Paolo’s show, “Unpacking”

My brother told me my blog posts are too long therefore he won’t read them. Just tell me how you are? Are you good? He asked.  To answer him briefly, Yes, all is good and it’s my last day in Berlin. Today, Paolo will unveil his latest site specific installation “Unpacking” at the Singhur at 6pm: http://www.singuhr.de/page.php?ID=669.  If you are in Berlin you must stop by and cheer with us.  After assembling 2000 shipping boxes, 100s of sand bags, 50 small lights, eight speaker, four projectors, 10 days of  12 hour days alongside 6-8 assistants, Paolo can say he is finally done.  Well almost, there is always something.  In the videos there are short performances/exercises of memory of the wonderful Nelly Rosario and Aaron Vano, Myself and Paolo of course.

Impressions of Prenzlauerberg/ Pregnant Hill

Someone wrote to me recently and asked me what Berlin is like. So I thought I would give a taste of me here. First off the weather is manic. It’s hot and summery one minute but yesterday, it was gray, chilly and humid, and I was sitting outside at a cafe wrapped in this cozy flannel blanket that most cafes and restaurants provide for customers who like to sit outside even in the coldest days. I was sipping tea, wearing socks with sandals and reading Eat, Pray, Love and laughing outloud, completely inside my head. When I looked up, I was surrounded by baby carraiges. Not one or two, five in total, limousine like, bugaboo type carraiges with new moms.  That’s when I noticed that I was without my own child.  Daniel is away in the moutains with grandparents. And I must have looked like the stereotype of an American Tourist. Reading a book about traveling solo after an emtional breakdown in search of something. I am staying in Prenzlauerberg, which is nicknamed Pregnant Hill. If you’re not pregnant, you will be, a woman warned. So be careful. Babies everywhere. It reminds me of Park Slope culture, with baby parks on every other corner and high chairs at every cafe and restaurant, and just about every other bike has a child seat attached, but it’s not so claustophobic as PS. The actual architecture, is more like Upper west side, NYC. Wide open streets, six story apartment buildings, streets lined with speciality shops and restaurants, most with outdoor seating. And a tad of West village too. During the week I often run into some kind of street fair filled with handmade things. In fact, there are a ton of  stores with clothing reconstructed from older/used typed items. Very few people of color,  (or they must all be working) but I’ve met so many mixed raced babies.  And if I understood correctly, the women get ten months off to care for their babies before they have to go back to work. So that explains why there are so may mommies on the street and not nannies. In Italy, mother’s get  6 months, fully paid. Three months before conception.  And you mostly see grandparents with the babies. Here you see mothers and some fathers.  Maybe that’s why the mothers look less sleep deprived than moms I met in the States.

The thing to snack on here is the currywurst. Which as my ex-chef friend Ari words it, it’s a fried hotdog, drenched in cheap sweet ketchup with curry power sprinkled on top. Sounds awful, but people seem to love that. I’s ok. And just about every Italian restaurant, it doesn’t matter the region will serve up Vitello Tonnato because I’m told the Germans love it. It’s thin slices of boiled veal covered in a tuna mayo sauce. It’s actually one of my favorite things from the Piedmont region. Absolutely wonderful.  Restaurants open late, serve up to 12 and much like New York it’s easy to find what you need if you could only decode all that German. The other day I asked for an English Menu and the German desciption was long and elaborate and the English version translated everything into simple basics: soup or pasta with vegetables. When I asked what kind of soup, what was in it, they said, oh many things. It’s good. One thing that I have learned is that just about every soup in Berlin, but lots of  other plates as well,  has tomato sauce. 

I also stopped trying to understand the German language. Instead I feel what people are trying to say. And it’s been working for the most part. I have been communicating much better. Wasser is water. Except the W sounds like a V. And now the German is starting to sound more like English at least the music of it.  Nuss is nuts. Glacier is ice cream.. but glacier is almost like gelato and glacier.. think eating a big white snow cone. What I came to realize is that German seemed more foreign even because for the last four or five weeks I have been speaking exclusively in either Spanish or Italian. Now that I turned my English brain on… it’s much better. Which explains how much easier it is to write since I arrived to Berlin, because without knowing it I was writing always in translation.

