Excerpt from My First Press Junket

Okay, it's not the Frost/Nixon interview. But there's the Interview Me thingy going around Bloglandia right now, and when I saw there was an opportunity to be questioned by my blog crush, julochka, I thought now's the time, especially being on the Staycation and all.

Below are julochka's questions and my answers, and then at the end are the rules if you'd like to be the next Barbara Walters' special via me.

***

julochka: if you could throw a shoe at anyone, who would it be and what kind of shoe would you throw?

You know, at first I thought this was going to be the easiest question to answer, and then I realized how many layers and options there might be. Also, I'm going to a Big Lebowski bowling birthday party soon, so bowling is on my mind right now, as well as what I'm going to wear. So I also keep thinking about rolling a bowling ball at someone. Anyway, back to your question.

First off, you have to decide what kind of shoe to use. Now I know in the past I mentioned a certain pair of stilletto heels that I would toss, but after really giving this some thought and thinking about the value and beauty of those shoes, I could never throw them. Anyone I would throw shoes at would merit an old pair of really stinky Keds that I had for a while that I wore without socks. They got pretty ripe. For extra impact, I'd probably load the Keds with some small rocks, and maybe even work a dog poo into the mix.

Then I would hire a baseball pitcher (I don't know jack about baseball, so I'd have to do some research) to actually throw the shoe. Because if I were granted an opportunity such as this, with the way I'm liable to throw, I certainly don't want to miss my target.

I know now I'm supposed to pick one person to throw my rock laden stinky Ked at, but choosing just one thing is never something I can do. Keeping the list under 10 is a challenge.

High on the list, depending on availability, are: Jerry Fallwell (I know he's dead but I still despise him), Rush Limbaugh, Anne Coulter, the two despotic cheerleaders from junior high school who were so incredibly cruel to me, and maybe Dick Cheney. I say maybe because I have this Big Lebowski scenario where at the end of the alley would be Cheney, The Shrub, Condoleeza, Rumsfeld, Gonzales-- who else am I forgetting here? How can I be drawing a total blank?-- and I'd get Jesus, the John Turturro character with his purple jumpsuit and his hairnet and his coke nail, to throw a perfect strike and nail all of those bastards. Whew, even in fantasy that feels good.

ps. If you want to throw a shoe at The Shrub (kind of old news now, but hey), you can do it virtually here at Sock and Awe. I am not very good yet, but I'll keep practicing.

julochka: you are a self-professed science girl...why didn't you study science-stuff and become a famous scientist?

This is an interesting question because I (again) have several answers. One being that when you're in college, you don't know what the hell you want to do. At least, I didn't for a couple of years. Luckily, I fell in love with printing and that gave me exposure to a variety of science courses that I was required to take, including materials sciences, physics, both kinds of chemistry, and biology. I think at the time I was so wanting to get out of college and start working that the thought of going for anything more than a BS was out of the question. I also gave myself short shrift... I'm a lot smarter than I gave myself credit for, and I just assumed that I couldn't handle the really hard classes. Or perhaps I didn't find the branch of science that really made me want to commit to it. Even today, I enjoy reading a book about quantum physics as much as I do about cell biology or even some of the social sciences.

That being said, there's a romance and a passion for scientific inquiry that anyone can have and I think that's what draws me to science because it is not only full of discovery and hard work and luck, but also training the mind to think and not live in a fairy tale. Science in its truest form is very democratic (I'm not talking about research institutes and the like), and for anyone to take an interest in the physical world around us should be applauded because there are certainly many more opportunities to live in fantasyland. I like to think of myself as a science appreciator, but back 100 years ago, it was not uncommon for many middle-class homes to own a microscope just for the fun of it. How many families today gather around a microscope after dinner, just to see what they might see?

Keep in mind that many people, not all classified as scientists, made amazing discoveries throughout their lives, including men like Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin, where science played a part of their naturally inquisitive minds. So perhaps there's hope for me yet.

julochka: what inspires you?

Ask me tomorrow. No, I'm kidding. But on any given day, the answer could be different. However, if I was to try to see a pattern in what I find inspiring, I think it's when a person can distill a feeling or experience into such a beautifully simple way that you're left in awe. For instance, there are sentences I've read by John Steinbeck, Anais Nin or Margaret Atwood that are so simply but perfectly crafted that I have to re-read them several times over because they amaze me with their truth.

Same thing with certain artists. Take for example Andy Goldsworthy. The things he can do with twigs or rocks or leaves are extraordinary. And you and I couldn't copy him in a million years.

I'm also very visual, so colors and visual textures make a big influence on me, and also the lack thereof. I am very influenced by certain kinds of music and instruments, especially the piano and the violin.

So I guess when I look back at my answer, it's Truth, Vision or Perception, and my eyes and ears. I'm sure there are more subtle influences I appreciate and find inspiration from, but this is what comes to mind today.

julochka: before you became tangobaby, had you had other dance lessons and so were, in general, coordinated enough to learn the tango?

I have to say that if it weren't for tango, I probably wouldn't be dancing at all. Keep in mind that just because you can do ballet, it doesn't mean you can tango. Tango is a partner dance (obviously) but being comfortable with someone in your very personal space is a uniquely different kind of partner dance, even amongst the other ballroom dances. When you watch people dance Argentine tango, like in my little video, keep in mind that it's completely improvised and all of your clues you read from your partner. With tango, you quite often never know what will happen next.

That being said, I am the world's worst bellydancer and the saddest looking ballerina you've ever seen. I am definitely all about dressing up, so it's hard not to fall in love with bellydancing because the costumes are so awesome and when you have a pile of coin belts and finger cymbals and veils draped about your bedroom, you feel like Bathsheba. And the music just makes you want to move. But the difficult part about bellydancing is that people will be watching you at some point. That was what killed me. I'll never be able to perform, and with bellydance, even if you are just dancing in class, there comes a time where it's just you and the mirror and someone else's eyes. I couldn't do it. Somehow the tango doesn't affect me that way. Or I just took to it so easily. I never had a really difficult time with tango.

