Quote of the week

"You will always be lucky if you know how to make friends with strange cats"
—Colonial American proverb.



Borrowed from The house next door"

For more adorable pictures of cats visit this site

Look at me when I'm not looking at you...

This picture was taken last year in Parma, Italy, where I spent some time working. As you might have noticed, I'm not much of a photographer. So I mostly rely on keepsakes made of memories and chunks of my imagination, boiled down to words. They let swirl themselves at will like pieces of stained glass in a good, old kaleidoscope.
Trying to capture the visual side of life often leaves me frustrated. It obviously takes a better artist to be able to strip the covers off the things, leaving them bare, but not naked.
However, there were two dogs, waiting for their owners outside of a small bakery. The woolly one seemed very quiet, almost serene, while the other one (evidently a "she") was leaping around desperately trying to catch attention of her pal. She undertook every possible effort to draw his attention to her: barked, whimpered in the tiniest voice, and stuck her moist black nose into his fur.
Her eagerness wouldn't let him (it was definitely a "he") soften towards her whatsoever. His slightly averted face showed no signs of acknowledgment, let alone joy.
I watched them, spellbound by a display of such human feelings. Briskly whisked away by an impatient, very hungry friend into the restaurant on the opposite side of the street, I still managed to take out the camera and make a couple of shots.
Everything and everyone was caught moving and my heavy, old-fashioned "Canon" gasped disapprovingly before coughing up the flash. The shot isn’t much in terms of quality , but I like the direct, white-hot swiftness of desperation in the outline of her body and the cautious remoteness in the shape of his.
Good news for every woman on this planet - she was able to restore her dignity after all (that I happened to witness as we settled for a meal outside – so I could watch on the drama unfolding in front of my eyes).
How? Nothing easier than that:
The very moment she gave up and looked another way his head perked up: having lost her curiosity for him, she became a subject of his interest.
Did it ever happen to you? Did you sit the whole damn night in the milonga without ever getting noticed, but the moment you unfastened your shoes, a bunch of guys swarmed by, looking at you incredulously: "You are not already going, are you? But why? And I was just about to ask … You know, it was pretty a busy night".
Not for me, no. But then, you must have been pretty busy to notice that.
Lately I've noticed a fine difference in a general attitude toward me at local milongas. I don't dance better, but considerably more and with better leaders. There is nothing new und improved about me, just same ole, same ole. . But I'm ready to let go and everyone here seems to feel it.
So at once I climbed a step up the ladder of the tightly knit pecking order of the local tango community.
Funnily enough,now…When I'm about to leave for good.

Squaring the circle

Do you remember that hilarious short story by O. Henry called "Squaring the circle"? If not, do read it. You won't regret it. It's about a feud between two Kentucky families that "flourished for forty years”. The last two Cumberland feudists, helplessly lost in NYC, meet "in the angles of Broadway, Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Third Street" and shake hands, relieved to see a familiar face . There is a human twist to it as to any other O. Henry story which makes it applicable to … well, anything.
Bear with me, there is a point to the tale.
Friday night I went to a far, far, far away milonga. I had a personal reason for wanting to break away from my tango routine. Recently I got caught up in a tangle of other people's relationships, but instead of taking sides I just went into hiding. I would write it off my chest, but don't yet know how to.
Anyway, on Friday night I found myself out of my natural habitat.
It was a nice enough place: small and snug, smooth timber floor, a friendly DJ and decent music.
The only problem was that no one was there apart from two or three older couples working on their cool moves.
I decided to give it an hour, before calling it a night. So I slumped back into the armchair and closed my eyes.
As I opened them again, I didn't believe whom I saw.
There is one leader in our tango community. He is very good and - borderline arrogance aside – treats those "beneath" him relatively friendly. But he would never, ever dance with me, because he considers me to be waaay out of his league. To make sure that our kind doesn't get any wrong ideas about it, he tends to give us this glazed over "Oh, you here?" - fake smile - moving swiftly on” routine. Most of the time I find such conduct fairly amusing. Once he caught me out bitching about such kind of behaviour, and although I never got as personal as to mention his name specifically, he knew enough to ignore me from then on.
I still don't know how he managed to end up there, in this godforsaken milonga. Hunted by his own devils, I suppose.
He lumbered indecisively by the entrance.
Then he saw me and his face virtually lit up. He waved (I had to look around to make sure he really meant me) and crossed the dance floor to give me a kiss.
And then I laughed. I couldn't help it.
Because exactly in this moment the short story about two foes stumbling upon each other in a big strange city came to my mind:
"Howdy, Cal! I'm durned glad to see ye."