Prenzlauerber is very GREEN. Full of leafy trees, and untamed weed gardens. Lots of flowers blooming. And the streets, part cobblestone and alsphalt, are uneven and I am always tripping on them. People are always warning me about the bikers. There is always a story of some tragic biker and pedestrian crash. Most buildings have been painted in brights sunny colors, peach, yellows, white, which reminds me a little of the colors in the south of France,  and then there are a few buildings that are still this moldy green or grey color a throwback to the commie days. But these are few and far in between because this area has been seriously gentrified. 

As for the rest of Berlin… I will discover today. I have been too sick, or busy reading and writing to adventure far. But I did make a visit to Potsdamer Platz, where the Sony Center is. I wanted badly to see a movie in OME  i.e in English. And when I arrived Potsdamer Platz looked like a replica of Columbus Circle. I was told this is no accident. Dunkin Donuts on one side, Sony theaters/ imax on the other.  There was not a decent movie to watch in all the bunch, so I chucked the movie idea and went back to my hotel to read and write some more. The guys that work with my husband have tagged me as the “reading and writing girl.” Every time they see me , I’m doing one or the other.  I could be called worse things.

How I Found One Of My Fictional Characters In A Supermarket In Berlin And Lots Of Other Stuff About My Writing Process

So this blog entry is in response to someone who asked me how I get my stories for the blog. I was asked if I went undercover. The idea made me laugh and think of some of my favorite visual artists who follow folks or disguise themselves, like Sophie Calle or Cindy Sherman. I am fascinated by them and that process but I have a more lazy or let’s say passive approach. I kind of wait, trust and let stories come to me. But before I do that, I travel, open myself up and accept invitations. So maybe I am not that passive. hmmm.  

 

I do think that my ambiguously ethnic appearance makes it easier for people to open up to me. I always feel and believe to look like an outsider, a stranger. I have yet to find a place/ outside from my mother’s kitchen where folks don’t ask me where I am from. In the south of France, most thought I was Arab, my olive skin, my long curly hair, until I tried my tourist guidebook French and instantly they were aware I was “Latin,” a Spanish speaker. In Italy, most think I’m from Spain or Latin America, never Dominican, the Dominican women they know, if they ever met one, are supposed to be darker. In Germany, most folks speak to me in German, which gives me the impression that they must assume I am a Berliner. But I immediately say that I’m American, because I don’t know an ounce of German and many do speak English. In Dominican Republic, I am straight up gringa. Or a Dominican York. In New York I am Dominican. In Texas a New Yorker. And when I say Dominican to my many geographically challenged Texan students, they ask, “Where’s that in Mexico?” 

 

All this to say that as soon as I make it clear to folks that I’m not from where ever they are, and that I am a good listener, people reveal their living history. They also feel free to speak about their lives and politics because they assume that as soon as we finish talking I will disappear.  And more often than not, when I just let the conversation go where they want it to go, they answer my many questions, that I didn’t even know to ask.. It’s as if they know what I need to hear, what they need to say.  A real give and take. I always tell my students that these serendipitous moments, these moments when the universe is working in harmony with your desires, are gifts. Very precious gifts. And for me as a writer I accept these gifts as signs that I should continue my work.

 

And speaking of my work, I write the following in response to some emails I have received asking about how my novel is going and if I abandoned it. Since my arrival to Europe I have been questioning if my travels are a form of procrastination from working on my novel; a book that is taking me forever to write, about a fifteen year old Dominican who is married off to a man in NYC set in the 60’s. In theory and practice I should be in NYC, or DR. But Berlin, Turin? What does my travel in Europe have to do with the bigger work? It’s true that traveling in Europe has conjured all this other new work, and that’s always scary for a writer, because sometimes I feel like the more stories I start working on set in Italy or wherever, the harder it will be to get back to the novel. But I have been making a practice to say to myself to trust that the universe will provide answers. I continue to trust in invitations. And rationalize with myself by thinking things such as..”I was awarded a hefty grant to travel. That’s a good sign isn’t it?”  And finally I believe this trust is paying off. Someone once told me that men work in lines and women in big overlapping circles… well, here it goes…