And ballet is just plain hard. I'm a baby. So is flamenco. Wow! I'm really bad at a lot of dances.

The only other thing that I kind of sucked at but enjoyed a lot was fencing. I do hope to get back to fencing someday so I can live out some of my little Errol Flynn daydreams (except we'd be fighting Basil Rathbone together if I was Maid Marian). The fun part about fencing is that when your arms and thighs are covered with little dark perfectly round bruises, you can look in the mirror and say, Yeah, I got those in a duel. It just makes it hard to wear short-sleeved tops.

julochka: if you were going to run away to somewhere in the world, where would it be?

I think it's not so much as a matter of where, but where and when. For instance, I would give a major body part to have been able to travel the Orient Express in the years between the world wars. Or to have taken a steam ship from New York to Europe during the same time. Or to have traveled through Africa or Arabia with Sir Richard Burton. Or the Silk Road. I am very intrigued by places where the East and West intersect. That's why Venice was so incredible last year for me.

I would also have loved to see the Earthrise from an Apollo mission. I wouldn't have minded not getting to do the moon landing, but to see the earth from space has to be one of the most amazing trips a human being can take. *sigh*

As far as destinations today, it's tough. I think I'm such a dreamer that if given the opportunity, I'd probably give almost any place a shot. I always have my passport on me, just in case. ;-)


But Turkey (anywhere in the Baltics actually), Morocco, Russia, Spain, back to Italy... anyplace there's a gypsy encampment... see, here I go again. Maybe I should think about taking up bellydancing again.

Thanks, julochka! That was fun!

***

Here's "The Rules."

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. (I get to pick the questions).
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Thanks, and I'll try to do my best Barbara Walters impression ever.

***

portrait of a Gypsy Woman by Nikolai Yaroshenko.
image of Earthrise from LIFE Magazine.

Invisible Cities

"At times I feel your voice is reaching me from far away, while I am prisoner of a gaudy and unlivable present, where all forms of human society have reached an extreme of their cycle and there is no imagining what new forms they may assume. And I hear, from your voice, the invisible reasons which make cities live, through which perhaps, once dead, they will come to life again." ~ Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

Tonight, my friend Chipmonkey (the lady of the long eyelashes) and The Boy and I will be attending a presentation called "Lost Landscapes of San Francisco."

This lecture will be part of the ongoing use of my Mental Stimulus Package that I came up with recently. For those of you who know my penchant for history, and especially the history of this particular city that has captured my imagination, I can't wait for the rare finds we'll get to see tonight. From the program description:

Rick Prelinger is a guerrilla archivist who collects the uncollected and makes it accessible. Prelinger will be presenting his third annual "Lost Landscapes of San Francisco" event, an eclectic montage of lost and rarely-seen film clips showing life, landscapes and labor in a vanished San Francisco as captured by amateurs, newsreel cameramen and industrial filmmakers.

How we remember and record the past reveals much about how we address the future. Prelinger will preface the film with a brief talk on how fragmentary, incomplete histories are being overtaken by pervasive real-time documentation, and how history, memory and property are combining into a new matrix of experience.

***

On my own, I'm always looking for remnants of San Francisco's past, juxtaposed against the constant construction I see on a daily basis. One of our favorite pastimes is to watch old movies set in San Francisco, and freeze frame scenes that show a location that we might try to place in the maps of our minds. And when we can, we make little pilgrammages, too.

I happen to love finding old brick buildings, because brick buildings of unreinforced masonry are a little more rare when you live in a town associated with earthquakes. But even more so, I love finding these old painted advertisements on the sides of buildings.

These painted signs are becoming an endangered species, whether due to the desecration by graffitists or destruction in the wake of "progress." I treasure my glimpses of them and rejoice when I find a new one in my wanderings. I am trying to take photos of as many of them as I can, my own little collection of San Francisco's city within a city.

I have a recent photograph of a building and that is all that remains. I found the yellow painted billboard advertising for an ancient brand of cigarettes on an early morning walk on my way to the office. And now that building is no more. Just my memory of it and the photograph. Places are always devouring themselves and becoming new, but how quickly a place can become unrecognizable to itself.

I was never able to finish Invisible Cities before. I really wanted to, but it always made me sleepy (I fault myself and not the author). I tried to read the book before I went to Venice, and also when I returned home. Perhaps after tonight I will try it again (I have two copies of it floating around the house), and see if I can't start to weave my own imagined stories of San Francisco, for me and to share with you.

***

ps.: First two photos taken downtown, on Kearny Street. Last photo taken in the Tenderloin.

20% More Life

I don't know about you guys, but a lot of people I know are not really feeling the holiday spirit right now. I took this photo in Chinatown last week. The shop owners there are sometimes standing outside, asking people to come into their stores to look around. There are not many tourists or wanderers like me on the street to ask.

Normally by this time of year, I could expect random pummeling on the train coming home because we'd be picking up loads of holiday shoppers at Powell Station, where Union Square and the big mall are. Last year I can't tell you how many times we were smashed into strange configurations trying to accommodate lots of bags stuffed with stuff and excited shoppers bragging about their purchases.

So far this year, I haven't been smashed by an overloaded shopping bag once. Our office is adjacent to luxury shops such as Prada, Chanel, de Beers, and Hermes, to name a few, which are almost empty. And the other stores, like H&M, The Gap and MNG, have big red signs in the windows: 20-60% off! Buy One Get One Free! These signs feel desperate to me. And still the shoppers are scant. Some stores keep their doors open and you can feel the heat wafting out into the cold air. I guess enticing people into a store with a blast of warm air isn't nearly enough now.

