no running water. hmm Tweet

Our Central London flat has had no running water for a few hours now. It gives me the strangest pangs of living in communist block of flats, without the added benefit of all the water bottles we had stored in every corner of the flat in Bucharest, back then. There is no heating (thank God it's the warmest April yet), no way to flush the loo (thank God that someone has been forgetful enough to not pull the bath plug this morning), and certainly no option to wash anything, water anything, or make a cup of tea (thank God that we're drinking sparkling water, and there's some leftover chocolate tea that could be heated up). I have no idea whether this is planned or not, where to call, and whether I can expect anything good to follow such a call. Living in London is like having a constant ball.

I love it when he talks to me in his sleep Tweet

We try to vary who gets a hug at night, but somehow I end up at an advantage, and without asking for it (all the time). It often becomes a logistical challenge, though, as I spend quality time with my iPod Touch long after he's fallen asleep, and twisting and turning in search of a more comfortable reading position isn't an option. Last night, however, I had to get out of bed entirely, and that was very much able to wake him up. So the following dialog ensued, to minimize side effects, and because you can talk to him while he sleeps, even if he won't recall it the next day:

Me, softly spoken: I'll see you in a minute.
Him: Hmm?
Me, slightly louder: I'll see you in a minute.
Him: OK.

Conscience clear, I could then roll out of bed smoothly, and count on him still being in a hug posture upon my return.

Him: Be careful.

What never fails to bug me in such circumstances is: what is he dreaming about?! And how is it fair that I'll never ever know?!

chez adrideo & chez gorgeoux: a monday feast Tweet

Used to going out on Monday evenings, at least from this year's beginning, we were keen to do something special this week, too, even if staying in. Two lovely dinners out, on Friday and Saturday had only increased our feasting appetite, so here's what we managed to put together quickly, while chilling a special bottle of red (Italians know a few things about this):

1 & 2. salted butter and bread with walnut and dates, next to mussels kindly prepared by Waitrose (yes, we could cook our own mussels, but removing their beards is a tedious, exhausting process)

3. grilled hake fillets covered in a lemon juice & olive oil emulsion with lemon peel, thyme, salt and pepper, served with a tomato ceviche

4. cherry tart with almond flakes, served with buffalo double cream

a monday feast, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

I haven't got a better word than ceviche: even though it contains no fish, the side dish is no salad. Finely chopped onion spends a couple of hours (ideally) in lemon juice and sea salt, to relax its heat and focus its sweetness, and then is joined by tomatoes, capers, a handful of dill and chili flakes. Fishes are often bland, and often served in restaurants next to cooked tomatoes and such, which doesn't help. My intervention helped the hake shine, as proven by the head chef's greatest compliment: a second serving.

A lot of these products and ingredients had been found at the farmers' market, and while the bread and the double cream were good value, not every stool discounts products when the market closes. The tart baker charged 3 pounds while lamenting that he would throw remaining goods to the bin—dozens over dozens of tarts. The fishmonger wanted 8 pounds for that hake, and reluctantly accepted 5 in the end. And the tomato stool kept its usual offer: 3.50 for a punnet or 6.50 for two. The only reason why I keep buying from them is, well, flavor: at least two types of tomatoes every week, and more often than not a warning that some are... overly sweet. Because, yes, one should stay far far away from sweet tomatoes (Italians know a few things about this, too, and Romanians follow closely behind). These experiences are only cementing my view that marketing should be studied early on in school by everyone.

cut tulips from the farmers' market Tweet

One can find good discounts when the farmers' market wraps up in Marylebone, so I didn't think twice about grabbing four bunches of tulips for a fiver yesterday. The white/ cream ones with green stripes had clearly been dubbed weird by other shoppers, which meant more of them for me!

green & white tulips, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

a five mile walk in sussex: etchingham station to pashley manor gardens to the bull inn Tweet

It was my first time ever at Charing Cross Station, taking a train rather than the Tube, going outside London. I found it quite cumbersome, without National Rail signs (and rare British Rail directions), but nevertheless charming to board a train from such a central location—nevermind the windows were so dirty that my sunny day videos are, hmm, grey?! The other passengers didn't seem so chuffed, and the shiniest of them were women in flimsy chiffon dresses and elaborate fascinators, suggesting that the wedding season had started, rather than any destination along that line being glamorous.