 

The first day I arrived to Berlin, I went to the Biomarkt. It’s Berlin’s version of Whole Foods. I needed some ginger tea and yogurt. I couldn’t understand anything. The packaging was different, the language completely undecipherable. I felt like a complete foreigner and I was intimidated. I was frustrated and the two people I asked didn’t speak a word of English. And I thought, this is just an inkling of what my character in my novel, Ana, must’ve felt like when she first went shopping in NYC. Everything was foreign. The language, the abundance of food at the market, all of it was foreign. This feeling of helplessness and fear, isolation and incapacity. And that’s when it hit me that the reason I needed to visit a place like Berlin is because I needed to reconnect with her in some way. For the first time in a long time I connected with her on a very visceral, physical level and it happened standing in the Biomart, and also on many Berlin street corners, where I felt completely lost. (that was before I figured out the maps) And in this seemingly small experience of shopping at a supermarket, like going to have dinner the other night and meeting that man who spoke of the rumble of the underground beneath his feet, (read other blog) I was reminded the way the memory of sound, architecture, etc, all those things shape our lives. So in this way, so many things in my life that seem completely random or inconsequential, start to make sense, start to feed the work, and like Grace Paley used to say, writing provides the answers to the questions, one wasn’t even aware one was asking. But If you also live your life as if you were writing your own story, I believe life can play out in the same way.

 

 

 

 

 

The Mysterious West Meets East Berlin

 

The first three days in Berlin I was wicked sick and this was a good thing because while I was bed ridden I read up on Berlin’s history and also indulged reading a fat novel from beginning to end with small breaks in less than 36 hours. Something I haven’t been able to do ever since I had Daniel.  

 

Before arriving to Berlin I thought it would be interesting to visit former concentration camps and other  tourist attractions such as the DDR museum to understand better what it must’ve been like before the wall was brought down, during the Nazi regime, etc. In fact, this desire was unusual for me, because I’ve never been someone to think of following a tour or doing touristy things. And then I was trapped in a hotel apartment, without TV, internet or telephone, with loads of time to reflect and plan how I would spend my last days in Berlin as I waited out what I now believe was some kind of flu. Of course, I began to question the why I would even want to visit former terror chambers, virtually interact with some Stasi agents, as if I was playing some role in a film. Poverty, execution memorabilia and sites, are not for entertainment. Research perhaps, education, a way to remember/revisit history so we are aware, but I read books for that and I am not working on a WWII book at the moment. And then when someone told me that once there were some crazy talks about rebuilding parts of the wall to attract more tourists, I decided that I won’t visit the tourist attractions in protest (unless they visit me)  and I will have to make one exception  the Jewish Musuem (“it is something to see” I have been told repeatedly.)

 

And so my trip to Berlin begins. I went to dinner at a very good German restaurant and had an Italian meal. At our table there was a man, who knew I was an American literary person, and who pointed down the street and said ”The Wall was right behind that stadium.” It was difficult to believe that less than a block away from where I was eating, there was a wall, dividing the East and West. For a good hour he told me about what it was like to live in East Berlin. He told me about the mysterious rumbling under his feet, that he would hear but not understand when he was a child. Always around the same time. At the same place. This mysterious rumbling. And then much later, after seeing some of his father’s old maps, did he realize that the mysterious rumbling was the S-bahn (subway) that was traveling from West Berlin, under East Berlin to the rest of Germany. All the stops in East Berlin were covered, out of sight.

 

He said as a youngster he had never thought about The Wall as a problem. It was just there. He was born with it there, so it was normal to him. But as man, he  banged on pots in protest of the wall.  “It was a few of us that protested really. Most people just went living their lives because with The Wall people ate. They didn’t think about rent, they lived. Maybe they didn’t like, but they didn’t protest, they were okay. But I banged on pots.  On TV it might have looked like many, but it was just a few people, every day banging on pots.”