***

Not going into too much detail, but starting next year me and some of my peeps will be having more free time on our hands during the week. I will be having about 20% more time, to be exact.

I'm going to look at it that way instead of having 20% less of something else.

One thing that could mean is that I'll be able to take 20% more photographs than normal. I really want to go back to Chinatown and explore more. Ever since I finished my book on The Mission, I feel like I didn't give Chinatown enough of my attention.

For instance, this photo was taken inside the Ma-Tsu Temple on Beckett Street. I had only taken photos from the outside previously. This little temple is full of shrines, gods and hundreds of incense sticks burning in urns filled with sand.

And this photo is the doorway of a divey bar all the way at the end of Grant Street. I had never walked to the end of Grant before, or else just had not noticed this space.

And these little men... just waiting to live under a bonsai tree as a souvenir of someone's San Francisco adventure. More chances to play with my macro lens.

And then the food in Chinatown is good and cheap. Dim sum-- you can get two chao siu bau for $1.00. Or har gow, 3 for $1.50.

And this is called a Chinese pancake: sticky, sweet glutinous rice filled with red bean paste. It's delicious and only costs $.60. Budget dessert.

Taking pictures is free but the enjoyment of capturing a perfect image is priceless. I have my beat up walking boots that were purchased for the Acqua alta in Venice, and now have trod many streets of San Francisco in them. And batteries are cheap.

***

What do you wish you had 20% more of?

Besides the extra time, I think I would like to have:

20% more compassion
20% more brain power and memory
20% more good eating habits and exercise
20% more surprises

We'll see how it goes.

One Year Ago Today

"I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand; I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles." ~ Lord Byron

***

One year ago today, when I woke up in the morning, when I opened my eyes... I was in Venice.
Nowhere near the Bridge of Sighs, but that was okay. I loved my little apartment in the Dorsoduro.


Oh, to have had the camera or the eye that I have now, what photos I would have captured!
(I guess I'll just have to go back.)

big big big big BIG *sigh*

***

And now I'm going to have my crazy wanderlust all day.

This song makes it better and worse at the same time.



Or at least I should get a copy of The Darjeeling Limited. I can't believe I don't own this movie yet.

Bring Me the Head of Tangobaby

Today I had one of those horrible headaches (woke me up at 5:21 a.m., which I find to be extremely rude) and it is finally, finally going away.

But it was one of those mornings where it would have been very nice to swap heads (put this one in the shop for repairs, have it back next Tuesday, thanks!) or just pull a Salome on myself where I would also be John the Baptist.

And that thought made me instantly want to be in Paris (it's Tara's fault, too, with her photos today) and if I was there, I would go straightaway to the Gustave Moreau museum and dawdle because it's just one of my favorite places to be, with all of the light and the super tall ceilings and the most incredible paintings on every wall in gigantic gilded frames all the way up to the tippy top.

And then it further dawned on me that I have seen not one but two famous Salomes in my life so far: the one at the Gustave Moreau museum and the Gustave Klimt Salome at the Ca'Pesaro in Venice. Two Gustaves, two Salomes.

And that made me not want to cut off my head, but instead to plan to see all of the Salomes of the Western World, because all in all I bet Salome was a hot babe who probably looked great in a sweater and liked to dance for her own pleasure, and certainly those types of girls get a very bad rap by the boys who write the history books.

Which reminds me that if you want to read a really fantastic book about women and the history of dance, run right out and get Something in the Way She Moves, by Wendy Buonaventura, which is a fascinating, fun read and you'll learn a lot about history, dance and its place in society, and sassy, wonderful women.

I think I'm feeling better already.

Making My Mark

"Handwriting is autobiography." ~ Carrie Latet

***

A little while back, my buddy Julochka tagged me for her handwriting meme.

Julochka, thank you for being patient. I had to get some other things taken care of posthaste. And, funny enough, I had to first find a sample of my handwriting, not an easy task.

Obviously, the meme is to share what your handwriting looks like, and in searching for evidence that I can indeed read and write, I was finding it hard to prove that supposition.

I type. I type a lot, as this blog and my emails are a testament to that fact. But apparently I do not write things down much anymore.

Realizing that I am not leaving my mark on the world came as a wierd little surprise to me.

I remember being in elementary school and loving to write with fountain pens. I even liked when they leaked and the ink oozed out and stained my fingers. I remember how fun it was to take out the old ink cartridges and snap in the new ones, pushing those new cartridges and realizing that a tiny puncture would now let the ink flow into the nib of the pen.

I loved the feel and sound of the scratch of the nib on the paper. Later, I moved on to crow quill pens and bottled ink (though not for school, just for fun). And I was never without those felt-tip chiseled calligraphy pens in different colors and tip sizes.

I used to steal ballpoint pens from restaurants and hotels and dry cleaners when I found ones that wrote in a smooth manner, dispensing just the perfect amount of ink onto the page. I had collections of calligraphy sets and took calligraphy classes.

So how did this turn into a dissertation on pens instead of handwriting? Because somewhere along the line, I think I found I could express myself more effectively through the keyboard than the pen and page. Perhaps because my fingers fly faster on keys than can push a pen across the page, and in my world of fleeting thoughts, I need to net them as quickly as I can, like butterflies on a summer day.

Or perhaps it's because I can perfect my words with the touch of a delete key without messy scratches and scribbles. I dislike evidence of my imperfection.

***

I finally did find some proof of my ability to write with a pen. These are samples from two postcards I sent to The Boy last year, from Venice. One postcard I wrote from Harry's Bar, where I was treated like a queen by the handsome waiters, drinking the requisite Bellini and crying silently as I wrote out my postcard, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming beauty that was all around me. I remember the tears sliding down the side of my nose and dropping onto the postcard, like tiny raindrops. (Perhaps the cute, dark-haired waiter comped my delicious croque monsieur because he thought I was going to throw myself into the Grand Canal later that day.)

