I was on the search for a new book. I remembered someone had recommended a website for books based on setting and wanted to find it again. I was on a different computer and I couldn't get it to come up.
Then I was on the train coming back from Madrid and in my usual way I'm always jealous of the people commuting who have reading material. I decided to search for my next book on my phone.
I did a search for books by location since I couldn't remember the name of the website and I found this very interesting library mystery list based on locations in the world. (Murder in Far Away Places.) Well, I got interrupted talking on the train, so I didn't finish my perusal of the list.
When I got home on the computer I decided to find that library website and finish looking, but when I did the exact same search, nothing like that came up. In fact the original website I'd seen months ago came up. It definitely is worth a look if you're trying to find a look by location. It has a mystery category but also has books in general by their setting. Books set in
What I find so interesting about this is that on different devices doing the exact same search on Google is resulting in different list. Drastically different. I knew that push marketing and algorithms were at work when I searched, but I always assumed they were somehow pushing the real things I was looking for. After this experience, I have lost faith in Google and push marketing in general. It must be working for them. For me, I know I've seen things that interested me in the side bar push marketing way, but rarely have I bought from there.
When a search has the top color bar of people who have paid to come up first, I avoid those sites unless I'm totally not finding my desires in the list that I assumed were more organic choices below. Now I'm not really sure about any of it.
The same search - a different device - and I couldn't get the same page to come up. Who made you Google or anyone else for that matter the keeper of what I really want or what I'm really looking for? I know in theory they are trying to help me find things faster, but it's disturbing.
03 June 2013
26 May 2013
Fado and other emotions
Fado is a traditional music from Portugal. Other than a curious measure or two of music online I had no experience with it. Living in Spain I have more exposure to Flamenco music, so I found it a fun exercise to contrast and compare the Iberian peninsula's folk music recently.
I went to a concert of Minha Lua in la Sala Galieo Galilei in Madrid. I would never have found this on my own but an actor in one of our work projects knew my husband likes world music and he suggested we go hear his friend sing Fado. It made me feel very connected which is very Spanish, but it's a rare thing for me.
Flamenco music is accompanied by dancing. More dancing than singing it seems sometimes and it's full of violent emotions. The dancing is a stomping generally on a wooden surface for maximum volume. The stomping becomes part of the beat of the music. It's hypnotic and in a way shocking for the pure emotion of the thing. It is generally strong themes, love, love lost, why'd you leave me kind of stuff. I suppose it is the country music of Spain but with no relation to US country music in style.
Here's a link to a polished recording of some flamenco. Even though this was done specifically for camera you get a feel for the emotion of the music.
Flamenco has a sort of gut-level emotion sensation. I've been in a performance where the woman's emotion was so strong that the young man at my table was visibly embarrassed even though he couldn't understand the words that cried out why, oh, why did you leave me.
So if Flamenco is emotion, I'd say it has sadness and anger in it. Perhaps of sense of having been done wrong.
The Fado music (mind you this is my own experience here) was deep, deep emotion too. Each song seemed to have the ability to tug on a string in your soul. It pulled deeply sad emotions from you. The singer Vicky Cruz of Minha Lua translated some of the songs into Spanish so I understood some. It was a lot of love lost, loneliness, and poetry. It too was pure emotion but without the anger. Soul wrenching sadness. There was no dancing -- that's not to say that they don't ever, but it doesn't appear to go hand in glove with the Fado like it does the Flamenco.
It was a lovely evening. Vicky was accompanied by a cello and a guitar and it was beautiful, touching and full of emotion. Turns out my phone videos won't upload, so here's a link to the group.
Minha Lua
I went to a concert of Minha Lua in la Sala Galieo Galilei in Madrid. I would never have found this on my own but an actor in one of our work projects knew my husband likes world music and he suggested we go hear his friend sing Fado. It made me feel very connected which is very Spanish, but it's a rare thing for me.
Flamenco music is accompanied by dancing. More dancing than singing it seems sometimes and it's full of violent emotions. The dancing is a stomping generally on a wooden surface for maximum volume. The stomping becomes part of the beat of the music. It's hypnotic and in a way shocking for the pure emotion of the thing. It is generally strong themes, love, love lost, why'd you leave me kind of stuff. I suppose it is the country music of Spain but with no relation to US country music in style.
Here's a link to a polished recording of some flamenco. Even though this was done specifically for camera you get a feel for the emotion of the music.
Flamenco has a sort of gut-level emotion sensation. I've been in a performance where the woman's emotion was so strong that the young man at my table was visibly embarrassed even though he couldn't understand the words that cried out why, oh, why did you leave me.
So if Flamenco is emotion, I'd say it has sadness and anger in it. Perhaps of sense of having been done wrong.
The Fado music (mind you this is my own experience here) was deep, deep emotion too. Each song seemed to have the ability to tug on a string in your soul. It pulled deeply sad emotions from you. The singer Vicky Cruz of Minha Lua translated some of the songs into Spanish so I understood some. It was a lot of love lost, loneliness, and poetry. It too was pure emotion but without the anger. Soul wrenching sadness. There was no dancing -- that's not to say that they don't ever, but it doesn't appear to go hand in glove with the Fado like it does the Flamenco.