Dining and w(h)ining

Couple days ago I met up with a friend. We'd been pretty close in the past, but had eventually drifted apart. Still, over the years we've got into a routine of doing a bit of catch up now and then. On such occasions we'd get moderately drunk and talk about how our lives were going exactly according to plan and what lousy plan-makers we obviously were.
Two years ago she got married. Her husband is a wealthy businessman who made his fortune in the early nineties. He is slick, polite and keeps his cards close to chest. We get along well enough.
On that day I was tired because of some minor emergencies at work, but I didn't want to let her down: we hadn't seen each other for, give or take, seven months.
My friend looked gorgeously fresh, but pissed off. She told me that her little sister stood her up earlier even though they were supposed to go looking for new bedside lights or something and how she hates going shopping alone.
I suggested a little restaurant close to my work: my colleagues and I go there sometimes. It's tiny, tucked away in a back alley, almost completely hidden from the public eye: one has got to know it to find it. It looks smart: minimalistic, yet in dramatic black and purple, with a narrow smoky mirror on one wall that makes the room look bigger.
As we went in, she took a look and pulled a face.
- What's wrong? - I asked.
- Well, nothing. - But she wrinkled her nose in disapproval.
- Don't you like it here?
- Well…now that you asked … it looks so juvenile.
There we go.
I mean, Sunday morning I woke up with a zit on my chin. It was so huge I'm sure it would have talked back if spoken to. Same day I had a row with my mother (basically about nothing, but it was a fierce one nonetheless) and ate a whole box of old pralines I stashed away three weeks ago in the futile hope that they'd have the decency to disappear before I'd get hot and bothered about my life again and butcher them to wraps.
But does that make me juvenile? Well, maybe.
I let the remark pass anyway. Mainly for the sake of the evening that was laying ahead. Plus it rained and I didn't want to get soaked while looking for something more appropriate.
– Come on, - I urged her. - Give it a chance.
Reluctantly she gave in. We found a table; an easy-on-the-eye girl appeared, bringing along the menu cards and a basket full of crispy fresh bread.
My friend took her time going through the menu. I settled for a glass of red wine. She asked for some special sort of water they didn't have. After much ado she ordered an Insalata Rucola.
-Won't you have some wine? - I asked. - Are you pregnant?
- Are you crazy? We are leaving for Bali next week. I couldn't afford it.
I chuckled. – Come on, it won't burn a hole in your wallet.
Now she was talking in a patient tone that made me want to bounce all around the place.
-I'm talking about calories, dummy. Besides look, they don't even have a wine card here.
Yeah, right. Silly me.
She has never exactly been the whippiest hippie ever, but easygoing enough to drink a beer straight from the bottle, maybe even spill it. How things change.
She went on talking about bed lights, and how she was looking for a lampshade in some particularly bluish blue that apparently doesn't exist, but it can't be, can it? - Because look, the cushions I bought last month – they were exactly that colour and absolutely gorgeous, though it took ages to find them.
I drifted off and back to her soliloquy without her noticing as much.
- And what have you been up to lately?
Her question caught me off guard.
- Well, not much. - Somehow I couldn't come up with anything interesting to say.
She sniffed suspiciously at her plate then stabbed the lonely little rocket leaf that strayed from its friends in distress with the fork. She nibbled on it and pushed her salad aside.
The waitress reappeared. My friend handed her plate back.
-The parmesan was way too ripe. For this kind of salad one is supposed to take a younger one. Now we are done with starters, I'd love to have… do you serve beef? But make sure it's not a beef jerky on arrival.
As the girl darted off (not without giving us an evil eye) my companion turned her attention back to me.
- Are you still dancing?
- Oh, yes, – I answered.
- Really? - She looked uneasy.
- Why not?
- Oh, well, I don't know. I always thought that sooner or later you'd kind of grow out of it. Like, move on.
- I don't know. Do you think I should?
- Well, yeah. After all it's not something you are going to do till you are all old and rusty. I mean, wouldn't it look a bit pathetic?
Our food arrived. I ordered another glass of wine.
…She let her beef congeal on the plate in front of her, while musingly watching me eat.
- How is your fish?
-Oh, great, great. - Discretely I moved my plate closer to the table edge: I was half expecting her to fork in my potatoes so she could start moaning on my behalf.
By the time we ordered coffee I was exhausted, craved my bed and some crappy book. Finally, the waitress brought our check over.
-Let my pay. – I grabbed my purse.
- Please, don't. Don't, - my friend said. - I'll pay, ok?
She left a generous tip.
The rain stopped, but the humid air wrapped itself heavily around our shoulders.
-You must be hungry. - At once I felt guilty.-You didn't eat much. Next time you choose where we go, ok?
Oh, no problem. - She smiled lightly. – Anyway I haven't been eating much lately. - She slipped into silence for a moment. - Sorry if I was a bit on a whiny side today. Sometimes I just can't help it. - Briefly she turned away and I noticed the almost girlish thinness of her neck. - Doesn't it suck to be so … She was looking for a word.
- Mature? – I threw in quizzically.
She glared at me and then we laughed.

