a butterfly on dopplr (public profile, velocity)

a butterfly on dopplr, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

frangipani, my love

frangipani, my love, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

Many times have I seen photos of this flower without knowing its name (frangipani/ plumeria/ lei flower/ etc.), but never have I imagined it smelled as amazing as it looked, regardless of variety. Viet Nam sure came with bonuses.

I learned it is called frangipani last night, when my love was watching a documentary about Israel. I didn't try to see it, though it's brilliant and I will get back to it one day, but happened in front of the screen when the flower was shown and the name—pronounced.

That was the third Israel related event yesterday, a rare occurrence. Going to a soirée for upcoming jewellery designers, I met Israeli Yaffa, a sweet crazy lady that a). recommended me a Lebanese (!) movie, Caramel (Sukkar banat), which I'll see ASAP and b) chose, of all my many Moo cards the one picturing Herzliyya beach at sunset (close to Tel Aviv), unknowingly.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. If you're one waiting for those holiday stories, whether you pulled my sleeve yet or not, know they're on the way. The process is slowed, however, by having to process more than a thousand good photos and, honestly, working and living.

Then again, you haven't heard much of last autumn's holiday in Stromboli yet, have you?

a dream. a nightmare

Last night I traveled intensely. I took countless flights and lost a few, a particular one in Lisbon. I think I even gave the pilot job a try. It was crazy and nonstop, like a wicked carousel. Plane after plane after plane after plane. Understandably, I woke up tired and undecided about waking up.

remember Paris? forget Jardin des Tuileries

windy sun, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

What you see in this photo is the essence of Jardin des Tuileries, so unworthily praised in too many books and not only: chestnut trees (or other) with tops cut symmetrically, horizontal, a few wide alleys of nondescript dust, and passing people. Sun is optional, just like in London.

There are, of course, a few cafes, many benches, a silly pond of no added atmosphere, the mandatory sculptures and pigeons, and, if lucky, some flower beds no landscape designer has touched. Unimpressed is an understatement. Angry is an overstatement. Baffled?

I did like two details, one permanent, one not. Next to benches, there are chairs, as well. And you can drag one wherever your heart calls you. Then, one of Louise Bourgeois's giant spiders was exposed on the lawn, much better than inside, say, Tate Modern. Public art is cool. And modern.

Believe me not? Here's all I could find, and tried I have. Once more, Paris is overrated. Neighbourhood parks in Bucharest have more to offer to the eye and to the soul. My tiny nearby garden in London has more to offer. Funnily enough, the Sacre Coeur gardens have more to offer.

the holiday in (tiniest) brief

excited monk, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

I'd like to say that I approached my first trip to Asia with the excitement of this amazing monk that inspired me on the way to Noi Bai, Ha Noi's airport, and around it. The truth is that not being able to sleep the previous night, and not that much on board either, I arrived to Nha Trang in an advanced zombie state. That is not to say that I have changed my mind about jet lag: it's a problem of unexperienced travelers alone, a whim even.

Having taken three flights in a row (London—Singapore—Ha Noi—Nha Trang), I had been in cabs, on airplanes, and in airports for about 24 hours. Add the 24 hours of being awake before and after all that and you end up with what must be my lifetime record, and mine wasn't the easy way life, not ever.

Subtracting some other 24 hours spent coming back, I've spent about two days at Ana Mandara in Nha Trang, about six days at the Six Senses Hideaway in Ninh Van Bay, about five days in Ha Noi, almost three in Ha Long Bay, and a bit more than three in Singapore. The amount of packing and unpacking involved proved staggering, even though I had help from not only my love but, at some point, my butler, Thuy as well.

I had a butler, indeed. We did. Quite an experience, and a lovely idea in an allegedly fancy hidden resort that could be only accessed by water; though rough in some respects. Ana Mandara and the Hideaway have the same owners, whether rich Vietnamese or rich Thailandese. This meant, among others, that both of them were concerned with whether we noticed their eco-friendly and socially committed practices.