It was a lovely evening. Vicky was accompanied by a cello and a guitar and it was beautiful, touching and full of emotion. Turns out my phone videos won't upload, so here's a link to the group.
Minha Lua
13 May 2013
Do you hear what I hear?
Have you ever noticed the explosion of sound when you close your eyes? I went to have my hair done at a nearly empty shopping center. Normally I practice my Spanish and try to chat with the beauty technician, but I decided to close my eyes and listen.
I'm working on a senses edit of my next novel trying to add another layer to the story of the five senses. I must be a majorly visual person. I never thought of myself that way, but I find it takes a big effort to focus on elements of a scene besides what I see in my mind's eye.
When the lady started putting the color on my hair, I decided to close my eyes and listen. I enjoy getting my hair done though I am a lot lax about doing it regularly. I find someone else combing my hair to be very relaxing so I slipped into a semi-somnambulant state.
The easiest thing to hear was a baby screaming somewhere in the mall. They always scream in confined places, don't they? Airplanes, weddings, shopping centers, church. When the baby took time out, I heard a soft buzz of adult conversations, probably upstairs on the restaurant level. The foil on my head made lot of rattling sounds and the brush applying the color made a pounding sound inside my head that accompanied the rattle of the foil.
In lulls between the plastic comb and paint brush applicator clacking together ad the foil rattles, I sometimes heard music from a nearby shop. Not enough to identify a song, but the beat or a crash of symbols, a high note. In the quiet there is also a big echoing sound of air in the mall. I suppose it's just the big enclosed space sound a whoosh of air and motion.
When I slipped deeper and concentrated harder, I could hear the purr of a motor. It reminded me of a quiet house when the refridgerator kicks on, but it's a beauty salon and there are no refridgerators. I can't really identify that sound and if I don't concentrate on it, it disappears again from my consciousness. I smell the strong smell of the ammonia in the hair color and maybe a hint of food from upstairs. Even the scents are more notable with my eyes closed.
The other girl in the shop moves some chairs and they make scootching sounds against the tile floor. Like they think I'm really asleep, she and the lady working on my hair exchange a quiet mumble that I don't catch all of. Something about sharing something, food maybe?
I hear voices nearer probably of people walking nearby on this level and the occasional race car sound and motor from a child's ride in motion.
So a quiet shopping center with few people in it actually turns into a cacophony of sounds when you unplug your brain and your eyes and listen and smell. So what can you hear?
I'm working on a senses edit of my next novel trying to add another layer to the story of the five senses. I must be a majorly visual person. I never thought of myself that way, but I find it takes a big effort to focus on elements of a scene besides what I see in my mind's eye.
When the lady started putting the color on my hair, I decided to close my eyes and listen. I enjoy getting my hair done though I am a lot lax about doing it regularly. I find someone else combing my hair to be very relaxing so I slipped into a semi-somnambulant state.
The easiest thing to hear was a baby screaming somewhere in the mall. They always scream in confined places, don't they? Airplanes, weddings, shopping centers, church. When the baby took time out, I heard a soft buzz of adult conversations, probably upstairs on the restaurant level. The foil on my head made lot of rattling sounds and the brush applying the color made a pounding sound inside my head that accompanied the rattle of the foil.
In lulls between the plastic comb and paint brush applicator clacking together ad the foil rattles, I sometimes heard music from a nearby shop. Not enough to identify a song, but the beat or a crash of symbols, a high note. In the quiet there is also a big echoing sound of air in the mall. I suppose it's just the big enclosed space sound a whoosh of air and motion.
When I slipped deeper and concentrated harder, I could hear the purr of a motor. It reminded me of a quiet house when the refridgerator kicks on, but it's a beauty salon and there are no refridgerators. I can't really identify that sound and if I don't concentrate on it, it disappears again from my consciousness. I smell the strong smell of the ammonia in the hair color and maybe a hint of food from upstairs. Even the scents are more notable with my eyes closed.
The other girl in the shop moves some chairs and they make scootching sounds against the tile floor. Like they think I'm really asleep, she and the lady working on my hair exchange a quiet mumble that I don't catch all of. Something about sharing something, food maybe?
I hear voices nearer probably of people walking nearby on this level and the occasional race car sound and motor from a child's ride in motion.
So a quiet shopping center with few people in it actually turns into a cacophony of sounds when you unplug your brain and your eyes and listen and smell. So what can you hear?
06 May 2013
Patron huh?
I live in a village in Spain. Friday was patron saint day in the village. I had no idea what that meant. I came home from work and took the two Spanish dogs that live with me for a walk. Before we left, I noticed that little local cathedral bells were going off at an unusual time and at an unusual level of volume.
We walked toward our usual dirt track on the edge of town which is along a ridge of hills. The intensity of the bells from the cathedral was so loud that it bounced off the hills and sounded as if the hills actually were ringing bells. It was a startling acoustic sensation and I actually stopped to look in case there was something there.