 

This was very inspiring to me to remember that protests do work. That few can bring on dramatic change. “I was one of the first 200 people to cross.” he said. When I asked him if he kept a piece of wall. “I hated that wall, why would I do that?” And then my very capitalist side was exposed, “To sell your piece of history on ebay.”  Of course I was kidding, but he didn’t laugh.

 

After dinner we went for a walk. He showed me where The Wall was and how it divided the city in a sharp zig zag like pattern. Every time we saw a shop (that I thought was cute) he said something like, “Many shops like this now, for people who buy things they don’t need. This is progress”.  His large bear like body shook with laughter.  He pointed at the renovated building that now have heat and intercoms. He recalled leaving notes to his friends at the front entrance of their buildings. “Meet me at 7 at such a place, and when the person arrived home they met because there were no telephones back then. Very few had telephones. Too expensive. Back then people had time to meet,” he said and then laughed some more. ”We had time for conversation, to think.” Then quickly reminded me,  ”but things better now. much better”  More laughter.

 

He told me that he stayed in East Berlin because his family lived there. But also, he paraphrased an artist who said that  with The Wall, there was something to fight for, the enemy was clear. ”In East Berlin, you didn’t think about how to get money, you did your art, you read your books, you had many conversations. Now we very America, always thinking about how to get money to survive. Not much time to have conversations. To think about much else.” 

 

 

El Macho Real: A Berlusconi in every Italian man?

In DR we say that in every man there is a little Trujillo and what about Berlusconi… is there a little of his “macho” in the Italian male?  A real mystery: how did he win the Italian election, not once but twice, (feels very reminscent of  Bush) when I have yet to meet one person who admits to voting for him and everyone I ask does not know of many, if any, who admit to have voted for him? And yes this “study” is biased, I am mostly around liberal folks or immigrants like me… But for the fun of it: Think Sopranos. Tony Soprano the beloved protagonist of the HBO show that basically celebrates the life of the mafiosi. “In Italy this show would never fly,” Someone told me very adamantly and said the show was offensive.  I had never thought twice about my own consumerism of the mafia lifestyle as entertainment, or even as problematic, even because it seems to me that Italians have been represented a number of different lights, positive and negative in film and TV.  And truth be told I have been too busy thinking about how screwed up Hollywood has been to black folks, immigrants, Latinos like me. But Italian-Americans as mafiosi types as entertainment…it’s difficult not to fall for Deniro.

But really, when I think about it…doesn’t Sopranos basically sell the idea that murder, extortion, infidelity, dealing illegal stuff is perfectly okay if you return home to eat with your wife and children, confess at church, and go to a shrink, especially because the mafia is founded on moving up in the social ladder for the good and wealth of la familia? In the same way  that many of us love or are simply entertained by Tony Soprano, unhappy Italians, I believe, especially the men, but women too, can’t help but love that side of Berlusconi that is so stereotypically macho. Berlousconi is a self made man (not an easy feat in Italy), an entrepreneur where he eventually built the most influential commercial Italian TV. He also hasn’t physically aged due to plastic surgeries and anti-aging therapies. He hustles government, changing and creating laws ”a su misura” meaning for his convenience to build his own capital and power. He is a con man, a show man, and shrewed and some may even argue a sexy man. The icing on the macho cake, he swings with young showgirls and doesn’t even apologize for it.