Hmm. If eco-friendly refers to the environment alone, it was quite alright. If it also addresses people, I fail to see how all sorts of creatures from large mosquitoes and spiders to suicidal bats and immense moths could become friendly to us without serious training that didn't seem deployed. It has dawned on me throughout this lengthy adventure that I'm not a jungle person unless the term is used in musical ways.

At days we enjoyed our open air jacuzzi, small private pool, and the South China sea, but at night we've been held hostage in the room/ villa and God knows there's little else the night creature in me dislikes more. Perhaps Russian tourists, of whom we've seen and heard too much. On the creatures' side, though, it must be said that corals, ghekos, and butterflies are good friends of mine, and that never before have I seen purple shells like on a random beach in Ha Long Bay.

It must be noted that witnessing some of the most amazing sunsets ever, many a rainbow, and the Equatorial weather overall must be done at least once in a lifetime, and enjoyed. Add some great local food, like Vietnamese cha ca (fried fish, but there's more to it), staying two minutes away from Ha Noi's Minh's Jazz Club, seeing Ha Long Bay, drinking Bia Hoi (lovely, cheap, Czech-inspired local beer brewed daily), chatting with locals, having an endlessly flowing champagne brunch at Raffles Hotel (where Singapore Sling was invented) and you have the greatest highlights.

The dark side, however, was manifold, as well: experiencing some of the hottest days Singapore has and its mindblowing artificial life focused on shopping malls (over 100, I'm told), all those (countless!) bugs, discovering that the best Vietnamese ca phe is the one we make at home, having my first scary encounter with American food (and, for that matter, culture and lifestyle) at Morton's (everything larger than needed and immensely tasteless), learning that Asia sees toilet paper, even in posh places, as a flimsy accessory, discovering that Singapore Airlines are not that sweet and meeting people overly happy with petty lives makes it all heavy and so far almost impossible to filter.

Ha Noi was the greatest place for me, by far, and it will come as no surprise that we're thinking about living there for a month at some point. It's like no other place I've seen, so full of life, so well mixing old ways and new. I've no wish to see Ho Chi Min, in light of Ha Noi and, needless to say, Singapore—a place where chewing gum cannot be brought into the country unless it's dental (because it's dirty) and where birds are shot (because they're dirty) but other capitalist products and ants are alright (not that dirty).

I will write more, but so far I can't even bring myself to read this post. The strangest joyride.

layers over layers

layers, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

Home again, and grateful for a city that seems entirely air-conditioned—though not obvious in photos, Viet Nam and Singapore have been hot; damn hot! I've brought back so many impressions, novelties, and photos that I expect, at this point, to see them settle and get published at different speeds in the next few months, or never; myself, I'm equally happy with either. Meanwhile, praying to keep this chilled state of mind and being for a lifetime, I will go drink my ca phe (Vietnamese coffee), like they no longer serve over there (what a pity!), smoke cheap cigarettes (1 USD/ pack), and tend to my thirsty plants (dearly missed). Yes, Madame Sir!

hurray, hurray it's a happy holiday!

with my camera, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

Finally stretching my legs during a 13 hours flight to Asia. So excited that I'm not sure I could sleep, which in turn may help with the jet lag. Two more flights later and almost 24 hours since departure I will step on the beach of Nha Trang at the start of my first meeting with Vietnam and a culture to hopefully amaze me. I'll later have the pleasure of seeing Hanoi, Halong Bay, and Singapore. Could anything be better?

Yes! Singapore Airlines are flying us on the new A380 (Superjumbo)—see you on the upper deck—and back in a Jumbo, so more premieres for me. Add: showering in an airport, that should be fun. Add: checking the swimming pool in an airport, smashing! Add: tons of seafood. Add: strong coffee, Vietnamese style. Add: may see Gilles Peterson live. Add: practicing my French more than in Paris. Add: a wee bit of shopping—quite likely, I'll have to buy an extra suitcase.

It's been seven months since Sicily and Stromboli, since my biggest worry being where and what to eat for dinner, and I couldn't be more grateful that I'm not writing seven years. A proper holiday was needed to rest away from our crazy schedule; the new life of two people who want it all can be exhausting, as I hope to detail at a later date. On my side, putting together the URIplay website has been quite demanding, as graphics, HTML, and CSS are a hobby rather than a forte.