Since the bells were continuing for such a long time, I decided to veer off our dirt path into the village main streets just to see if there was anything to see. I don't really know what patron saint day means but I figured something was going on nearby.
I reached a main roundabout that converges five roads and has flags from the Madrid region, the EU, the village, etc. As I crossed the big road on the red elevated crosswalk, I noticed that loads of people, surely the whole village, was walking uphill toward the cathedral. They were converging here at the round about taking the calle to the church. They were all dressed up, like wedding in Spain dressed up which is serious. Lots of high heels, dresses, the men all had on suits. My jeans and two dogs got some dirty looks from the older ladies, so I decided to walk across them and go another way rather than join the stream.
I worked my way uphill in the village thinking I'd get above the cathedral and look down on the crowd. Meanwhile the bells are still going. People were driving into the tiny side streets searching for parking and frantically putting on suit coats as they trotted down to the church. When you are from a village in Spain or your family is from a village, you come back for important days. Looks like Patron Saint day is one of them.
I was startled to see an older lady with a cane not dressed up and wandering around like me. I said the customary "hola" but as I chose my cross street she stopped me. Over the bells, she hollered in my ear about not wanting to go that way or I'd end up right in front of the entire "public." She asked me where I lived.
For some reason, I find this hard to explain in the village. Of course I know my street address, but people tend to say by areas. I can't seem to memorize mine - I've never seen it written out since it's sort of local slang. I always try to say I live by the park. The park is Arroyo de Tesoro. Treasure brook, I suppose would be a translation. I'd call it wild cat, ditch with water-sometimes park. Well, I managed to croak out, "treasure." She says where? I say "By the park, treasure park." I can really freeze up in Spanish and sound like an idiot. She got the idea and told me to go down and turn the other way. I obeyed. It seemed best even though I wanted to see what was going on.
I was by the stinky trashcans by the fish shop when another family crossed in front of me. One woman had a Muslim head covering and style of dress but could easily have been Spanish from her appearance. The rest of the family was in jeans and regular Spanish whatever Friday afternoon clothes. Then I noticed they're speaking Arabic. Okay, nobody in our village does that and we're a long way from downtown Madrid.
The bells stop and fire works start exploding up by the church. The two dogs start trotting and as the fireworks escalate, they are dragging me two-horse team style down the street toward home. We did make it safely if somewhat surreal-y.
I decided to walk to the grocery shop for some diet coke. At the round about by the stinky trash cans, I see that all these dressed up people I saw before are marching behind a procession statue of Jesus on the cross. So I walked up to where they are stopped by the bank. When I get close, they have stopped the procession and all the dressed up people who have babies are trying to balance them on the side of the statue platform and take their pictures. So this is really unusual for a girl from Kansas, and terribly interesting, so I whip out my camera and take pictures and then decide to do a video.
I'm panning the crowd and the music starts and I realize I'm filming my neighbors. Nice one. The weird American neighbor lady who doesn't know how to behave appropriately. How many times have you seen a neighbor going down the street and you stop to take their picture? Hmmm. Going to chalk this up to a very interesting cultural learning day.
We walked toward our usual dirt track on the edge of town which is along a ridge of hills. The intensity of the bells from the cathedral was so loud that it bounced off the hills and sounded as if the hills actually were ringing bells. It was a startling acoustic sensation and I actually stopped to look in case there was something there.
Since the bells were continuing for such a long time, I decided to veer off our dirt path into the village main streets just to see if there was anything to see. I don't really know what patron saint day means but I figured something was going on nearby.
I reached a main roundabout that converges five roads and has flags from the Madrid region, the EU, the village, etc. As I crossed the big road on the red elevated crosswalk, I noticed that loads of people, surely the whole village, was walking uphill toward the cathedral. They were converging here at the round about taking the calle to the church. They were all dressed up, like wedding in Spain dressed up which is serious. Lots of high heels, dresses, the men all had on suits. My jeans and two dogs got some dirty looks from the older ladies, so I decided to walk across them and go another way rather than join the stream.
I worked my way uphill in the village thinking I'd get above the cathedral and look down on the crowd. Meanwhile the bells are still going. People were driving into the tiny side streets searching for parking and frantically putting on suit coats as they trotted down to the church. When you are from a village in Spain or your family is from a village, you come back for important days. Looks like Patron Saint day is one of them.
I was startled to see an older lady with a cane not dressed up and wandering around like me. I said the customary "hola" but as I chose my cross street she stopped me. Over the bells, she hollered in my ear about not wanting to go that way or I'd end up right in front of the entire "public." She asked me where I lived.
For some reason, I find this hard to explain in the village. Of course I know my street address, but people tend to say by areas. I can't seem to memorize mine - I've never seen it written out since it's sort of local slang. I always try to say I live by the park. The park is Arroyo de Tesoro. Treasure brook, I suppose would be a translation. I'd call it wild cat, ditch with water-sometimes park. Well, I managed to croak out, "treasure." She says where? I say "By the park, treasure park." I can really freeze up in Spanish and sound like an idiot. She got the idea and told me to go down and turn the other way. I obeyed. It seemed best even though I wanted to see what was going on.