Academia needs a little more magic

I finally made the visit to the Mole Antonelliana di Torino which is also the Museo Nazionale del Cinema and found it to be just memorising.  An extraordinary resource for those who love film and want to learn more about the beginnings of cinema. Aside from the beautiful and unique architecture and the lift that offers up one of the best views of the city of Turin and the Alps that surrounds it, what was most impressive were the drawings from the 1800’s of shadowgraphy. What a person can do through the performance of their two bare hands is an affirmation that art will live even in the most difficult economic times.   Then to see how the cinema was developed from shadows on the walls to hollywood  blockbusters such as ET in a span of one long, okay very long lifetime, step by step, wow. More inspiring was to see how artists, physicists ,engineers and medical practitioners worked together to develop what we now know as the moving image.  Back in the day it was called “magic” by captivated audiences, these reproductions of reality,  these “ optical illusions.”  But I believe that the magic was not so much in the product, but in the magical moment when minds actually had the leisure, inspiration, desire to come together for a project.  It seems to me, now that I live in a university town surrounded by academics, there is very little  time to “play” to attempt and then fail, involving our research without some economic and professional consequences or delays.  The professionalism of academia seems to be working against its own potential of doing something extraordinary because from what I understand  my colleagues in the sciences, humanities, etc.. have very little free-play time.  The essential development time that is allotted to babies and children at schools, where they socialize, follow their own curiosities and just play. And this “interdisciplinary free play” that aristocrats and the well-to do had back in the day was essential to plant the intellectual,artistic, scientific seeds of something that continues to impact our lives in monumental ways. Maybe now that the economic has had a shake down, there will be more time to play, something new will be invented? Or there will be a slowing down on individual professional growth and some (individuals and institutions) will begin thinking on collective growth? I feel very fortunate because I entered academia very late in the game, most of my colleagues went straight from grad school to tenure track positions. But I spent a good many years following my creative work and feel that I could continue to primarily follow the creative work even if I committed myself into the institution. But I write this here and now so just in case I go astray I am reminded by you or my own writing to keep the magic going.

Link to museum for when you visit Turin.  http://www.museonazionaledelcinema.it/en/index.php

More On All Things Turin: Illegal rentals, Senegalese realtor, Gypsies in schools, etc

In the newspaper yesterday an illegal rental was found by the carabanieri (police) where an Italian rented a sort of garage/small unlivable room to 14 Pakistani immigrants, each of them paid 100 euros a month for access to a mattress and bathroom. And when the police came around the Italian would lock it and the renters found themselves homeless. Note: In conversations between folks the carabinieri’s are often blamed for the immigrant problem because they are supposedly soft on them.  Nicer than other countries, such as Spain, Germany, England.  Italy is also called by some the bridge from Africa to Europe. I heard from this man, newly arrived, that the police once forgave him for a traffic ticket while driving drunk because they began talking about their kids. Kid photos were next to license. At first I thought this incident was an exception, but then I was talking to a carabinieri who said that the police let lots of things go. “It’s Italy, people make mistakes,” he said. I am sure there are plenty of bastards out there and lots of messed of shit happening on the streets but coming from the police state of NYC where I never heard of anyone call a police a nice guy, Italy just seems to  be more elastic when it comes to law and order. I imagine that with all the fascist history still imprinted in the older generations memory, there is a need to be mindful of power, control, and consequences.

 I read an article about a real estate agency that opened up to serve extra communiatari (immigrants) because they have such a difficulty finding a place to live not that all Italians are racist (but I find that many are afraid of difference) it’s because most people rent by owner and even white Italians in all fairness have a difficult time renting a place if they don’t have their parents, or someone respected in the community to vouch for them. (Very mafiosi mentality) The realtor who opened the agency was from Senegal and said that he once lived in an apartment/room/storage closet without windows, very small about 120 sq feet for 300 euros a month. For that money you can easily find an apartment in Turin with 400 or even 600 sq feet. He was actually very generous towards racist or fearful Italians saying  in his interview, saying that when an owner is renting a place that was once his home or that will be eventually inherited by a family member they need to trust who will go into it. In fact, the first year I visited Turin, this was in 2004, I remember seeing signs “rent by owner, no extracommunitaris.” But since then, things have changed, at least superficially. I haven’t found any more of those signs. I also see lots of efforts toward integration, educational events to show the way the city is changing. Change is inevitable.

