that carried me beyond reality. The walls of a small room were covered in shelves, on top of them there were terracotta dishes, each of them containing a spatchcok suckling pig roasted to a honeyed glow that matched the light of the room. In all its goriness it had an artistic baroque feel to it and I was transported to Hieronymus Bosch's painting The garden of Earthly Delights and to be more precise to its right-hand panel representing the lugubrious precincts of Hell in which the damned souls are being submitted to all sorts of torments. I saw the cook handling a long oven pole at the end of which was a smiling piglet lying spread-eagled inside a furnace, oblivious to its torment.

I walked out into Madrid's fierce July sun inspired and ready for an ice cold beer.

RANT CORNER

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 23:01:00 +0000

"He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth."

E.M. Forster: A room with a view

BITE-SIZE LONDON

noreply@blogger.com (Wot) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 12:00:00 +0000

by Sally Wells

Our City-savvy London girl, Sally Wells says... whether you’re just visiting, new in town or an old regular, don’t let London overwhelm you.

The sheer enormity of London can feel intimidating, but if you centre your activities on any one day around a small, manageable part of it, you can keep a sense of perspective and realise that it’s just a series of villages, all with their own focal points and local inhabitants.

For a cheering and car-free destination in the centre, I recommend the South Bank. There are so many moods along the way, from the Design Museum beyond Tower Bridge to the Festival Hall just behind Waterloo. Whatever the weather, in a sociable or a solitary mood, I find something along the South Bank of the river to satisfy me. If you look at an out-of-date guide book you won’t hear about it. Years ago it was a bleak and under-exploited part of town with few places of fun to attract the crowds; over the past decade I’ve watched it develop a really good scene, with a busy and non-threatening vibe. Even it if wasn’t well and truly on the map these days, I’d still be telling you about it. Keeping cool places secret unto oneself is kind of mean, don’t you think?

One day I might be foraging at low-tide and walking home in the rain with my pockets full of smooth, white rounds of chalk. On a sun-block and shades type day I might be meeting a friend on the terrace of the Founders Arms , a great spot for catching a few rays with a view of St Paul’s as a backdrop. Check out the Printmaker’s Gallery just behind it. The Oxo Tower galleries often have an exhibition opening to see, and when I want to escape the milling crowds I slip into Bernie Span gardens and do some rolling about on the lush, soft grass. It’s easy... sit down with the soles of your feet together and hold onto your ankles. Lean over to your right side until you roll right over, then harness some of the momentum and tilt to your left.... it’s fun and therapeutic and this is London so people nobody cares or stares!

Gabriel’s Wharf has some sweet and funky shops, an antidote to the usual retail chains without being precious and over-priced. There are places to eat al fresco and sculpted wooden toys to sit on for children aged 3- ish to 90. Between Gabriel’s Wharf and the Festival Hall there are a couple of urban beaches, and you never know what’s going to be happening there. Sand sculpting, dancing to DJs, kids paddling... Carry on to the National Theatre where the summer season of music, theatre and circus events entertains outside for free every summer, watch the skateboarders, browse the book stalls under Waterloo bridge, see a film at the BFI cinema... listen to a band in the Festival Hall’s foyer. Eat noodles, buy music, laze about with a drink and watch the meandering, international crowds.

WOTblog

Speaking Without Tongues

Nectarine Upside-Down Cake

Little Sisyphus

bosphorus sunset

Perseus – Florence

Hunger

Roasted Beet and Green Bean Salad

The Speaking Cloth

The Seasoned Listener

Church Falls

SMALL WORLD©

GASTRONOMIC JOURNEYS

ABOUT THIS BLOG

CUENCA - JOURNEY THROUGH SPAIN ©

MARJORIE, SKINNY-DIPPING

THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF LONGING

WOT's WRITING HOLIDAY

Passage ©

AYVALIK

Autumn in Greece ©

BONDING WITH IBIZA

YOU RECOMMEND

THE BAROQUE ART OF SUCKLING PIG STACKING AND A RANCID SHOPKEEPER

RANT CORNER

BITE-SIZE LONDON