I was by the stinky trashcans by the fish shop when another family crossed in front of me. One woman had a Muslim head covering and style of dress but could easily have been Spanish from her appearance. The rest of the family was in jeans and regular Spanish whatever Friday afternoon clothes. Then I noticed they're speaking Arabic. Okay, nobody in our village does that and we're a long way from downtown Madrid.
The bells stop and fire works start exploding up by the church. The two dogs start trotting and as the fireworks escalate, they are dragging me two-horse team style down the street toward home. We did make it safely if somewhat surreal-y.
I decided to walk to the grocery shop for some diet coke. At the round about by the stinky trash cans, I see that all these dressed up people I saw before are marching behind a procession statue of Jesus on the cross. So I walked up to where they are stopped by the bank. When I get close, they have stopped the procession and all the dressed up people who have babies are trying to balance them on the side of the statue platform and take their pictures. So this is really unusual for a girl from Kansas, and terribly interesting, so I whip out my camera and take pictures and then decide to do a video.
I'm panning the crowd and the music starts and I realize I'm filming my neighbors. Nice one. The weird American neighbor lady who doesn't know how to behave appropriately. How many times have you seen a neighbor going down the street and you stop to take their picture? Hmmm. Going to chalk this up to a very interesting cultural learning day.
 |
| Can you see the babies being held up there on the right? |
28 April 2013
Foster Dog
I was ready to leave this morning in a long flow-y sweater that I had to take off to clean up diarrhea from the attic floor. Sigh. Mini-Moo-Mora couldn't hold the special treat of some meat we gave her last night.
About six weeks ago, we got talked into being foster dog care givers. A lady in our Spanish village had watched our dog to raise funds for the rescue society here. Yolanda then started talking to us about foster caring a small dog in the rescue system. I guess Yolanda usually takes in the large dogs and this little one really needed to be somewhere else.
Since we had a little dog and they had gotten along while at Yolanda's house, she thought it was a good fit. Enter into our lives: Mini.
Mini had been found on the street abandoned, pregnant, malnourished and full of bugs. She had been restored to health and is seeking a home. When I went to the ASCAN facebook page and website I saw no record of Mini. Turns out in her original home she was Mora (blackberry) Thus we dubbed her Mini (as in miniature) - Mora.
I noticed some little cream cups I had displayed the name brand: Mini-Moo, so her name continues to mutate. Mini-Moo-Mora. Moocher would not be a bad one to add to that either. She's perpetually hungry after her street life.
She has anxiety about being separated from us and we spent several weeks having rather fussy bedtimes which we have now resolved. It involves a game of hide and seek with some dog food that occurs after we turn out the lights and shut the door.
Mini also had issues with not wanting to go to the bathroom in our "yard/garden" which has no grass. Mini needs grass to do her business. So despite being house broken when she came to us, we've passed a few weeks in confusion about where is a good place to go. We had it conquered until the diarrhea set back this morning, but she's definitely getting the hang of it.
So we've met several people in the village, when we've been on walks, who were part of Mini's rescue. They all love her - you can't not love her because she is so loyal to anyone who is kind to her after her abandonment. They all warn us about being cautious about finding a home for her. Apparently there is a lot of dumping dogs that goes on here still and that the police don't really do much about it.
After all the warnings, we are nervous about finding her a home.
Mini joins Dulcinea who is our Spanish pound adoptee dog that we've had for six years and is a joy for us, but we never imagined being a two dog household. Oh dear. Not sure where this is going. Anyone want a super loyal dog? We think she's part pit bull and part dachsund because she's as stout and compact as they come. 8.5 kilos of tough muscly love!
Dulcinea on the left, puffy in a winter coat, black and delicate, Mini on the right, all muscle and she lets Dulcinea win.
About six weeks ago, we got talked into being foster dog care givers. A lady in our Spanish village had watched our dog to raise funds for the rescue society here. Yolanda then started talking to us about foster caring a small dog in the rescue system. I guess Yolanda usually takes in the large dogs and this little one really needed to be somewhere else.
Since we had a little dog and they had gotten along while at Yolanda's house, she thought it was a good fit. Enter into our lives: Mini.
I noticed some little cream cups I had displayed the name brand: Mini-Moo, so her name continues to mutate. Mini-Moo-Mora. Moocher would not be a bad one to add to that either. She's perpetually hungry after her street life.
She has anxiety about being separated from us and we spent several weeks having rather fussy bedtimes which we have now resolved. It involves a game of hide and seek with some dog food that occurs after we turn out the lights and shut the door.
Mini also had issues with not wanting to go to the bathroom in our "yard/garden" which has no grass. Mini needs grass to do her business. So despite being house broken when she came to us, we've passed a few weeks in confusion about where is a good place to go. We had it conquered until the diarrhea set back this morning, but she's definitely getting the hang of it.
So we've met several people in the village, when we've been on walks, who were part of Mini's rescue. They all love her - you can't not love her because she is so loyal to anyone who is kind to her after her abandonment. They all warn us about being cautious about finding a home for her. Apparently there is a lot of dumping dogs that goes on here still and that the police don't really do much about it.