The other postcard I wrote under the awning of a caffe in the Campo Santa Margherita, nursing a cappucino and eating yummy shrimp and egg salad sandwiches, watching people walk by. This time I did not cry, but it did rain. The air was chilly, and I was bundled up in coat and scarf, taking off my gloves to write my postcard.

What I realized in looking at these two images is how my writing contains and expresses my joy, in my somewhat sloppy letters because everything was so gorgeous and exciting and I couldn't write fast enough. And that is something that a computer keyboard will never be able to capture.

Perhaps perfection is a little overrated.

Julochka, in honor of the beautiful moleskine and journal you sent me, I am going to find a worthy pen, maybe one that stains my fingers occasionally but who cares, and write some words. Make some scratches.

Maybe even make some mistakes.

Thank you for the reminder. And the excuse to reminisce about things I love.

***

ps. One thing about Venice is that it is full of little shops full of gorgeous handmade papers and pens. For the writing enthusiast, it's a little over the top, like Disneyland. This was a shop in San Marco where I bought some goodies.

pps. I found this interesting online book about the history of pens.

ppss. Whoever would like to be tagged for this meme, consider yourself so. Just leave me a note in the comments so I can visit you and see your post!

The Tango in My Heart

This is me (with pals), in a cab, in Buenos Aires. (I'm the one on the end. You knew that.)

We're just coming back from a wonderful class at the Dinzel's studio. This may be a capture of one of the happiest times in my entire life, one that I can remember like it was yesterday.

But it wasn't yesterday at all. It's been a while since that day.

***

I was awakened this morning by a dream about tango. I never dream about tango.

In my dream, I was wearing my flamenco shoes and I think I was in a hardware store (go figure), but they were having some sort of dance competition there. Some guy asked me to dance. (You know how in your dreams there's someone that seems really familiar to you, but doesn't look like anyone you know in real life? Well, this guy was like that. Upon awakening, I still don't know who he might be.)

Anyway, the song they played is the one that makes me melt, the one that draws me like a moth to a flame: Desde el Alma. In my dream, I could sense my partner's nervousness (he was a beginning dancer) but since I had more experience than him, I could feel his happiness and relief that I could follow his steps so effortlessly, and could even feel his cheek smiling, pressed against my own. I closed my eyes and danced to this beautiful waltz.

And then I woke up, that song still haunting me.

***

I haven't been dancing in several months now, not flamenco, not ballet and not tango. It's been an amalgamation of reasons, a snowballing effect of things I don't need to bore you all with, but to some degree a bit of this, some of this, vestiges of this, and other mundane things like being flat broke and tired at the end of the day.

But dancing in my dreams, and still having my beloved song playing on endless loop in my brain has made me remember all the wonderful things, the lovely things, the tango in my future, when I was a tango angel, and especially this memory, the tango in my past.

For those of you new readers who weren't sure where a silly little name like tangobaby comes from, to those few remaining tango-loving readers who still read my blog even though I don't really write about tango anymore, let's watch this dance together, to the song that haunts me even now, as the faint rays of the sun start to brighten the sky and I wait for the day to begin.



I need to dust off my dancing shoes already. I still haven't even worn these shoes yet.

The Other Spice Girl

“I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; mace; dates? - none, that's out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o' the sun.” ~ The Winter's Tale

***

(This post is inspired by my dreamer friend Relyn and my gourmet gal pal Christie at Fig & Cherry, thank you!)

I am a Spice Girl. Not a Posh or Baby or Sporty or even a Tango Spice Girl (she is the secret Spice Girl you may not know about).

I am a Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme Girl. Actually more like a Saffron, Herbes de Provence, Garam Masala, Cardamom and Coriander Girl. You purists are going to say that some of these are herbs, not spices, and yes, you are right. But bear with me.

Before I moved to San Francisco, I used to cook a lot. One of the benefits of living in this town is that the opportunities for adventuring in the world of food is pretty endless and is as irresistable as catnip for any foodie.

So, why cook when you can explore? To me, eating is another form of travel, especially when you can try foods from all over the world in just one place.

Although my neighborhood trends more towards Asian cuisines--fresh Hong Kong-style dim sum, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Indonesian and Vietnamese--I can also easily get a variety of other cuisines, including Mexican, Italian, Indian, Fusion, Mediterranean, Ethiopian (which I have not tried yet but mean to) as well as good ol' American fare like hamburgers and onion rings. That is not counting the bakeries, cheese shop, gelateria and numerous coffee houses.

All of this bounty lies one, two, three blocks from my front door. The possibilities are even more exponential if I hop on the N-Judah to the next neighborhoods of Cole Valley or the Haight or the Castro, or grab a cab to destinations farther across town.

One of the things I do miss though is the exploration and acquisition of unique food stuffs. When I lived in Silicon Valley, my favorite haunts were the Indian and Middle Eastern groceries. I loved filling my basket with herbs and spices I'd never heard of but wanting to have them in my larder, just in case.

I am, or was, a spice collector. I don't know why. A lot of the things I never even used. But it was such great fun finding them and wondering what they were. The Indian groceries especially were a delight.

In between the piles of colorful boxes of incense and black hair dye, you could find aesofotida, which I purchased but never used, or glass jars of pickled limes or dented cans of coconut cream from lands far, far away. You could peruse the countless types of dal while listening to Bollywood hits and watching women in colorful saris pick out their vegetables. Just being in those small, independent markets was like an instant passport to somewhere else, all for the price of a bag of interesting groceries.

I've done my share of exploring the Asian markets at the end of Irving Street, where the live fish swim in tanks before they meet their makers and where tough old Chinese ladies push each other (and you) to get at the produce, and I've wandered the less exotic Russian market where the stony-faced man guards the deli case full of bland-looking meats and sausages, but these shops don't have the fantasy-producing ingredients of the spice markets I've left behind.