For over a year now parents are protesting about the integration of the “zingari” (gypsies )in the schools. Activists pushed for bussing the marginalized community into the Turin schools in order to integrate them into society with the hopes that schooling and more integration efforts would curb petty crimes such as pickpocketing. But many parents feel that the schools are already on a downward spiral with the integration of immigrants (Moroccans, Senegalese, Peruvians, Romanians, Albanians, etc). So there is also a push the other way to segregate schools which is virtually impossible being that a high percentage of the youth are Italian born from immigrant parents.  Italians are not having children like they used to. Even White Italians who are for integration have confessed to me that they are for it and think it’s a good idea but still prefer their children to go to a better school for the sake of their future. When I spoke to a teacher who is at the front line of this situation, she said that its really complicated. The only way to become a teacher is to get on a list, the lists are forever long and not merit based, (many are relation based) by the time you become a teacher in the schools you are close to retirement and set in your ways. And then you enter the classroom and are confronted with children who speak languages you don’t speak. From cultures you know nothing of and then are supposed to teach the young people and prepare them for the exams. This particular teacher said the challenge was good for her because it gives her an opportunity to speak  the six languages she learned in her classical education. She’s also a rare person who has traveled half the world. But unfortunately she said that  most teachers are just babysitting because they don’t know what to do and are afraid of the students.

 When I asked a young man, 10 years old, who resides in Turin, who goes to a public school, he thought that segregating schools was a very upsetting idea. He said my parents want this because they say my education will be better but I feel that many of the Italian kids in my school learn a lot from the kids who are not Italian. because they work twice as hard and for example, “my friend, he’s Romanian, he was the only one who tried to help me with math. and I have a Peruvian friend who really works hard and when the other Italian kids want to joke around, he does his work because he says he has too or else he will get in trouble with his mother. So he’s a good influence on me. But my parents don’t see that. Nobody asks us what we think. But we are the ones in school and should have an opinion.”

Admittedly my hyphenated American Identity has been like a passport to go in and out of circles in Italy and feel that most folks find it easy to confide in me about what’s on their mind, and   I feel very privileged in this way. But regardless of my identity, one thing that is very refreshing is that in Turin, because so much of this stuff is so new, it is in a pre Political Correct moment, so people say some of the most problematic things unapologetically.  They say what they are actually thinking.  So people know where they stand. Which is so not true in the U.S. And in the end I feel because it’s all out in the open change can happen faster.

That’s all for now… The sun is beating on my computer and the battery is about to go out.

 

They had immigration, And now they live on reservations. Think About it.

If you go to the right-winged political group in Italy, leganord.com website you will find posters like this one. They are fear mongerers and recruiting disgruntled working class Italians who are out of jobs.  They are positioning themselves as the marginal Italians and obviously comparing their situation with U.S. natives who “allowed”  European immigration and then were pushed into reservations. The exact translation (please note that translations are interpretive) They had immigration, And now they live on reservations. Think About it.

Another eye catching poster below. We have stopped the invasion. And the photograph is of extra-communitarians on their way to the South of Italy.

 

Three days ago a a decree was passed on immigration that has lefties in Italy in a huff and with good reason.   In order to secure the cities, keep immigrants in check, curb crime, Lega nord and Berlusconi are happy to read the newsstory headline: Yes to ‘ronde” but disarmed. And these rondes (small groups with the power to act when they perceieve danger cannot directly intervene but could alert the police as they see feet.) So big brother is watching and under attack are the homeless, illegal and legal residents, those that rent to illegal aliens and grafitti artists to name a few. 

 

 Other recent big news for Lega-nordians. The first black mayor in a small town in Italy is a woman. No surprise there. Think about some of the first Black folks who filled US power positions: C Thomas, C Rice, C. Powell. All Republicans. And I just noticed all their names start with a  C.

 

 

 

Back in Torino

I am back to Torino. Where it is blistering hot one moment and then a violent hail storm pushes its way across the city another. The sun is back this morning. And I am staying in the prettiest hotel I have ever been. It is a boutique hotel in the center of Turin and the breakfast’s abundant and classy, chocolate, creme, and plain croissants, yogurts of all kinds, a cornucopia of fruits, breads, cheeses, meats, a vat of nutella, an extensive selection of marmalade, etc etc and the courtyard offers up serenity and quiet just two minutes away from the bustling center, filled with geraniums and some roses and lots of green. It’s what the Americans will call “very European.” Except there is air conditioning, which feels like a luxury here because from what I have notice people don’t use it. They just adapt to the weather. When it’s cold, many double up on sweaters, when it’s hot many just sweat. this also has to do with high electric and gas costs. So high that heating a small apartment in the middle of winter could cost more than the monthly rent. Which is probably a very good thing for the environment. Let heat less damage?