After all the warnings, we are nervous about finding her a home.
Mini joins Dulcinea who is our Spanish pound adoptee dog that we've had for six years and is a joy for us, but we never imagined being a two dog household. Oh dear. Not sure where this is going. Anyone want a super loyal dog? We think she's part pit bull and part dachsund because she's as stout and compact as they come. 8.5 kilos of tough muscly love!
13 April 2013
Reading ratings. How many stars?
I like to read. In recent years I've taken to trying to share that with others on Good Reads and some on Amazon. I'm not real active but it's fun to share and look for new books. I started tracking what books I read each year about four years ago, but last year I started rating them for myself on my list as well as trying to rate them on Good Reads.
After some time of doing this, I noticed that my rating system seems to be quite different than other people's ratings. I think I may be quite stingy with stars but that's not how it feels in my head. I'm curious how other people view their own rating system.
For me a three star *** rating, is a basic average book. I enjoyed it but there was nothing that blew me away. Four stars **** I reserve for a book I really enjoyed or found the writing really exceptional or perhaps the plot and suspense were really good for me. I know that is really subjective and even is influenced by my mood.
For example, I rarely feel in the mood for a historical book, but I often read them and quite enjoy them, but that's seems not to be my first choice. Though when I had access to bookstores, I did find myself picking one up after browsing around in the mystery section. One I'm interested in getting at the moment is based on Charlotte Bronte as a main character. I love the real Bronte's writing, so it would be fun to learn more about her through some fiction.
Back to the stars -- a five star ***** rating is reserved for my favorite books of all time. So this is a rare thing for me to give out. A precious gold sort of thing. You'll find few in my Good Reads pages. Sometimes they only go to a book I read a long long time ago that has never left me.
Two stars ** or one * are very rare as well. I feel bad to give them because to me they are not so good. Two** is a book that I did enjoy some but was poorly written or too predictable and one star * I wonder why I bothered to finish.
I did in the last year or so take up quitting books. In the past I never did, but if I'm not into it or it's too easy to see where it's going and not cleverly written, well, I move on. It's a new enough idea, I still feel somewhat guilty about it, but I've given myself permission. I do not rate books that I do not complete.
When my first book came out and started getting ratings on Amazon, I was delighted by several five star ***** ratings by complete strangers I might add, not my best friends. (Killed in Kruger) But stars are free and some people aren't stingy like me. I noticed also on Amazon one of my three star *** ratings was a bit negative and in my head three isn't bad.
I also saw on Good Reads someone give a one star to a book saying it was worth the read but wasn't a great book, which is totally different than my version of a one star.
So I ask myself if they are free why am I so tight with my stars? I know I will take a recommendation from someone who merely liked a book or enjoyed it. They do not have to say it is a new favorite or anything to convince me. I also feel self conscious about recommending things to people. I want to know I liked it before I can recommend or that a trusted friend or resource recommends it if I haven't personally read it. A lot of marketing sites all the authors promise to recommend each other's books, but I feel I have to read them first.
What is your system of stars? Or do you have a different way of rating books? All these online networking sites mostly give us stars as our way to rate. I wonder if I should change my ways, but then that doesn't seem fair to all the books I already rated!
After some time of doing this, I noticed that my rating system seems to be quite different than other people's ratings. I think I may be quite stingy with stars but that's not how it feels in my head. I'm curious how other people view their own rating system.
For me a three star *** rating, is a basic average book. I enjoyed it but there was nothing that blew me away. Four stars **** I reserve for a book I really enjoyed or found the writing really exceptional or perhaps the plot and suspense were really good for me. I know that is really subjective and even is influenced by my mood.
For example, I rarely feel in the mood for a historical book, but I often read them and quite enjoy them, but that's seems not to be my first choice. Though when I had access to bookstores, I did find myself picking one up after browsing around in the mystery section. One I'm interested in getting at the moment is based on Charlotte Bronte as a main character. I love the real Bronte's writing, so it would be fun to learn more about her through some fiction.
Back to the stars -- a five star ***** rating is reserved for my favorite books of all time. So this is a rare thing for me to give out. A precious gold sort of thing. You'll find few in my Good Reads pages. Sometimes they only go to a book I read a long long time ago that has never left me.
Two stars ** or one * are very rare as well. I feel bad to give them because to me they are not so good. Two** is a book that I did enjoy some but was poorly written or too predictable and one star * I wonder why I bothered to finish.
I did in the last year or so take up quitting books. In the past I never did, but if I'm not into it or it's too easy to see where it's going and not cleverly written, well, I move on. It's a new enough idea, I still feel somewhat guilty about it, but I've given myself permission. I do not rate books that I do not complete.
When my first book came out and started getting ratings on Amazon, I was delighted by several five star ***** ratings by complete strangers I might add, not my best friends. (Killed in Kruger) But stars are free and some people aren't stingy like me. I noticed also on Amazon one of my three star *** ratings was a bit negative and in my head three isn't bad.