Arriving in Etchingham a brunch later, we came about the inviting sign of what seemed to be the station bistro. That clarified, in its own ballooned way that local meals would be a notch above McDonald's, but no more.



We carried on, armed with the needed technology: a printed map of nearby walking paths, and the all knowing iPhone for back-up. Dandelions accompanied us any side of the road, burning in a sun that had no idea of an April defined by showers.



We hardly managed to go round the church when tiny white butterflies started dancing around us, the tip of their wings dipped in 100% orange. They were hardly unreliable, camera-wise, but how about this calm, amazing specimen? If only I knew its name.



To my surprise, primulas, which have been a pain in the garden so far, were growing quite happily in the wild.



A bit further up the hill, someone was selling egg...ceptional produce. We had already wondered what happens if we come across anything like it, and had decided against it, sadly. Still, I pondered out loud for a moment whether, provided we had a plastic bag to put around the carton, an omelet would be such a bad outcome.



In search of the local bridleway (which word seems to have become a false friend to Americans in search of UK wedding venues), Chris directed my attention to hop houses, a Kent fixture dangerously close to the Sussex border here. Later I was to see one of them closer.



Soon after we came about the sweetest horse yet, who rushed to greet us, making me feel rather embarrassed for carrying no treat and generally being unable to comfort him in that horrendous swarm of flies. Less upset than me, he then proceeded to walk in parallel to us for as long as he could, underneath twigs in bloom that broke loudly.



Still looking for the bridleway, and encouraged by the horse above and his mates, we nearly ran into some sexy chickens and loved they energetically stretched their wings for our eyes only.



Soon after we met a gentleman pruning his hedge, pheasants chilling by the pool in the back of his house, two overly friendly (and large) dogs by his foot. He said we could reach the bridleway through the back of his property, but that we had lost it earlier by going right instead of left at the tennis court (surrounded by sheep). Maybe he was right, or maybe the bridleway had been entirely covered by the concrete alleys this chap and his neighbor put in, which might explain why neither of them had gates, fences, or signs that either place was a private property.

We made it to bridleway, and my, was it in a poor state! Hardly a thin person could walk on it, nevermind a horse and a rider. It turned a bit better in the woods, and I could easily see how, covered in bluebells a week from now, it would have made me forget all about the path not being in top shape. At the other end, we emerged into a busy carriageway and tried very hard to ignore the wonky drivers and focus on the funny lambs on the side of the road.



It worked, as we soon entered the Pashley Manor Gardens, after what the guide judged to be a mile walking. Google Maps would beg to differ at over two miles and a half, but who's asking them? A bunch of Erlicheer daffs were there to welcome us, and presently we arrived at the shop only to stun the lovely ticket lady with our story of having come all the way from London. Surely we'd like a cup of tea on the terrace after our wander through the gardens!



And there, finally, were the tulips. Some larger than I can prove, though the photos below are doing their earnest.



And others fringed to their teeth among the thorns of roses still to come. Alright, it was no (somewhere between Schiphol and) Amsterdam, but as far as English tulips go outside London, Pashley Manor Gardens were well up for it.



We then stepped into the walled garden, where we were reminded once more than no allotment and definitely no rooftop terrace can grow enough to feed the two of us all year round. Not even all summer round. Serious space is needed, and we frankly wondered whether these people could eat more than once of week off their lot.



A glance at the pool, and then a stroll across the lawn, where two lazy black swans made Chris stand back and repeat to me a couple of times, unaware of the sign, that I may be in for more than I can handle if I kept stepping their way.



Following the stream, we stopped on a welded iron love seat at the top of the lake, and took in the vastness of the garden, which we could easily imagine possessing. Like anyone else around, we started discussing how we'd best make use of it and grow it as a destination. Then dropped all that for a moment, so that I could marvel at these lilies (at least that's what I think they are).