***

The photos in this post are some of my favorites. Taken in Venice, which to me evokes dreams of the Spice Trade and ships laden with nutmegs and cinnamon and black pepper, is this shop in Cannaregio, very close to the Rialto Bridge.

When I saw this shop window, I stopped dead in my tracks. It was the Spice Shop of My Dreams. The displays were so perfect and lovingly prepared with every imaginable kind of spice and seasoning.

In thinking about this post, I've been doing my homework about the Spice Trade and its history. Unfortunately, it's a history fraught with the destruction of habitats, cultures and empires.

But the more I read and learn about history, it seems that most human endeavors are filled with such things. I tend to go for the fantasy and leave the hard truth behind at times.

Perhaps knowing more about the history and spirit of where these spices came from gives me more to digest that just the taste they bring to the food I eat. And hopefully because of it, I might appreciate my food all the more.

For more interesting information about spices and the Spice Trade, check here, here and here.

My New Glass Eye

“Whether he is an artist or not, the photographer is a joyous sensualist, for the simple reason that the eye traffics in feelings, not in thoughts.” -- Walker Evans

I have never owned a proper camera. I've had the occasional disposable camera and have taken photos with various cell phones once in a while. I hate having my picture taken because it always turns out horrible, and I've always felt that having a camera would keep me from paying attention to where I was and what I was doing because I'd be spending all of my time looking for things to take pictures of intead of actually being present where I was instead.

I always chose to enjoy other people's photos and to appreciate the artistry of their eye and observation. And to pride myself on my memory so I wouldn't need a bunch of photos to remember things (the memory part which is now very obviously going by the wayside).

I thought all of these things before I moved to San Francisco. And then all of a sudden I wanted a camera.

Even though day-to-day life in San Francisco can be dirty and grubby (but what city isn't?), this city is a magical place to live. From day one, my eye would catch a something that screamed out to me to take its picture. A doorway or detail in a beautifully painted Victorian home (they're all over the place). A flowering garden. The usual tourist sights. A person who attracted my interest (San Francisco is full of them, too). I kept feeling like I was missing out on capturing something interesting or beautiful, that I was missing a wonderful opportunity to play show-and-tell with myself and others.

It was like my eyes woke up finally, in a different way.

This added perception has been simmering inside me all the while, but when it came time to shell out several hundred dollars for a camera, the money always seemed to find other things to spend itself on.

And then last year I went to Venice. The Boy very kindly let me borrow his steadfast little Olympus, a point-and-shoot that took some decent photos but could not come near to capturing the overwhelmingly beautiful decadent, decaying glory of that city. So I did the best I could and took some snapshots, and when I came home and sorted through them all, felt the frustration of seeing that a lot of the photos I thought I had taken existed only in my mind and that I hadn't actually taken those photos at all.

So my New Year's goal was to get what I called a Big Girl camera. And bless those friends and bloggers who I pumped for information about what to kind of camera to buy. But in the end, the money I kept trying to save for my camera was getting eaten up by bills.

***

The Boy has come to the rescue again. Last week he bought a beautiful camera on a whim while walking down Chestnut Street (apparently guys indulge in/fall victim to Retail Therapy, too). For some reason he did not know about my camera yearnings and has generously given me this perfect Canon PowerShot S5 IS, which is even better than the Nikon I was considering. It's mostly mine to use as I wish, except for baseball days when he will take it to the Giants' stadium and use the super-duper zoom function to take photos of the pitchers on the mound.

Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.

So I've been taking my camera with me everywhere. I cradle it to my chest on the train to and from work like it is a baby. I haven't taken as many photos yet as I thought I would because I am learning that serendipity doesn't just arise when you want it to. But those moments and places will come, and when they do, hopefully I will have the lens cap off in time to catch a little magic.

I know I have a lot to learn about this new desire, but I'm looking forward to the process and seeing what happens.

“Buying a Nikon doesn't make you a photographer. It makes you a Nikon owner.” -- Author Unknown

The first Big Girl photos are here on my flickr account. See what you think.

Silk Road Tango

“If one had but a single glance to give the world, one should gaze on Istanbul.”-- Alphonse de Lamartine

I have always had a fascination with Orientalism, the Silk Road, the Spice Route. Places well traveled by explorers, traders, pirates and armies. Lost cities and rediscovered ruins. Places where East and West came together and shared cultures and arts, but where they also clashed and struggled. Although the original Oriental Express stopped service last year, I still travel it in my imagination.

I have already been to one city on the Silk Road: Venice. And one city on the Orient Express: Paris.

I am wondering if my next trip will be to another place I've always dreamed of visiting along that fabled route: Istanbul.

I did not realize until lately that Istanbul has such a vibrant tango community, although my dreams of going to Turkey have been around for much longer than I've been dancing tango. However, I do have to admit that would be icing on the cake.

I just found this beautiful video of two dancers--Celine Ruiz and Damian Rosenthal, more inspiring dancers that now I must follow and watch for--filmed at a tango festival last year in Istanbul.

Tangoing along the Silk Road: it sounds too good to be true! (If any of you have danced in Istanbul, please let me know...even if I can't go yet, it will help me build my daydream database.)




Photo courtesy of National Geographic.

Sorting

In between sorting loads of laundry so I can get packed for Seattle, I am finally sorting all of my Venice photos and uploading them to flickr.

Thanks to Ms. Wellspring for being my technology guru and helping me set up my little flickr account. It is taking forever to upload the photos and I know it will take even longer to sort them by category, annotate them, crop them, flip them. But I can tell already that I love flickr, even though I don't know what I am doing.

So much sorting tonight. But it feels good to get things accomplished.

