Cheers Mr. Hemingway.

Soundtrack needed.

Montreal 2012.

                                 
                    

- What’s worse, bad sex or no sex? – asked Gabe.

- No sex! Bad sex!

We answered at the same time. There were seven of us at the table and we were all nodding our heads like we’d had a serious moral issue to resolve. Each of us reached the point of two glasses of sangria, two large jars(!) of drinks, a few beers and visit at the hookah bar. The only problem was - Gabbi and I were still sober. There is something about Montreal’s air. It makes you sober I swear.

Gabe started swinging on his chair and kept going :

-…this one girl, she just laid there – Starfish! He spread his arms and legs at the same time – we roared into laughter but he was already demonstrating the Snail-bed-moves of the other one.  

Look at me, look at me…strutting down the streets of Montreal like a pro and if anyone was surprised it was me. All you hear about Montreal in New York is how beautiful and French it is. Well yeah…sort of. It’s trying really hard, but contrary to Washington D.C the results are rather adorable than tacky. Except for, Café Coffee Starbucks (seriously?!). Montreal won’t sweep you off your feet. It won’t overwhelm you with its architecture and style. Perhaps the only thing, that Montreal has in common with Paris are the names of metro stops. Apparently Canadian accent sounds to the French the same way as Cockney does to Etons graduates. But unlike Paris almost everyone here speaks English. And they’re not snobs about their language either. Montreal looks like any bigger European city but…Stick your nose out of the guidebook and you’ll find out that Man this place is fun. We[1] climbed the hill of Mont Royal and kept finding some grammatically perfect sentences around like : you on fire. The view of the city from the top was worth a climb. We walked down to the Vieux Port and it was so touristy and crowded we left as fast as we came. We switched it for little vinyl shops and two or three stories tall townhouses of the streets of St.Laurent and St.Catherine[2]. We saw the new Batman, without even realising what was going on in Colorado at the time. We discovered nights at La Distillerie, covered with colorful, delicious mixtures that went straight to our moods. They made us ready for the Game Bar where you could find us sitting with pieces of paper tapped to our foreheads or laughing our bottoms off about drawing we just created. We had long conversations of life and death and movies and literature, just when I thought they died for me since I left college.

You know the Canadians, they’re so…nice. Though it’s not like you’re first association with Canadian is – party. Have you ever heard somebody saying:

- Dude I got smashed last week with these Canadian chaps, I haven’t got sober for a week.

Yes?No?
The truth is I had better time in Montreal’s French Quarter than I often do in the Lower East Side. It’s label-less ( Hipster vs Eastsider) ; label-less (Ralph Lauren vs H&M) and label-less (- Oh so you know Steven Klein? No?). In New York we’re tolerant of your beliefs and judgmental of your shoes[3]. In the meantime Quebec is having a marvelous time sipping wine and absorbing fair amounts of fried goods. Perhaps it is the French soul in Quebec. L’Art de Vivre. Culturally they could be a separate country. Away from Toronto. Keep calm and stay away from Toronto. 

And then there was food…the orgasmic crepes with Nutella, topped in caramel bananas at L'Avenue[4]. French toast with berries. And lots of meat. Talking about meat. Steak was a theme of the trip for Gabbi. Poutine with steak in the middle of the night, steak with fries for breakfast, steak for the barbeque, which our kind hosts Maxime and Martin made for us. I don’t have to mention cheese and wine right? The last night of our stay, Gabbi and I skipped the dessert after dinner and went out. We found our way back at 5 am and made a discovery. It was there, just lying on the counter, covered with foil…Maple syrup bread pudding.

- I’ll just have a taste – I said sticking my finger through the golden-sugared top.

- Mmmm it’s goooood…

- Let me try - said Gabbi. Thank God she didn’t bother with a spoon either.

We firmed the edges in a nice looking - nobody has eaten it over night - square and went to sleep. The next morning Gabbi woken up, and found me sitting on the bed,

- Would you like a piece? I said handing her the plate.

K.

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[1] We drove to Montreal from Boston with Matthew and his girlfriend Sarah. In Montreal we met our hosts Maxime and Martin and their friends. Last but not least we met up with Gabbis Haitian high school buddies. Hope to see you all in New York soon!

[2] I stolen the name of the crossroad form Sam Roberts song : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDkwPuOpJlA

[3] I wish I would have come up with this line myself.. It’s again the add for Manhattan Mini Storage  http://jewishphilosophyplace.wordpress.com/2012/05/31/tolerant-of-your-beliefs-judgmental-of-your-shoes-nyc-enlightenment-reason/

[4] http://eatwellmontreal.com/lavenue/

Puerto Rico 2012

 

Abdiel sat down on a rock. He drew up his knees, closed his eyes, took a deep breath. The cave opened to the view of the green valley below and tops of the mountains rising above it. A year ago this place was still a secret spot. This year we were climbing down with people whom Hunter S.Thompson called The beasts of obesity arriving on the cruise ships in search of bowling alleys[1]. They’re brining the noise with them, scaring the bats away, leaving the garbage behind. Abdiel was sitting at the edge of La Ventana cave, exactly the same way he did the day before, in the rain forest[2], while Monika and I were running around, taking pictures like Japanese tourists on ecstasy. The sadness on his face was clear. He could still climb the mountain barefoot, lead me to dive underneath the waterfall, look down on the green valley. But he couldn’t help worrying – was his country going MAC? 