Our miserable colds not withstanding, we sat on the terrace for the best scones yet, and a cuppa, stretching our legs towards quarreling ducks that were very much at ease among visitors and played one too many pranks on the obnoxious children around.



In front of us, fluttering and dancing in the breeze, a host of simple white daffodils focused the eye by the stream.



Behind and above us, a gorgeous magnolia in bloom provided just the setting for tinsy birds to chirp and mate.



And to the right, the back of the house was coming abloom with the largest wisteria yet, covering the sunny red bricks. Ignoring the false, over the top chatter to our left (we stayed for the night in Turnbridge Wells and had a marvelous dinner at that Michelin start restaurant), we went back to our plans for world domination.



We had overstayed our welcome, though that's no biggie at Pashley Manor, where visitors take their time. We walked up to the pool, which had been left alone by visitors and staff altogether, and appreciated the perfect arrangement of the seats function of how the sun traveled throughout the day: armchairs for the morning, chaise longues for the evening. A quick look at the cut tulips in the tent nearby, and off we went again, in search of a pint that had been seriously researched. On the way, I spotted a perfect azalea and laughed remembering that Stuart, Chris's uncle calls it a weed (in his native Scotland) but a. hasn't got rid of the large one in his yard and b. arranged a perfect exemplar in bloom on a side table in our room.



With no walking path by the road, and more so, tall hedges to shelter the pastures nearby, I soon got fed up with walking in Sussex and suggested we cut across the fields for as long as possible. Some peace and hush was much in order, what with such a pleasant tea and dream of grandeur earlier! Finally coming across stiles reinstalled my belief in public ways, and hopes to do such walks again. Just not in Sussex.



With no one around but birds, I couldn't figure out whether this chair, close to a stile, was lost or hidden. Art, even?



Many a baby pheasants flew about, and Chris did his best to startle a couple of them (and himself). Too late for hunting them, or too early, though it surely was tempting, and easy. One of them just showed up a meter above us at some point, silently going by and landing a couple of meters ahead of us. Though having had a rifle handy, I might have speared the creature, in awe of its majestic flight.



We emerged on an empty golf course, and making our way out we came about this delightful hole n the hedge. We both instantly thought of childhood and wonderlands, grins across our faces, and that gave us enough food for discussion up a one way road that seemed, at best, suicidal. For pedestrians.



More pheasants later, I noticed this lake due to a couple of them birds going down towards it, for a sip, I am sure.



Fantastical images grew in the air above the hedges: distant hills of haze and mist, hot air balloons of unknown destinations.



No other pedestrian though, just once, a stretch away, a lonely cyclist as brave as us, and smarter for taking the back route.



When we finally sat down at the pub (The Bull Inn), the sun was about to dive in a pool of clouds predicting not the greatest weather for Sunday, and the moon was up in a tree, eager to get going. It hadn't been another mile, as Chris insisted, and neither perhaps a mile and half, as he conceded. Just a tad over two and a half again, as the Google Map proudly put together from memory details. The Bull Inn was desolate, and the village around it seemed no better. We were even less inclined to dine there than at the station bistro in Etchingham, so as the evening fell chilly and a pint of bitter quenched our thirst, the search for a cab started.



Three phone calls and two referrals later we had found ourselves a (dodgy) deal, and left behind the sad families eating overcooked burgers among children running in circles on bikes and fluffy dogs generally being ignored on the village green. Against our desire, and for the same (unfair) charge, we ended up in Wadhurst with half an hour to spare before the train. We poured ourselves a glass of wine, and booked a late table at Bocca di Lupo, rather happy to go back to that London.

where no one has gone before: pashley manor gardens Tweet

When we reluctantly gave up our dreams of seeing tulips and Amsterdam in the next weeks (work and a certain ash cloud got in the way), I said to my travel agent: right, there's got to be a tulip bed or two in this bloomin' country, too! Google and Flickr concurred, though not too enthusiastically: other than Hyde Park (!), the tulip aficionados of England can go visit a place in Kent, and a place in Sussex—or sod it! Plant their own bulbs and have a staycation.