You're welcome to check in and look around at the photos, but realize it's a work-in-progress.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/tangobaby2/

Next Stop, Venice Station

I take the N-Judah train to work every day. Today the train was almost deserted except for the few poor souls (like me) who actually had to work on the day after Thanksgiving.

There is one stop on the line called Van Ness (for those of you who are interested in San Francisco history, James Van Ness was an early mayor of the city, and there's a fascinating little webpage devoted to the names of some San Francisco streets for my fellow SF history buffs out there.)

One of the train drivers, when this particular stop approaches, pronounces it "Venice Station" instead of "Van Ness."
Yeah, don't I wish!

I sure wish I could get off at "Venice Station," leaving the grubby terminal underground to see this sight when I emerge to the street level. (Well, since they're making me work today, the least I can do is blog a little and daydream, right? You understand.)

(Plus, there's a street singer outside our building who has been singing O Solo Mio and other Italian favorites on the corner of Grant and Maiden Lane since 8:30 this morning (it's now 1:49pm). The fact that we can hear him on the 9th floor of our building is very impressive but I may have to kill him soon.)

A month ago I was in Venice, exploring to my heart's desire. Now all the half-written posts I have been meaning to finish are getting pushed down the line in favor of more current events, which I haven't gotten around to either. So for the time being, I'll put up some more photos and that will help me get to 5:30, when I can pass by Venice Station again and smile.


(Yes, Venice really is this beautiful.)

Postponing the Inevitable

I still have colorful Euro bills in my wallet. I also have Euro coins (and some smaller denominations thereof) in my coin purse. I also have a few postage stamps left in my wallet.

I finally put my passport away in my desk drawer. As much as it made me happy to catch an occasional glimpse of it in my purse, I don't want to risk losing it.

On Thursday, I took the well-used Italian-only map of Venice out of my coat pocket. I think I accidentally stole it from someone but it was a better map than the one I brought with me. I also threw away some receipts.

I still haven't dealt with my laundry though. I haven't put away my clothes and I'm still figuring out what gifts I bought and who I meant to give them to.

And sadly, my reveries of Venice are becoming less frequent and less vivid already. And it's only been a week. Usually I last longer. I'm still reading Venice, by Jan Morris, to keep the images and feelings alive in my mind for a while longer. It makes me sad to see that I'm returning to "normal" life again so soon. Mostly it's the sense of wonder and appreciation that I miss more than anything.

Yesterday, to stem the slowly seeping-away feeling, The Boy and I watched two films in which Venice is a primary character. One was recommended by two different friends: Summertime (1955), starring Katharine Hepburn and Rossanno Brazzi (man, is this guy good looking!), about a lonely American secretary who finds love in the arms of a gorgeous Italian man (um, why why why did I not see anyone in Venice who looked like this guy?!! It's probably a good thing that I didn't or else I might not have returned home.)


The other movie, A Little Romance (1979), was recommended by none other than The Boy himself, who still is in love with Diane Lane based on his seeing this film when he was twelve. I was lucky enough to find a used DVD of this film.

Both movies were filmed on location in Venice (A Little Romance was filmed on location in Paris, too, so that's big bonus for me right there) and both movies do capture the look and feel of Venice to some extent.

Katherine Hepburn was more tolerable to me than usual (sorry, I'm not a huge fan), although we couldn't help wondering why the guy was interested in her in the first place. David Lean, the director of Summertime, took great aerial views and sweeping pans of Venice (maybe not in Lawrence of Arabia epic proportions, but still genuinely breathtaking) and edited the film in such a way that you believed that Hepburn had every imaginable pictoresque view of Venice from her budget pensione balcony.

Both films captured the grandioseness of Venice and the romantic otherworldness of it, especially in the canals. It was fun to pause the film and exclaim occasionally, "Ooh, ooh, that's the Basilica de S. Maria della Salute! I was there!" or "That's the Doge's Palace, and across the water is the church designed by Palladio, oh, and see those columns...I was talking to you on my cell phone right there when I ran out of batteries!" Rather than holing up on the sofa with Rick Steves in Italy (I already did that anyway), I got to relive Venice in glorious Technicolor and set to lovely background music.

I'm sure there will come a day soon when I'm tired of sorting through the Euro coins in my coin purse to find an American quarter, and when the stamps in my wallet get grungy and torn. Just as there was a day when I washed the last carnet ticket for the Paris metro I had in my jeans and the little muslin teabag from Mariage Freres fell out of my coat pocket. But I'm going to try real hard to postpone that day for as long as I can. Venice is too amazing, too vibrant, too dreamlike to lose it so soon.

***
Today, I found this Anaïs Nin postcard through StumbleUpon.

I'm sure you can't possibly read the text but here's what it says:

You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book...or you take a trip..and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure.

That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children.

And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song and it awakens them and saves them from death.

Some never awaken.

I will be sure to read this quote to myself whenever I feel the onslaught of hibernation coming over me. It is inexorable and one must be vigilant.

On second thought, I have decided that I will never take the Euros out of my wallet. That will help a little.

Terra Firma

We just had a little earthquake a while ago.

I was sitting at my favorite sushi bar, happily popping tiny, salty bubbles of tobiko between my teeth. I was reading my new favorite book, Venice, by Jan Morris, when the earth rolled in slow waves for quite a few seconds.

I happened to be reading the chapter about the geological conditions and other factors that are causing Venice to slowly sink into the waters of the Adriatic, when the ground beneath us started to shudder. Everyone in the restaurant quieted for a moment, but no one stopped eating their sushi (it's that good at Ebisu).

The lanterns above the sushi bar swayed softly for at least a minute before settling back into equilibrium. Their gentle rocking motion reminded me of the floating gondolas of Venice.

PS. Wow, just looked up the little temblor on the USGS website. Apparently it was a 5.6 based near San Jose. Must have felt a wee bit stronger in the sushi bars down there.