While the blog will be quiet due to the wise decision on not taking along the new shiny MacBook Pro (called Zoey), I leave you in good hands with thousands of previous posts, thousands of photos on Flickr, a book that carries wise words from a thousand people more than me and an interview I've just given to The Pakistani Spectator, soon to be published. If none will do, the wider web is full of juice. Drink wisely and I'll see you on the other side of the holiday.

easyJet sees Moldavia and Romania united

That or history, my memory, and the updated EU map are entirely wrong.

In other news, traveling with easyJet has been even worse than the Wizz Air experience. From useless and rude staff—and I thought only the Romanian cabin crews are unmannered—to costing more, from having to stay up all night so that we make it to Gatwick for a 6:35 a.m. flight to having our paid Speedy Boarding ignored twice, I wouldn't know where to start. Yes, there's the benefit of flying to civilised Henri Coanda/ Otopeni airport in Bucharest instead of the messy Baneasa, but on a normal, high traffic day that stings one back—Otopeni is a few kilometers farther than Baneasa on the main North exit from/ entrance into the city.

We booked our next flight to Romania on BA: the offer made it only GBP 100 (for two) more expensive in exchange for good service and decent flying times, plus no charges for hold luggage.

the next Beckham comes from Paris

footballing angel, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

Photography allows me to capture certain moments of amazing expressions, especially on the face of children, controlling themselves less than grown-up. Photography doesn't allow me, however, to learn whether the kid was running towards the toilet, for an ice cream, or simply after scoring the imaginary victory goal. Care to guess what the other kids were up to?

I wish I bought either coat

I wish I bought either, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

As you'd expect, I had to have my eye on clothes in Paris. I was lucky enough to stay in Montmartre and, no prior knowledge of this phenomenon, simply walk into the discount clothes sale gathering huge flocks of women for brands like local NAFNAF and international Mexx (to name a few of hundreds), plenty of which were well below EUR 10.

I wasn't as lucky when it came about getting the one item I need and want, a spring/ fall coat. My eyes dropped first on the black and white one at right and its magnetically elegant flower pattern, and though I refused to even check the price, nevermind try it on, my love ignored me and was able to confirm that it was outrageously expensive: more or less 1,000 EUR. For obvious reasons, I chose to forget the name of the shop, though I can't quite forget it's... location.

The red coat at left I discovered only after, and this shop name I will remember (Antoine & Lili), unfortunately—it was the most important one to me from many that didn't open on Sunday, because, top of mind guess, they're still indoctrinated Catholics instead of liberated capitalists. Which would also explain why they crowd the goddamn stairs at Sacre Coeur on the same week day, getting in the way of the tourists that couldn't buy coats and are ready to kill.

The red beauty costs only EUR 240 (not so cheap, except when compared with the other...) and I could buy it online if I was certain that it'll fall so perfectly on me that I'd easily love it and wear it for at least ten years without looking back. Maybe I'll have to go back to Paris to try the coat, coincidentally when there's a sale; I've already came about a second location of the same shop one evening when we walked from the wrong part of town (map misreading on his side, yes!) to the right one, in search of dinner.

Even that was lucky, as soon after we got a cab for half the way to the place where dinner awaited (urged by my feet and his bladder), which allowed us to listen to the essential sing-along lady and use the spare time to note that more fashion shops were opening in the area and to find and buy a box of cigarettes—not cheap either, but cheaper than in London and nearly impossible to find in Paris otherwise, against all common sense and all tobacco signs on buildings.

Exhausted and starving (not really, but when else could I ever use this obnoxious American white lie abused in all movies and then in common speak, too?), we had a tasty and inspiring dinner at L'Ardoise. Surrounded by a basement of tourists like us, all speaking English. Very weird experience, which could've been clear had we known that the bistro is listed in some 13 international restaurant guides, not to count all travel guides, supposedly much more, and then all the bloody editions of all these guides together.