For us, in view of good weather and recent walks, two grand houses fitting the brief were (terribly sad, and still) good news, so we decided to decide either way come Saturday morning. We both fostered annoying colds, were in no mood to call and enquire whether the weather had been conducive to tulip bloom in either location, and went to bed in such miserable condition Friday evening that even buying cut tulips next day seemed like too much planning.

Makes perfect sense that I woke up to (a brilliantly sunny day, and) having to catch a train to Sussex an hour later on the dot. I couldn't have done it without my personal guide, who, in the time I needed to recall my name, get dressed, and reach Goodge Street Station managed to piece together a map plus local cab numbers, match the silly Tube and train schedules, and collect a generous brunch from several shops. Meanwhile, I forgot my wallet at home...

Not even that prevented me from making the train off Charing Cross Station and arriving in Etchingham a little over an hour later, seasoned with crayfish, a fitting frizzante, and a sprinkle of lowered expectations: Etchingham seems the kind of place where one is born (to then go live somewhere far far away) or one ends up once in a lifetime, for a wedding. The train conductor guessed we were headed to the beach in Hastings and I nearly asked whether they had tulips.

From this point in the trip onwards, shiny photos document our finds and adventures, so, before I lay the second installment in front of your eyes, please familiarize yourself with the path we followed to Pashley Manor Gardens (where English tulip heaven alighted) and then farther across valleys and hills, to The Bull Inn (and public house), where no one should ever have to go, but where you'll find a pint of sommin', should you have a thirst that cannot wait.


View pashley manor gardens, and around in a larger map

cucumbers. perhaps Tweet

The same propagator also holds zucchini seeds, so I haven't dug up either to see what's coming out so strong. There's a second propagator full of tomato seeds, and no sign of life there. After all, they'd all been started last Sunday only. Come to think of it, it's quite silly I've gotten myself into this at a time when we consider moving. But both growing veggies and a new flat seem miles away right now.

propagating, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

the birds kept quiet Tweet

It was 3, 4, or even 5 in the morning. Most times in the past, that spelled insomnia. Last night, it could have meant bad food at Carluccio's, sinuses misbehaving to the point of constant cringing and crying, or reading in bed too deep into the night. It hit me, then. Insomnia wasn't about inability to blow all thoughts away and easy into Hypnos's embrace. Insomnia wasn't about overpowering thoughts, either: none of the things, old and new, that crossed my mind had any urgency about them, any chance to change my life, even though the flashy roller coaster they created appeared pregnant with meanings. Insomnia—and I knew I had finally figured it out—simply meant my body, mind included, was standing up to me: Mira, chica, you're well past the point where you dream nicely and I sort the garbage in the back yard, so I'm doing it on the front lawn, before your eyes.

After I had insomnia figured out, two more thoughts grabbed me before finally falling asleep around 6 in the morning. I've been on a new diet for three months now, and while details don't matter and results are still to show, telling people about it is not the most gratifying of experiences. Going out should sometimes mean little food, and hardly any drinks. Discussing the diet with my parents over Easter went well, until we refused large portions. Saying no when someone offers a beer in the pub doesn't go down much better. Yet one great benefit so far has been learning that I no longer mean to eat foods I don't like, even if they're presented to me by loved ones, or restaurants where I paid handsomely. It might sound simple, but what a breakthrough, for once, to not finish what's on your plate. Until last night, when we took people out to a restaurant of their choice, and my food was subpar. I didn't finish it, but I ate. Having had it sent back would have been too much fuss, and, more importantly, not a compliment on the choice of our guests. While I probably did the right thing in the context, I know I won't rest until I find the right thing for me. I'm also relearning what a step means in a very long process, and how a decision alone fixes very little. Back to the drawing board.