The Tango Angels of Venice

A lot of the tango blogs I read talk about Tango Angels. We all have one or wish we had one or remember one fondly. I'll admit it's a topic I like dissertations on: certainly I have been wondering where mine have disappeared to recently. But I don't recall anything written lately where anyone has talked about being a Tango Angel. Maybe it's hard to tell when you've done it.

Well, I can say now that I have been a Tango Angel. As much as I'll remember the times that someone's taken me under his wing and shown me the stars while dancing, I also now know that I've done that same thing for someone else. As Nuit has talked about the little box where she puts her happy tango memories, I'll be sure to put this little story in mine...

Just so you know, Venice is not a destination for tango. I think we assumed, being tourists, that if the tango scene in Venice was not large, at least it might attract some other visitors, like ourselves, to the local dances. In San Francisco, it's very common to meet people on holiday or on business who attend the local milongas and have a great time dancing with the locals. I've had some exceptional dances with partners who I'll probably never see again, as they were just passing through town. *snif*

And Tina, our in-house Italy/Tango expert, was a great help in getting us the information we needed about the tango scene in Venice and the surrounding cities. (By the way, you should read her other blog about Italy. It made me want to be an expat before I even got there!)

We were so excited to see that the first local milonga was literally down the street (canal) from us, on Sunday night. Perfect timing as we would have recovered from jet lag by then and would be raring to go. I think all of us had dreams that we would dance for hours and the best part would be that we only had a two-minute walk back to our apartment, so if our feet were killing us--hey, no problem! We're already home!

So close, yet so far. Both literally and figuratively. We actually got lost trying to find the place, which was incredible in that the address was so close to us. But Venice can be labyrinthian and its system of addressing buildings is a total mystery. The fact that people actually get mail delivered to them is somewhat miraculous. We stomped around, looking in vain for the address, saying "It's got to be around here somewhere!" and then finally stopping into a nearby restaurant where the only English-speaking employee gave us partial directions. Had she not been successful, we were on the verge of throwing in the towel and ordering some linguine. We were definitely all dressed up with no place to go.

But it turned out that we had passed the place (through no fault of our own, it was behind us and hidden around a corner) and when we saw the little paper sign that spelled "TANGO" pasted to the wall, our spirits revived. We got excited again. Our first milonga in VENICE!

And then our hopes were dashed. Again.

The "milonga" was in a small room, with maybe about 12-14 people in attendance. We looked worriedly at two of the men who were so inept as to be very likely sources of bodily harm to us. And they were the young ones. All of the other men there were in their late 50s, at least, with partners and attire to match. Picture the following: my little hottie Korean girlfriends, me in my new semi-Goth, semi-French Can Can poufy skirt, and all of us in our favorite Comme Il Fauts. We certainly did stick out like sore thumbs.

The people looked at us like we had come from another planet. Needless to say, out-of-towners do not visit this milonga, and really none of the people there spoke much English, so it was difficult to even explain why we were there. It kind of felt like we were crashing their little local party. I guess we were. I certainly got the impression that some of the women were not really too thrilled that we dropped by.

Ms. Tango Hours and Ms. Nuit weren't even taking off their coats--that's how on the fence they were about staying. But there was one guy dancing who looked okay. I watched him with his partner and it looked like he would work out. Then someone put on Caceres' Tango Negro, which for me is like giving catnip to a kitty, so out came my red shoes. I tried to cabaceo the guy, but he didn't get it. I didn't want to miss the whole damn song, so I figured Screw it, and went over and asked him to dance. He looked surprised, but at least he didn't say no. And we danced for most of the song, and it was fun.

Then they put on a regular tango. The guy, Franco, said to me, in slightly broken English, that he thought I was like a Ferrari, and that I should be gentle with him as he wasn't sure he could handle me. I had to laugh at that. Comparing me to a Ferrari--now that has to be the most Italian compliment of all! We danced for one more song and I realized then that not only did they not cabaceo (maybe there's no need when it's the same five women every week) but they also didn't have tandas and cortinas. You got one dance and then the guy moved on to someone else. Even at a tiny milonga there are more women than men! Gads. I had to hand it to the guys though. They stayed loyal to the local women, who were for the most part, really bad dancers.

Anyway, we stayed for a while, and the girls were good sports and felt a bit abused by one gent who insisted on correcting their form while dancing (their form is fine, trust me) instead of realizing that these cuties were gifts from the Almighty in their little tango world that night.

So we left after about 30 minutes, went back to the restaurant where the English-speaking waitress worked, and ordered some yummy seafood pasta. After the pasta, somehow I convinced the girls to go back to the dance, just for the last hour, and see if it had gotten better. My hope was that maybe someone better had turned up late. You never know, right? We had nothing to lose.

They looked like they were closing up shop. Most of the people had left. Franco was still there, and two of the other guys who weren't too bad, and they were really happy to see us. The one fellow who was putting on his coat to leave took it off again, and escorted us back into the room. And then it was the San Francisco/Venice milonga.

The guys took turns dj'ing and dancing with us. And for more than just one song. For lots of songs. At midnight, when the milonga was supposed to have ended at 11:30, someone played La Cumparsita, so I figured that was it, but then they kept playing more music. They really did not want us to leave. Finally we were the ones who had to put our coats on so the dance would stop.

One of the women there, the best dancer of the ladies, did not speak English but did speak French. She was highly complimentary to all of us and said we were beautiful dancers. She told us about a milonga the next night in San Marco that would be better for us. Better dancers, she explained. As we were leaving, one of the men repeatedly mentioned that there was another milonga coming up on that Wednesday, and to please come back.

***

The next night, we got all dressed up again for the milonga we had heard about from the French-speaking Italian woman. It was really more of a practica than a milonga. Franco was there. This time he was different. And better.

He cabaceoed me from across the room. When I met him in the middle of the floor, he gave me a hug. "Just like in Buenos Aires, right?" he said. I asked him if he had ever been to BsAs, and he said, Oh no. No no no.