Not that I've got something against travel and restaurant guides; they saved our ass time and time again. Only got something against my taste for clothes—shoes, jewellery, etc.—while some may opt to accuse me of bad taste, hardly anyone can complain about my cheap taste.

but justement!

coming or going?, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

It does feel like the city of love if you stop at Cafe Marly by the Louvre and watch the couples around you. It feels even more like the city of love if the sun is out when the forecast, wrong as usual, said definitely rain. It feels 101% like the city of love if you sip a Remy Martin on the heated terrace of Le Sancerre in Montmartre at 1 a.m., listening to dance music and, finally, sweet French paroles, paroles, paroles. Even some tacky or unpleasant moments are alright in the mix implied by the city of love—the woman cab driver singing along a random soapy French song, the less cool cafe down the same street selling cocktails double the price, or the wine arriving 30 minutes after the order was placed, though the bill arrived in 15.

Those and a few more are so specific to Paris that I'll have to go back to enjoy or swallow them. Overall, however, I'm happy to live in London instead—very few things in Paris proved tempting, cool, this century. The place seemed still like the air of a summer night; progress and Paris don't go together unless we're talking fast trains. The generally central areas I've seen are badly maintained, which reminds me of Porto; dirtiness and poorness have never been signs of picturesque for me. Beyond that, not much: a few shiny buildings, indeed, clothes shops everywhere, seafood and signs of cosmopolitanism.

At noon on Sunday, a young man ran down the street in a rush only to stop by the corner abruptly. He looked down the next street and said to himself quite loudly: bollocks. But justement!

happy Easter, not?

Easter garden, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

I woke up to this landscape, the flavour of pork roasting--especially scratching--, and lovely jazz, so I had to say to myself and then all, Merry Christmas. Considering the sky was clear at 3 a.m. with a full moon and plenty of stars, no cloud in sight and an absolute stillness of nature--forget the midnight owl call--, it was startling some hours later to confirm the forecast had been correct. Receiving in March the snow that neither London/ Ipswich, nor Bucharest could conjure for Christmas made for a spectacular, snowmen-spiced, unusual Easter. At least, as my love's mother, Gill put it, the chocolate eggs wouldn't have melted in the grass like in previous years. Only my patent shoes would have today, but they were saved by Gill's kindness and old boots.

strange enough, a bit of sun

a bit of sun, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

Spending Easter week-end in East Anglia has odd benefits this year: it snowed in the morning, briefly. Of course I wasn't up to see it, so I'm counting on the snow forecast for Sunday--it'd be my first English snow. Other than that, it's all about burning logs in the fireplace--note the smoke--and getting an overload of hot cross buns, surrounded by sudden gusts and rain showers. Quiet and cozy inside, about to have drinks followed by a fishy dinner out, and yet another night of sleeping as much as needed. Properly spoiled, yesss.

no wifi, no puter, no sweat

The iPod armband on me doesn't carry just an iPod, but my backup--several GBs of documents written and collected in the past few years. The screen of Shiny manifested a demented flicker yesterday morning and less than an hour ago, again; t'was time to backup quickly. Said and done in half an hour, minus music, movies, photos and a few websites I work on--most of which can be found elsewhere if needed.

A number of things are notable about this moment in time:

1. I can move GBs of data around fast and easy. I can also safely carry all my documents on an iPod that's busy playing music right now. Either would've been unthinkable not so long ago. As Lee suggested, I could even carry around a live (synchronised) backup at any point.

2. I wear an iPod armband even if I'm not such an active person; I was startled by this Christmas gift from my sister but now it comes forth as the safest, easiest way to wear the iPod, at least for a generally pocketless woman. Quite cool to gently press its buttons through my sleeve.

3. The death of my previous laptop, an otherwise remarkable IBM ThinkPad, also started with a flickering screen. Though a new lamp was thoughtfully bought and cautiously transported to Romania, the old machine still awaits a new life. Working on a 100 GB Mac, close to one of 200-250 GB one, I smile at the old 30 GB hard disk.

4. I'm writing this post on paper. It's been a while, and I've way too many notebooks to fill.

Looking around me in the very welcoming CB2 bistro (think Australian mussels baked with lemon, bacon and breadcrumbs, think praline chocolate tart with fresh passion fruit), I grin at how no other PowerBook sees the WiFi network--surely, the network is to be blamed. It's strangely comfortable to belong for once, as opposed to being the odd kid in the class.