Then the other thought. Both my parents have beauty marks (spots, moles, nevi if you like), and I inherited them nicely, sometimes in constellations much like those up in the sky—I bet you'll try to spot that Ursa Major on my arm next time we meet. My mother, however, has got a few special ones, that slowly grow across the years and, while still beautiful, become a nuisance when getting dressed or wearing a necklace, since they're not flat and one might upset them, with unknown consequences. I've inherited these, too. One placed so centrally on the back of my neck that a former highschool colleague used to call it my ON/ OFF button. Many years ago, while doing my manicure, I also noticed that the skin around the tip of my nails was toughening up quicker than any other, and needed special attention. Nothing fixes that but delicate removal. Common, I thought, until, only recently, I've stumbled upon my father taking care of his. And just a month ago or so, my right eyebrow grew an extremely long hair, for the first time ever. Another picturesque feature of my dad, one that suits him much better than it'd ever suit me, and one that also needs delicate grooming. While the above are rather amusing quirks, surely features that count towards my uniqueness, who knows what other timed bombs I'm carrying? Certainly, not science. And having spent some of my insomnia reading about screenings, I know now that most are useless, and I choose not to ever fret over these matters. My father's convoluted health history, matched by his inspiring resilience, paired with my mother's resistance to know anything about what doesn't work in her body seem to me like the smarter heritage to invoke.

The birds, usually chirping severely from 3am in London, were kind last night, and our heavy purple curtains kept the daylight out when I was ready for my wink of sleep. I cannot think of a better previous use of insomnia, even though I've been known to read, write, watch movies, solve complex client issues and generally go ahead with my day. I can neither think of a future time when insomnia annoys me, or when I think of it as mysterious or caused by external triggers. Last night has been all about me, and not in the least wasted. Unhappy tummy, blocked sinuses, and late night reading, you're all excused.

gotta love american english Tweet

In'erview, in'eresting, in'ellectual. If the missing T made it in television shows and political speeches, dictionaries are just a matter of time. There were too many Ts in English, anyway.

my mother's flowers, or why I miss Romania Tweet

This is what my mother bought for next to nothing on the side of the road. I think I desperately need to live in a country were that is still the thing du jour. Here, I've yet to see a daffodil like that—there are about three types only (ab)used in the UK, from what I've seen. Lilac? Mmm, maybe I could get some in a very expensive flower shop, but even then, would it really smell like it should, and would it last? Nope. To top all that, lily-of-the-valley, my lifetime favorite spring messenger has never ever crossed my path here. I guess it's time to grow my own. Or move.

my mother's flowers, or why I miss Romania, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

a few faces of london Tweet

You'd think that fighting a debilitating cold happens in bed (and, yes, I was briefly tempted), but today I mustered the strength to blow my nose every two minutes and sneeze every five minutes at my desk at home, and push through normal duties. When I stopped working, late in the evening, even though my partner for better and worse was still going, I sat down in front of Zoey and, covered in as many layers as it takes to stop feeling cold, I still felt like putting together this video postponed for too long: sights and sounds of London captured across two years and two cameras. Hope you enjoy these odd bits. I'll be enjoying a brandy, a hot bath, and making another prayer that I wake up tomorrow feeling my age, rather than three times the count.

it's come a long way, and I still don't know what it is Tweet

How I did come about this plant four years ago, when I snapped a photo of it on my kitchen counter? I don't recall. Three years ago it bloomed for the first time, two years ago I gave it to my mom, and here's proof that it's still around and blooming. The cool part is that mom left it inside the teapot, she who has repotted all other inherited babies. But, longevity aside, what is it?!

what is this?, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

thames walk #2: putney to richmond Tweet

The second Thames walk happened without delay: a week later, on perfect weather this time, we started in Putney, had a (half) pint and a bite in a few pubs, and before we knew it, one mile led to the next and we ended up in Richmond. It'd appear that was ten miles in total, yet we'll have a closer look at the map in the next days and report back with all kinds of goodies for those willing to spend a day on the same path. At this point I'm so excited to have walked that long without dying (or coming close to it) that I'm giving myself a bath of lavender salt and praying really hard to be able to walk without pain in a couple of days. From roaming London, to walking three miles, to walking ten, that's who I am—someone too excited to plan. Perhaps by the third walk, when I'll obviously go straight up to twenty miles, I'll consider starting and ending with stretching exercises. For now, you can marvel at the fact that none of the first two walks was done on heels. I'm growing old.