 

 

Anyways… because I love this hotel so much, and i have had so many people emailing me asking me for Italy suggestions I thought I would make a quick list of the best of Turin as I see it before I forget it all. And when I have time I will add more info with links.

 

TO EAT:

Da Michele (Piazza Victorio) The cook is actually the owner, the waiters all family, the quality high and price reasonable.

Don Gennaro (Best Napolitana Pizza)

 

To Snack

Bar Torre (Best Sicilian Granita) Try Coffee Almond mix. Or Chocolate with Panna. Or just Almond

Cafe Elena (The Literary Bar) Piazza Victorio

 

TO Stay

Hotel Victoria (Boutique Hotel with access to pool from spa)

 

To Drink

Pastis (In Quadrilato Romano) Go around 6-8 where there is a wonderful apperitivo being served. Free with any drink. And the free apperitivo is substantial enough to skip dinner altogether.

Drogheria, Piazza Victorio. Great place to meet for coffee or drinks.

 

To Buy Your Airline Ticket

Super cheap tickets from London, Paris, Barcelona on Easyjet and/or Ryanair.com

From the states: Try Vayama.com. I found the best price there. Much cheaper than Travelocity, etc.

 

See you here!

 

Activist Van Gogh, Cockroach at Airport, and Monastic, El Bruc

While in Amsterdam I went to visit the Van Gogh’Museum and the collection was okay. It doesn’t compare to some of the shows I have seen of his work in NY at the MET, where I was able to see both his paintings and drawings,  but what was really interesting to me was all the stuff I learned about his life. That Van Gogh was an evangelist. And when he was 26, I think in 1879, and he was out of work, he decided to be an artist. And  he wrote that he had a strong desire to leave a “certain souvenir” to humankind “in the form of drawing, painting not made to comply with this or that school but to express genuine human feeling.”  Which is very activist of him to create something with such an intention. Which is always nice to see that someone who is admired for his form and fluency in the language of art is also someone who wanted to transform the world with his art as well.

 

I am happy to be in El Bruc, Spain and away from Amsterdam, that was  swamped with Americans. And everywhere I turned English was spoken. But not just English, loud obnoxious english , louder than the street traffic and the giggle fits by American University students wearing dark shades and hanging out at “coffeeshops” high out of their minds in the red light district.

On another note there is a traffic jam in my brain between Italian, Spanish and English.

Short clip of me at Barcelona airport.

-Excuse me, adonde estas la caja para sacar dinero?

After I almost tripped over a two year old running away from her mother.

-Mi dispiace. Sorry. Hablas espanol?

After a waterbug the size of a small plum rushed across my feet.

-Ay dios mio. I yelled. I grabbed the arm of a woman wearing a uniform who stomped him dead. -En Santo Domingo esos vuelan.

-Eres Dominicana? she asked.  She was Dominican too. In fact when I looked around, I saw so many Dominicans I wanted to go and hug them all. It was a very strange impulse to have. But after a week of being around so many white folks when I listened to all the  Spanish and saw all the  brown women that looked like my tias…

-Ten cuidado que este aeropuerto estas lleno de cucarachas. Tu no quiere saber lo que yo encontrado aqui.

-No me digas.

I felt very inside of the Barcelona airport culture scene at that moment. 

-Vives aqui?

-No in New York. No in Texas. What I mean, de Torino.

Someone calls for her, she goes away. I wanted her to stay. To tell me how she got from DR to here.  To tell me more about her work at the airport. But that’s how it goes. I was off to my next adventure in El Bruc, where I am taking a playwriting workshop.

As I write this I find myself sitting in a room less than 50 sq feet, on a twin size bed, a small window up high on the wall. A mirror and chair. It’s monastic and disappointing.  The organizer is trying to find me a better room.

On a better note, the center itself was started by 20 Norwegian artists and it functions as a commune. So that’s pretty cool. And the rest of the participants are all British,  and very nice.  So let’s see how it goes.