The kindness of strangers

My car has finally broken down. Nothing unexpected, yet rather unpleasant.
I've been thinking about getting it fixed, but it wouldn't pay off in the long run, so I'm looking for a new one. I wouldn't have any reason to rush it, if not for tango. I can easily reach my office by train; my parents live a stone's throw away. But – surprise, surprise – carpooling is turning out to be quite an issue.
At the moment I depend on the kindness of strangers.
And boy… some kindness it is.
Last weekend I stayed at home. Not voluntarily so. I called not one, not two… five people. I told them about my car and kindly asked to take me with 'em. I collected my share of excuses all right. It went like that:

I don't know yet if I'll go. (Well, as I happened to hear through the grapevine, she did after all)
I would take you, but I'll be paying a visit to my parents beforehand.
I could, but I don't know yet if I’m going to drive back or crash at my friend's.
It has nothing to do with you. I just don't do it.
The best one came from a guy I've known for ages. I called him at home, then on his mobile, left messages. Oh...he called back. Monday morning.
- Sorry, honey, saw your caller ID, but didn't feel like calling back.
Felt a bit low, didn't fell like talking, all that buzz, simply wanted to be by myself. What's up?
- So – you didn't go dancing?
- Well, actually I did. Why?
- Nothing. Forget it.
- Oh… ok. And how was your weekend? Up to something naughty?
These are people I interact with on a weekly, at times daily basis. So what is it about? Independency? Privacy? Self obsession? Are we bound to remain strangers to each other, no matter how often we dance together?
We’re sweat- but not car sharing.
They know me well enough. I'm not much of a nuisance. I would pay for gas. I would sing a nice song for them (I'm a good singer, mind you), but only if they wanted me to. If they want me mute, they can stuff a sock into my mouth (as long as it's a clean one). For Chrissake.
I'm ranting away, I know. Right now I'm going cold turkey, tangowise I mean. I live in the middle of an industrial nowhere. The only milonga in the hick town I subsist in closed down early this year. The next decent one is thirty km away. Surely I can reach it by train and bus, but it would take at least four hours on the whole. And no, it’s not an option, not after work, not at night.
I’m trying to look on the bright side of life though. Over the weekend I watched “Waitress”, “Rendition”, “American Gangster”, “The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford”, “Don’t come knocking”. That’s what I call a major movie catch-up. Some of them I even enjoyed.
And I contacted a carsharing firm this week. So I’ll be fine apparently.