Update, April 19th 2010: There has been some (reasonable) level of soreness in my muscles, but the big surprise is catching a cold (I'm hoping it's not a flu). I get overheated in such walks, which explains why I didn't continue up the hill in Scotland and missed a magnificent view, and why in bikram yoga I often felt that there was no space left for me inside my body and that my breath was that of a dragon. On the one hand I'd find it easy to blame this on my unnecessary weight gain in the last years, on the other—I've always been like this, even when super-fit, trailing up and down the more serious mountains of Romania, well ahead of the pack. April is probably the worst month to get overheated, too, with its deceiving sun and sudden drops in temperature in the evening. Regardless, I'd really love more walks (we're talking Lake District, etc.), and I'm certainly not going to accept that each one ends with a cold. What should I do differently?

yes, I can long for a city I've never seen Tweet

I rarely listen to radio (ah, the lost art of MAKING IT!), and then it rarely is commercial British or American, so Jay-Z's Empire State of Mind passed through charts unknown to me. But when Alicia Keys had a second go at it, and several months were allowed for propagation to radio-less caves like this, look at me all enamored. A song like this was the precise silver lining of putting a playlist together back in the days, and knowing you're broadcasting it to millions (first time, heavy rotation, whichever), and that quite a few people around the country will stop in their tracks, sing along (unknowingly or fully assumed), and hold their breath at the end to hear [song title] by [artist name] have blown you away. Ah, Wikipedia would have been my best friend then, with just the juice a DJ needs: "Empire State of Mind" was originally created by singer-songwriter-producer Angela Hunte, a Brooklyn native, along with writing partner Jane't "Jnay" Sewell-Ulepic. [...] The track's creation was inspired during [an] overseas trip Hunte and Sewell-Ulepic made to London in February, both feeling nostalgic.



And funny that, I feel nostalgic, too, much less about radio days than about a city I've never seen. New York has haunted me, in various forms and with various strengths, for at least half my lifetime. That is an awfully long time, and an unreasonable level of expectations raised along the way, so much that I don't know how I'll be able to set foot on those streets with an open mind. There will be layers upon layers of imagery and sound coming to play, and all I can hope for, when we finally meet, is that my ever-changing, ever-growing collage of second-hand NYC moments will melt into my own NYC movie. A truly amazing one, too, at least as much as Woody Allen's iconic Manhattan opening.

the time of tulips Tweet

These in my lounge. Yes, a re-run of the Sunday lot, but aren't they joy incorporated? Thank you!

one last time, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

These in the window of a new neighbor across the road. That flat had never been of any interest.

new neighbors, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

new arrival: ranunculus, or buttercup Tweet

I've been forever in love with this flower, but had no name for it. It only became clear a few weeks ago, when a photographer whose Flickr feed I follow was obsessed by ranunculus blooms. I then said to myself, surely there must be a sweeter (non-Latin? non-scientific?) name for this cutesy. And Wikipedia suggests nothing, except it being a cousin of the buttercups and crowfoots (!). Wait a minute, THESE ARE BUTTERCUPS! Go figure: Mother Nature saw fit to make something so simple and something so elaborate in the same family. I bet it does that all the time.

I have my own, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

Then it was a case of everything coming together: I had spotted that a neighbor planted some ranunculus (little frog? really?!), I came about the name, and then I came about the plant on my way to a Pret sandwich. Was there any chance I wouldn't attempt to kill—strike that—pot this baby? So far, so good, and fairly safe under the bird seeder, as it's poisonous. Pam pam!

yellow ranunculus, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

the coral necklace, refactored Tweet

Today I've had those golden five minutes needed to bring back to life a necklace made less than two months ago. The red flower's soft rubber on fabric lost its shape and its rubber quicker than quick, and died during my last trip to Bucharest. The coral was feeling lonely, and the necklace—naked. Enter flower number two, and golden! I wonder whether this will get any compliments; the red flower captured eyesight real estate in no time, and my God did it feel good to answer I made it when asked where I had bought it. That manufacture alone got me applause, so the refactored necklace should better not disappoint the fan base this time round.

born again, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

Update, May 13th 2010: A month after, still rocking that look, though the sun has become rather shy. Leopard print, mixed patterns, and gold—when beige ain't but boldness at work.