Cambridge is cloudy, small, chilly, sweet and easy to love. I consider a second wander towards the center of the town, though the wind coming through the window requires some consideration. You'd think that a seat by the window is a premium. Not in the UK. You'd think that centuries of civilisation allowed the British to come up with windows that have more function than form. Not really, or isolation isn't a worthy function at all.

The small, comprehensive Cambridge map shows me there's a Regent Street among other names. But of course. Just like in London, just like in Brighton (particularly record breaking at replicating London street names), the Regent must have a street. I wonder: can the Queen say the same?

Earlier today I was told that I'm Portuguese. See also: Spanish, Italian, French--is Romania Latin?! See also: Indian, Greek, Turkish--being addressed in Turkish repeatedly beats all else so far. I wish I looked Asian. Just for a change. Just for hearing Korean and so on when I'm, say, Indonesian.

Even earlier today, on the Tube, a white haired guy of red cheeks and worn off shoes and briefcase was speaking to his colleague/ friend/ partner, excited about iTouch (iPod Touch? iPhone?), this powerful tool based on Web 2.0. He was hoping he could advance a proposal for iTouch consultant services aimed at enterprises. I had to admire his perseverance in finding the winning idea, though not the old pinstripe suit, a bit too shiny here and there. And then, his counterpart called the idea interesting--never a good sign, and we were off to Cambridge.

in search of wifi

Our brave walks about Brighton today, in serious wind and drizzling rain that, together, render almost any umbrella useless, have seen us enjoy places we wouldn't necessarily try otherwise:

Pokeno, the pie & mash cafe.
Whether there's a connection or not, for most people pokeno is a game I first heard about today. Beyond trivia, my aubergine (Moroccan) pie was alright, his smoked haddock pie was great, the mash was so-so, and the salad was nice. If I lived in Brighton, I'd like knowing the place, trying more pies, and maybe ordering some for home baking, as they might just beat pizza and liven up otherwise mundane beer gatherings.

Iydea, the veg fast food.
They can brew a proper cappuccino and sure have cool sounding smoothies like Mango Tango. They have WiFi, but I'm bigger and better: Shiny (the PowerBook) has such a proper metal case that it can hardly get on some networks—thank you, Steve Jobs! Or is it the old antenna? Fact is I could get on the neighbouring network, so all the why-does-this-happen-to-me stopped.

As I happily plugged the beast in a socket close by, the surreal party at another table was having an amazing conversation: a woman in her 50s, accompanied by a man in his 30s were getting advices on living in Indonesia from two teens, a boy and a girl, seemingly siblings. Most of their experience, however, was based on their mother's present life over there. The older woman had my kind of loud laughter and shared her experience of living in India, and Hong Kong. Ah, Vietnam, I'm coming!!!

The White Rabbit, generic something—pub?!
A group that converses in Spanish, English, and German debates the similarities between French and Romanian and why some Romanian words sound sweeter. It seems that each member speaks at least two languages quite well, dresses eclectically, and has traveled beyond Europe. They're of quite varied ages, chilled, and unknowingly inviting.

I'm quite tempted to crash their table and talk about whatever, just like they seem to do. French words, the right pronunciation for Spanish ya and German ja, living In Buenos Aires, traveling to South Africa and Bolivia, building neon lamps for offices and so on. Also, as expected, some of them are smokers. And most of the girls wear fringes. We'd get along so well!

from my window: episode 23, fever

fever, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

Four boys arrived in a cab and got out with drinks a minute later. Saturday night fever.

from my window: episode 22, sunset

sunset, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

Rain stopped just enough to let some sun rays reach us, and then picked up with fury.

from my window: episode 21, together

together, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

He smoked. She ran across the grass with the girl. The baby shrieked. The rain stopped.

from my window: episode 20, rooftop

rooftop, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

Is it moss? Is it rust? I won't know the reason why the rooftop across the park looks cool.

from my window: episode 19, raining

raining, originally uploaded by gorgeoux.

All of a sudden, though peaceful, it started. Drop after drop, while no one had an umbrella.