I also saw on Good Reads someone give a one star to a book saying it was worth the read but wasn't a great book, which is totally different than my version of a one star.
So I ask myself if they are free why am I so tight with my stars? I know I will take a recommendation from someone who merely liked a book or enjoyed it. They do not have to say it is a new favorite or anything to convince me. I also feel self conscious about recommending things to people. I want to know I liked it before I can recommend or that a trusted friend or resource recommends it if I haven't personally read it. A lot of marketing sites all the authors promise to recommend each other's books, but I feel I have to read them first.
What is your system of stars? Or do you have a different way of rating books? All these online networking sites mostly give us stars as our way to rate. I wonder if I should change my ways, but then that doesn't seem fair to all the books I already rated!
30 March 2013
Solidarity and rip offs
We went to Milan for work a couple weeks ago. Our days weren't completely full so we decided to be tourists and go to the big cathedral called the Duomo. It is an amazing forest of stone pillars. It's an immense space. We didn't pay the 3 Euros for the special arm band that allowed you to take photos, so you'll have to look online or take my word for it. It's really something to see.
It also had a crypt room in the lower level that had a mystical other worldly feel and it was beautiful to look at as well. Dimly lit, lots of gilt and stone benches around a central marble coffin. It almost felt like people were there. A watchful feel seemed to permeate it.
Since we were too cheap to do the photo pass, this next story probably won't surprise you either. As we approached the cathedral from the metro -- a short plaza walk in the rain, several gentlemen from Africa approached with bracelets. One fellow was very persistent and laid one across my arm. I said no I didn't like it. I didn't it was yellow, and pink, and red, and all colors. I'm more of a black and brown person in my wardrobe tastes.
The African kept saying it was a gift. It was gift. It was free. I knew these were scams to get money so I was fighting him. He managed to tie the thing on me with me trying to pull my arm away. The whole time saying it was free and it was solidarity with Africa. I already have solidarity. I don't need a bracelet.
Once he let go of my arm and we tried to walk off, he demanded some kind of money from my man. We gave in and gave him something, but it was aggravating me the entire time I was in looking at the Duomo. Just sell the bracelets, don't con people. Next time that happens I'm going to call for the police I think, because I know they are illegals and will likely back down and leave us alone.
Later leaving the film festival was an African woman who had bracelets and I was completely rude to her because of my earlier experience. Then I felt bad, because I'm a nice person and I'd like to handle things better than getting conned at one stop and being rude to the next huckster.
The rest of the trip was nice. It rained on us pretty much the entire time. Kudos to the street hucksters who came out in droves with umbrellas. That's offering a service people want. The evenings were pretty with the reflections off the shiny cobblestone streets. The last night we came out of the theater to find a hundred people or so standing around the glassed in shop of a gelateria/bar. We thought there must be a celebrity in there so we crowded in too. Turned out everyone was watching the TV monitor over the bar waiting for the newly announced pope to make his first appearance. The shop got tired of the crowd and turned off the TV to a large group moan from the street.
We rode a street car one night back to the hotel. It was all shiny wood benches and was built in 1928 (?more or less) and a lovely little old lady reading a James Rollins book helped us make our stop or we'd have missed it.
I was reading a Michael Dibdin, Auelio Zen novel, Cabal, which had it's dynamic end in the galleria alongside the Duomo where we had lunch one day so it was a nice touch to my trip.
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| Duomo, Milan |
It also had a crypt room in the lower level that had a mystical other worldly feel and it was beautiful to look at as well. Dimly lit, lots of gilt and stone benches around a central marble coffin. It almost felt like people were there. A watchful feel seemed to permeate it.
Since we were too cheap to do the photo pass, this next story probably won't surprise you either. As we approached the cathedral from the metro -- a short plaza walk in the rain, several gentlemen from Africa approached with bracelets. One fellow was very persistent and laid one across my arm. I said no I didn't like it. I didn't it was yellow, and pink, and red, and all colors. I'm more of a black and brown person in my wardrobe tastes.
The African kept saying it was a gift. It was gift. It was free. I knew these were scams to get money so I was fighting him. He managed to tie the thing on me with me trying to pull my arm away. The whole time saying it was free and it was solidarity with Africa. I already have solidarity. I don't need a bracelet.
Once he let go of my arm and we tried to walk off, he demanded some kind of money from my man. We gave in and gave him something, but it was aggravating me the entire time I was in looking at the Duomo. Just sell the bracelets, don't con people. Next time that happens I'm going to call for the police I think, because I know they are illegals and will likely back down and leave us alone.
Later leaving the film festival was an African woman who had bracelets and I was completely rude to her because of my earlier experience. Then I felt bad, because I'm a nice person and I'd like to handle things better than getting conned at one stop and being rude to the next huckster.
The rest of the trip was nice. It rained on us pretty much the entire time. Kudos to the street hucksters who came out in droves with umbrellas. That's offering a service people want. The evenings were pretty with the reflections off the shiny cobblestone streets. The last night we came out of the theater to find a hundred people or so standing around the glassed in shop of a gelateria/bar. We thought there must be a celebrity in there so we crowded in too. Turned out everyone was watching the TV monitor over the bar waiting for the newly announced pope to make his first appearance. The shop got tired of the crowd and turned off the TV to a large group moan from the street.