I landed in San Juan at three in the morning. I took a cab to Calle Cruz and as we were heading to the old town, we passed – Burger King, Marshalls, KFC, Planet Fitness…Bloody hell, didn’t I just escape this?!

A week later I sat down in Mallorca Cafe, the local joint on Calle San Francisco. The waiter handed me the menu, and before I even got to open it I asked – In the meantime could I have some coffee please? Small, plain black, thank you! Surprised he glimpsed at me and answered – Can you wait a minute please? I was on New York mode, the - I want this and I want it NOW mode. He wasn’t. And I needed it. Coffee in Puerto Rico is really black - once you go black you never go back. It has a strong, fresh flavour, and it’s made of grains that are being picked up in the mountains not that far away from where you are. It makes New York coffee taste like a bucket of sludge. I ended up ordering  Mallorca with ham and cheese[3] and browsed through the pictures on my camera :  

The fortress of El Morro was built in the 16^th century to guard the entrance to the Caribbean. Legends of pirates, Spanish gold, English fleet. It’s still here, and it made me feel like a little girl dreaming of the hidden treasures again. From El Morro I walked along the ocean shore, passed the crosses of Santa Maria Magdalena de Pazzis Cemetery and sneaked to the shabby streets of La Perla. It's[4] is a tiny little district, squeezed between the massive walls of Old San Juan and the Atlantic Ocean. It’s kind of ironic that slums are the most colorful. You know you’re probably not supposed to enter the street, to whose entrance is guarded by a police station. Somebody gave me a look that could kill, somebody called somebody, somebody gotten in the car. I chickened out and was out of there before I could say plantain.  I saw the dungeons of Castillo de San Cristobal that day and tasted Mofongo for the first time. I remember thinking, how refreshing it was being in a place where not everyone has an I phone, and usually it’s the I phone they’re having dinner with. Puerto Rico is an interesting place. They have two flags, two governments, two languages. They measure distance in kilometers and speed in miles. They’re a separate country which hasn’t got their independence and doesn’t want it either. There are more Puerto Ricans in New York, than they are in Puerto Rico. The Streets of San Juan were empty on the 4^th of July, since it’s a National Holiday and everyone was off. It was like seeing the East Harlem hanging out on a beach. Though it seems like Puerto Ricans care about the 4^th of July the same way Scotts do about Queens Jubilee.

I knew I had to leave the Spanish architecture of the streets of Old San Juan, for the narrow paths of coffee plantations. See the country, eat well, do what locals do.

We rented a car and headed West towards Isabela city. We were driving up and down the hills, passing villages and haciendas. It was like a sigh of relief. The genuine Puerto Rico, was still there. With signs written in Spanish and home cooked meals, staying away of the monstrosity of chain restaurants, soulless hotels and tacky souvenir shops. High in the mountains we found Caguana Indigenous Ceremonial Park. It is considered to be the most important Taino Culture archeological site in the Antilles today. At the beginning of the 16^th century there were between 20,000-50,000 Taino on the island. They were happily living their lives until the Spanish arrived. Within 30 years as a result of decease and slavery the number lowered to -€“ 60. Spanish king ordered to save the lasting population, but the slavery continued - ships from Africa started arriving. Then came the English, and the Dutch…and…It hit me in the head while visiting museum of the Americas that out of thousands of tribes who lived in Central and South America only 22 survived European conquest. Some of them count 500 people.[5] Talking about dying cultures and disappearing languages. If there was ever the time to see it, it is now.

We took our shoes off, walked along the empty beach, the sun was setting down. Palm trees were rustling. The intense blue of the Caribbean water, the sky brightened with orange and pink. The taste of salt in my mouth after the stroke of waves had washed me back to the shore. The laughter of friends picking themselves up to jump into the ocean again and again.

The idea of owning your own time. The switch from - I want it now – to - I am, now.

K.

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[1] Hunter S. Thompson Rum Diary.

[2] El Yunque is the only National Forest in PR. Did you know that the clouds and the amount of rain over there is affected by Saharan Dust?

[3] Pictured above, Mallorca with ham and cheese is an equivalent of American grilled cheese, but it’s served with sweet bread and powdered sugar on top. So good!

[4] Quoting Wikipedia: La Perla was established in the late 19th century. Initially, the area was the site of a slaughterhouse because the law required them and homes of former slaves and homeless non-white servants – as well as cemeteries – to be established away from the main community center; in this case, outside the city walls. Sometime after, some of the farmers and workers started living around the slaughterhouse and shortly established their houses there.

[5] PS. Taino invented a game that is really similar to modern football. Look at that Britain.

In search of Polish chocolate in Greenpoint.

 

 

Gratitude in the Bronx.