We danced a number of tandas that night, and each one was better than the one before it. At the end of the last song, he gave me such a squeeze and kissed my cheek hard, a big smooch. I could feel how happy he was, like giddy happy. He said, "I love you! I would dance with you forever!"

And that's when I knew I had been a Tango Angel.

Ciao, Franco.

The Museums of Venice

For a tiny conglomeration of islands that measures only two miles in one direction and one mile in the other, Venice has an extraordinary amount of world-class art per square inch. If San Francisco had even one tenth of the art available daily in Venice, I would be over the moon with joy. Not to mention that the buildings that house this treasure trove of art are some of the most beautiful palaces in the city, built during the extravagant heyday of Venice's glory.

I did not go to all of the museums. That would not have been possible in a single week. I decided to choose my haunts carefully, based on my interests and not merely upon the most famous sights. So I skipped the Accademia and some of the more religious-based museums and churches in favor of more modern works and museums that explore the history of the city. I was not disappointed in any of my choices.

My first stop in Venice was the Peggy Guggenheim Collection, in our local sestiere of Dorsorduro, the day after our arrival. This visit was probably the closest thing to a pilgrammage for me, artwise. I had been intrigued by The Red Tower, a painting by Giorgio de Chirico, after having seen the work in an art history class my freshman year in college. For some reason, that painting had stayed with me, even though my only exposure to it had been a 2-inch representation in a thick art book. Now I had my chance to see the real thing, and I made a beeline for the painting when I entered the museum.

It is a unique and singular experience to see up close and in person a work of art that you admire (even if you are not sure exactly why you like it). Only then, does the work truly become art. When you stand in front of the piece, whether it is a painting, sculpture or something else entirely, there is a physical sensation that makes you appreciate and understand what the artist was trying to communicate. In those same circumstances did I understand the greatness of the Mona Lisa, and the genius of Van Gogh.

During my visit to the Guggenheim, I also had a chance to see a charming painting, Empire of Light, by another favorite artist, René Magritte, and be introduced to the works of Max Ernst, Guggenheim's husband and a sensitive artist who was obviously somewhat deranged.

This particular painting, The Attirement of the Bride, was fascinating and nightmarish and very personal, given that the bride is Peggy Guggenheim herself and the circumstances of the imagery are certainly disturbing.







The next museum I enjoyed thoroughly was the Palazzo Fortuny, a large Gothic palazzo in Campo San Beneto, which was transformed by designer Mariano Fortuny into his own atelier of photography, stage-design, textile-design and painting.

The museum itself is very enigmatic. It is more of an atmosphere and a presence than a place to see a certain piece of art. Fortuny is best known for his textiles and silks , but this is by no means a costume museum.

The only fabrics of his design cover the walls on the second floor atelier, giving the large room the feeling of an opium den or a Sultan's lair. The main room is partially filled with strange and macabre artifacts and curiosities, and is best visited when you are in a mood to be slightly disturbed, and wanting to enjoy the feeling of otherworldliness.




The other modern art collection, Ca' Pesaro, is located on the Grand Canal in one of the finest palazzos in Venice, which started construction in 1628 and was completed in 1710. The sestiere of Santa Croce has a very medival feeling to it as you walk the narrow alleyways.

Although the exterior of the building retains its classic Venetian appearance, inside is a treasury of Impressionist and modern artists.

I have finally had the chance to see a Gustave Klimt painting, Salome, in person. It was large, framed in gold leaf, full of lust and glorious to behold. I visited it three times while I was in the museum, wanting to take full advantage of it while I was there.

Nearby to Ca' Pesaro was a smaller--but no less fascinating--museum, Palazzo Mocenigo. From Fodors (because they described it better than I could): So well preserved it looks like a movie set, this palazzo gives a sense of how wealthy families lived in the last years of the republic. Bequeathed to the city in 1945 by the last surviving Mocenigo heir, the home is richly decorated with polished floors, fabric-covered walls, and glass chandeliers from Murano.

The portego (entry hall), typical of Venetian palazzos, occupies about one-third of the total floor space; once used for receptions and balls, it now occasionally hosts classical concerts. Sparsely furnished, it's lined with portraits of the seven Mocenigo family doges and other notables.

Doors on both sides of the portego open onto bedrooms and salons, where visitors were received with a cup of hot chocolate in the early morning hours after nights typically spent at parties or seated at gambling tables. Furniture and paintings are all original and constitute a permanent exhibit. The mannequins' clothing, lace, fabrics, and accessories on display come from the Center for the History of Textiles and Costumes (housed in a wing of the palace) which organizes 15th- to 18th-century thematic exhibits.

Last, but not least, Ca' Rezzonico, is another palazzo situated on the Grand Canal, devoted to 18th century life in Venice. To say that the interiors of this building are breathtaking do not do it justice.

In addition to the myriad painted ceilings, portraits, gold leaf and fantastic furniture, are the most divine Murano chandeliers still in existence. The craftsmanship of everything in the palazzo is stupefying, but the glasswork, to me, were the most dazzling creations of all.

Of course you are not allowed to take pictures in this or any of the museums but I found a company that makes reproductions of the chandeliers at Ca' Rezzonico. This picture should give you an idea of what they looked like, if not the grandeur, scale and color of the originals.

Back in the lady's dressing room at Ca' Rezzonico, I was able to catch a couple of snaps of one of the plainest rooms in the house. The wash of pinks and greens in floral motifs made me imagine the lady's daily routine of getting dressed, assisted by her attendants, before she emerged for the day into the grand halls below her bedroom.

In one ancient mirror, I was able to catch a glimpse of myself, although dressed in drab grays and black and bundled in sweater, scarf and coat, for a brief moment, I tried to imagine myself as the lady of the house.