We rode a street car one night back to the hotel. It was all shiny wood benches and was built in 1928 (?more or less) and a lovely little old lady reading a James Rollins book helped us make our stop or we'd have missed it.
 |
| The galleria |
16 March 2013
Window or Aisle?
I'm a good flyer, love it. Until recently I always chose a window seat as I enjoy watching take offs and landings. I like to look out my portal window as we go and see the changing color of the landscape and the quilted patterns of the countryside.
The last few years my knees protest if I hold still too long. Movies, theater, flying. It hits rather suddenly, so I like to have the option to get up when I want. I've also had to fly for work more often and so do more solo flying which has also pushed me to opt for an aisle seat.
You would think as a seasoned traveler there would be no difference for me except the location of the seat. The last few flights I noticed a strange thing.
When I cannot look out the window and get my bearings so to speak of which way is up and which way is down, all those things that go bump during a flight seem to spook me. The clunk of the landing gear coming up? Window seat: no pasa nada. I glance out and keep reading or look at the clouds. Aisle seat: strain to see out, only see white. Is the plane okay? Are we going forward? Down?
Now, this anxiousness is very light and I often laugh at myself, but I have noticed a lot more jumpiness when I can't SEE what's going on. It's not like the window seat is in the cockpit, but it's reassuring somehow to see the ground way down there and staying where it's suppose to be.
I won't give up my aisle seat I don't think, but my preference is flying with a companion in the two seat on the side scenario, so I can have both the view and the aisle. Which one do you prefer?
The last few years my knees protest if I hold still too long. Movies, theater, flying. It hits rather suddenly, so I like to have the option to get up when I want. I've also had to fly for work more often and so do more solo flying which has also pushed me to opt for an aisle seat.
You would think as a seasoned traveler there would be no difference for me except the location of the seat. The last few flights I noticed a strange thing.
When I cannot look out the window and get my bearings so to speak of which way is up and which way is down, all those things that go bump during a flight seem to spook me. The clunk of the landing gear coming up? Window seat: no pasa nada. I glance out and keep reading or look at the clouds. Aisle seat: strain to see out, only see white. Is the plane okay? Are we going forward? Down?
Now, this anxiousness is very light and I often laugh at myself, but I have noticed a lot more jumpiness when I can't SEE what's going on. It's not like the window seat is in the cockpit, but it's reassuring somehow to see the ground way down there and staying where it's suppose to be.
I won't give up my aisle seat I don't think, but my preference is flying with a companion in the two seat on the side scenario, so I can have both the view and the aisle. Which one do you prefer?
15 February 2013
Valentine Dinner at Restaurante Rayuela
We chose the special menu for two at a tiny place near us in Alcala de Henares, Spain. It was classic but gourmeted up Spanish cuisine. Each plate was decorated with sauces in the shape of a heart. This was really yummy sauces in a place where sauce is rare so it was fun.
Starters
Shrimp on a stick fried in a shredded pastry like this but not sweet. I don't know what it's called.
Croquet de Jamon, homemade. It is a dried ham and bechamel sauce coated and fried. You can get these at nearly every restaurant in Spain but the homemade ones are best.
A little taste of the USA. Quesedilla of ground beef and a rich creamy melted cheese.
Salad: I can't remember all the Spanish words. It was goat cheese somehow toasted or carmelized on one side, tomato compote, mixed greens and raddichio (also unusual in a salad in the common places here), pumpkin seeds, tomatoes, and delightful mix of basalmic vinegar gel and other vinegars and oils and something slightly sweet. The flavor mix was really good.
First Course
Gula, gambas, y trigueros. That is baby eels (not real ones but think fake crab sticks), shrimp, and green asparagus, in a creamy sauce, sort of like a pasta with a sauce on it only baby eel sqigglies instead of spaghetti. This was some advanced eating for me.
Main Courses (yes there were two!)
Chiperones and yummy sauces. Here's a picture in case I can't explain. It's a tiny relative of the squid. The leggie bits have the ink in them and are a stronger flavor. Not my favorite bits. But the tiny meat steaks of the bodies were grilled and the Spanish prepare them so well. They are a common food here.
The next plate was a lovely plate of aged beef, a bit of gristly cut but again grilled very nicely with crunchy bits of sea salt on it. Very tasty and done what to me was pretty rare but that's what they call medium here "a punto" at the point of being cooked. It came with a tiny decorative dollop of mashed potatoes.
For dessert we had a rich gooey brownie with nuts and a scoop of homemade vanilla bean and I think amaretto ice cream.
Keep in mind each of these was a single plate that we shared but I assure you we did not go hungry at all. It was typical type of foods of Spain but dressed up. I understand that a more gourmet approach is coming en vogue here aand I think this was a taste of it but right here in our own corner of Madrid without going downtown.
Starters
Shrimp on a stick fried in a shredded pastry like this but not sweet. I don't know what it's called.