Every day my train to the city goes through the Bronx and East Harlem. Last week I noticed a billboard above the warehouses. Gratitude it says. It makes me smile, and perhaps that's its purpose. Or perhaps not, but you have to admit it is kind of ironic to have it written in orange against the brown blocks of one of the New York's worst neighbourhoods.

The pictures are a series of random shots of East Harlem and the Bronx, taken from the train one afternoon.

K.

Rhode Island, 2012.

It was eight of us in a rented RV truck. Actually there was eight of us and Nelson[1]. We were like Schmidt though younger, less depressed and without the dead wife part. It was Memorial Day weekend. On Friday night, after consuming ridiculous amounts of greasy Chinese food, we left Astoria and headed to Foxwoods Casino. I’m not that big of a casino person. That’s one of the many reasons why I still haven’t gone to Vegas. Aren't casinos tacky, stupid, filled with overweight people dressed in over-sized-awfully-patterned shirts and caps? Seriously sad places. Foxwoods was no different. After staring ant the Sex and the city slot machine for a minute, wondering if it was real or not, and seeing cheap looking-fake fountain, settled between Dunkin Donuts and Hard Rock Café – I was done.

The next morning we drove through Connecticut to Rhode Island. Settled in 1639, the city of Newport is surrounded from one side by New England’s green hills, and Atlantic Ocean from the other. Paradise for Victorian Houses lovers like myself. And a playground for the XIXth and XXth century gazillionaires, who built their mansions here. The Astors, Rockefellers and of course Vanderbilts. If you had an equivalent of 350 million dollars for a summer house, you’d definitely be hanging out in Newport. I’m still working on my New Year’s resolution to win the lottery this year, and though I’m trying hard (played all three times) for whatever reason it’s not working out. Plus, everyone can have a good time staying in seventy-bedroom mansion. Try staying in a back of the truck, with seven people and managing, not only not to kill each other, but to actually have fun – that’s a real trick. And so we did. We played volleyball[2], walked miles, including the Cliff Walk – path with cliffs on your left and fences of the mansions on the right. Free Ocean view included. We hanged out in Newport’s downtown, with its port, ships, seagulls and smell of fish. We took the ferry to Block Island and rented bikes and rode all over the tiny island. Magnificent views, wonderful weather (I still have marks of a lobster-looking charm on my skin). Finally – the beach – the feeling of sand between your toes, catching the sun, screaming when dipping the feet in the cold, cold ocean water. We even built a sand castle and were so inappropriately happy not to see skyscrapers for a while. And in the evenings there was some cooking, some card playing and some drinking. Till the Monday hit so quickly and Gabbi and I sneaked out early in the morning to actually see the Mansions. Hunter House, Chateau sur Mer, The Elms, Rosecliff, Marble House – are the names of the finest of the houses, which some of them are still private properties. The most famous and biggest of them all, is called The Breakers. Built between 1893-95 by Cornelius II Vanderbilt, is a fine example of 6000m2 summer cottage. The house comes with 13 acres of gardens, lime-stone and iron fences and Ocean view. If you like that kind of stuff. The house was designed by Richard Morris Hunt (the same who designed the facade of Metropolitan Museum in New York) in Gout Rothschild style. What can I say - it’s gigantic, impressive and very, very pretentious. If Louis XIV lived in America during Gilded Age, he’d probably be staying with the Vanderbilts for the summer. It’s like a mixture of Italian Palazzo and Downton Abbey. The marbles imported from Switzerland, the whole library brought from France. Hand-painted wallpapers, three dressing rooms, I don’t remember how many, beautifully furnished (literally) bathrooms. Makes you want to run to New York and propose to Anderson Cooper immediately. I loved seeing the kitchen and the pantry with all the original furnishings and equipment, and imagining what the life must have been like in a house like this. The Breakers belongs now to the Preservation Society of Newport but the third floor and the furniture still belongs to the Vandebilt family. They stay on the third floor, which is of course closed to the public. Gabbi and I lied down on the grass outside, took some pictures and tried to process the ostentatious amount of the wealth that we have just seen. But what I was also thinking about was – as very impressive as the Breakers is – how I’d love to take my friends to Europe. To show them the castles and palaces of France, Italy and England. Even Poland. To show them the originals. They say money can’t buy you class. But it can buy you style – at least in architecture. But among the many things that money can’t buy, there are history and true cultural heritage. And that’s something I’m very glad I can come back to. Someday.

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[1] Nelson is Anthony’s childhood favorite stuffed animal. He deserves a separate chapter, or a comic book rather. The Adventures of Nelson. All you need to know for now, is that Anthony’s love for Nelson has no limits. When the hurricane Irene had hit New York and Anthony’s district was under mandatory evacuation, he packed his toothbrush, shoes and Nelson. One time, I fallen asleep at Anthony’s, cuddling with Nelson. I woken up at 3am when he (Anthony) was trying to take Nelson away from me. If somebody tells me, that men are big babies, I believe it.

[2] The true version of a story is- the boys and Tamra played volleyball while Gabbi and I were too busy sipping our drinks and taking pictures of THEM playing. Then we made an ambitious attempt of playing badmington (bare-foot on the grass!), and I’m telling you, these small rackets are vicious things after several caipiroskas in the sun.