Croquet de Jamon, homemade. It is a dried ham and bechamel sauce coated and fried. You can get these at nearly every restaurant in Spain but the homemade ones are best.
A little taste of the USA. Quesedilla of ground beef and a rich creamy melted cheese.
Salad: I can't remember all the Spanish words. It was goat cheese somehow toasted or carmelized on one side, tomato compote, mixed greens and raddichio (also unusual in a salad in the common places here), pumpkin seeds, tomatoes, and delightful mix of basalmic vinegar gel and other vinegars and oils and something slightly sweet. The flavor mix was really good.
First Course
Gula, gambas, y trigueros. That is baby eels (not real ones but think fake crab sticks), shrimp, and green asparagus, in a creamy sauce, sort of like a pasta with a sauce on it only baby eel sqigglies instead of spaghetti. This was some advanced eating for me.
Main Courses (yes there were two!)
Chiperones and yummy sauces. Here's a picture in case I can't explain. It's a tiny relative of the squid. The leggie bits have the ink in them and are a stronger flavor. Not my favorite bits. But the tiny meat steaks of the bodies were grilled and the Spanish prepare them so well. They are a common food here.
The next plate was a lovely plate of aged beef, a bit of gristly cut but again grilled very nicely with crunchy bits of sea salt on it. Very tasty and done what to me was pretty rare but that's what they call medium here "a punto" at the point of being cooked. It came with a tiny decorative dollop of mashed potatoes.
For dessert we had a rich gooey brownie with nuts and a scoop of homemade vanilla bean and I think amaretto ice cream.
Keep in mind each of these was a single plate that we shared but I assure you we did not go hungry at all. It was typical type of foods of Spain but dressed up. I understand that a more gourmet approach is coming en vogue here aand I think this was a taste of it but right here in our own corner of Madrid without going downtown.
12 February 2013
Travel food hoarder
When I travel, for some reason I go into a food hoarder mode. It's not really conscious but I accept every bit of food offered me and keep it in my bag. I seem to have some deep seated idea that I don't consciously acknowledge that I don't know where my next meal is coming from so I bettter be prepared.
I recently took a late flight out and felt queazy while I was waiting so I bought some crackers. The moderately sized packet went in the bag after I had a few. I always buy my survival water as soon as I'm thru security, so that goes in the bag too.
On that trip, I arrived at a hotel and they messed up my entry key and it was 1 a.m. and they felt bad so they gave me a candy bar. Normally I'm not much of a candy bar person, but into the bag it went. There were complimentary cookie packets in the room. I ate one to take some medicne - and you guessed it into the bag with the rest.
The next day I caught a ride with some local friends to a city where we were to attend meetings. The local guys brought no nourishment for the journey and were amazed as I kept pulling things out of my bag and had enough for all three of us to have snacks on the way.
On a flight last week, they gave out little single cookie packets and I ate one and saved one, because you never know. The girl next to me offered hers and I took them and squirreled them away. So I had cookies for my sojourn, but I'm still packing those cookies two flights later. You never know, especially these days, if the airline will starve you or when a strange nautious moment might hit.
I have never as far as I know been deprived in the food category. I have been deprived of transportation or experienced a lack of nearby stores, so maybe my hoarding comes from that fear of no access.
The funny thing is I often arrive home with my little treasure trove of food stuffs and if there is no food in the house they may get eaten that first day. It's still simple survivalmat that point. If they don't get eaten that first day home, the hoarded cookies, pretzels or yogurt will languish and likely get thrown away months later, and yet I hoard as I go.
Are you going to eat that packet of peanuts? (I don't like them much, but you never know.)
I recently took a late flight out and felt queazy while I was waiting so I bought some crackers. The moderately sized packet went in the bag after I had a few. I always buy my survival water as soon as I'm thru security, so that goes in the bag too.
On that trip, I arrived at a hotel and they messed up my entry key and it was 1 a.m. and they felt bad so they gave me a candy bar. Normally I'm not much of a candy bar person, but into the bag it went. There were complimentary cookie packets in the room. I ate one to take some medicne - and you guessed it into the bag with the rest.
The next day I caught a ride with some local friends to a city where we were to attend meetings. The local guys brought no nourishment for the journey and were amazed as I kept pulling things out of my bag and had enough for all three of us to have snacks on the way.
On a flight last week, they gave out little single cookie packets and I ate one and saved one, because you never know. The girl next to me offered hers and I took them and squirreled them away. So I had cookies for my sojourn, but I'm still packing those cookies two flights later. You never know, especially these days, if the airline will starve you or when a strange nautious moment might hit.
I have never as far as I know been deprived in the food category. I have been deprived of transportation or experienced a lack of nearby stores, so maybe my hoarding comes from that fear of no access.
The funny thing is I often arrive home with my little treasure trove of food stuffs and if there is no food in the house they may get eaten that first day. It's still simple survivalmat that point. If they don't get eaten that first day home, the hoarded cookies, pretzels or yogurt will languish and likely get thrown away months later, and yet I hoard as I go.
Are you going to eat that packet of peanuts? (I don't like them much, but you never know.)
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