Tomato....tomahto

Firstly, when I mentioned "Castille," before, I meant "Catalonia." Oopth. Please don't tell the Catalans I fucked up. They're a fiercely proud bunch. They also like the letter X. They spell chocolate "xocolate." Who can argue with that?

So I'm back in rainy balls-cold Zurich for New Year's. We returned from Barcelona last night, after a mighty scary landing at Zurich Airport. It was snowing pretty steadily - the silky, light kind of snow borne of low humidity - and we landed hard. As the wheels came down, though, we did not decrease velocity. At all. I was at the window and noticed that the runway was not plowed, and the pilot pumped the brakes... just like I did in my four-speed 1979 BMW 320i as a 16-year-old. We eventually slowed down and began the taxi to the terminal when the captain came on and said (in his particularly matter-of-fact Swiss fashion) "For those of you who had never done that before, we just landed into 7 milimeters of snow where the braking quality was poor to medium." He then made the announcement in a bunch of other languages. He seemed a little peevish, so we gave the man a round of applause.

Anyway, it was a great trip. Way colder in Catalonia than we had expected, but it was sunny most of the time and the city is great fun. I took some pictures:

The sisters 'n' me. We were up at 4am that morning!

This is the national palace of Barcelona which now houses the Catalonian National Museum. It was quite sunny there.

Candles at the Barcelona Cathedral.

Ceiling at Barcelona Cathedral.

This is La Sagrada Familia, the unfinished masterpiece of Antoni Gaudi, whom I have grown to love and who, as my sister observed "designed the whole flippin' city" of Barcelona. As you'll see from the pictures below, the church is very much unfinished in that it has no back wall and the main towers conceived by Gaudi have yet to be built. They charged an arm and a leg for admission and have scaffolding all over the place, but they don't seem to have made a whole lot of progress.

From Sagrada Familia, we went to Park Guell, which was also all designed (and finished) by Gaudi (his house is there):

On our last day, we went to Casa Batilo, which was both beautiful and finished.

We also went to Barcelona's Museum of Contemporary Art, which had such exhibits as a video of a man peeing into a cup and then drinking it. I did not take a picture of that.

Some paving stones by Gaudi. Footwear by Adidas...

Oh. It isn't over yet.... I have pictures of paella and the world's best outdoor market. Stay tuned.

Happy St. Stephen's Day

...or Boxing Day, if you'd prefer. Either way, there was fuck all open today in Switzerland. So the sisters and I went to see King Kong. Fan-friggin'-tastic.

Also, I played with my new digital camera machine. After futzing with the shutter speed and aperture a whole bunch, here are a few shots from today and yesterday at home and in Zurich.

Kneel before the tiny devil dog and his zebra tennis ball.

Yes Virginia, the new lights on Bahnhofstrasse are ugly in the daytime....

... and in the nighttime.

Fountains are fun.

The lights inside the Hauptbahnhof are pretty.

See you at the treffpunkt.

And do beware the "long fingers"

Man this city sure is pretty. I'll leave out the photos of pristine subway stations lest I taunt my fellow New Yorkers (though, yes, the grime adds character in addition to the hepatitis). I'm off to sleep before an ass-early flight to Barcelona. Family vacation-ho! Meantime...

...jelly doughnut?

Frohe Weinachten!

The family's digital camera has been behaving oddly, so I apologize for a dearth of pictures. Also, I'm pretty much in the vacation mode, and therefore not feeling like sitting at a computer for long stretches. Today is Christmas Eve, and I seem to be fighting off a cold, so I'm foregoing Zuerich-wandering for gift-wrapping, lounging, and reading. Brilliant! But before I paste myself to the couch, here's a few highlights of Zuerich and my trip so far:

This is the giant Christmas tree in the Zuerich Hauptbahnhof. It's hard to tell, because the photo is rather dark, but it's dripping in Swarovski crystal ornaments. It's a fixture of the city's Christmas decorations. Thankfully, while they've changed the lights along Bahnhofstrasse, the tree remains the same.



This is the view downriver from the bridge near the Hauptbahnhof. The spires of St. Peter's (which has the largest clock face in Europe) and the Fraumunster are barely visible, and unfortunately it was a still day so the view of the Alps is obscured by clouds.



This is a bit of the Niederdorfstrasse, the young and hip main drag on the other side of the river. It's got tattoo parlors (where my own pater familias was inked last year), peep shows, and the mildly famous Hanf Haus, where you can buy pot (it's been decriminalized here) and all things made from hemp.



Here is an adorable Swiss family getting a drink from one of the city's many beautiful water fountains. The water out of all Swiss fountains is potable Alpine runoff,

which is quite convenient when you're hiking.



This is the Grossmunster, with a view of the Fraumunster's spire across the river Limmat. The Grossmunster is a very old church (there's a statue of Charlemagne in the crypt, which is pretty cool) and its towers have a great view of the whole city. I've climbed up the towers twice since we've lived here, and it's quite the schlep. Between the jet lag and the impending cold (and the fact that it was a still day without the great Alpine views), I decided against climbing it again for the purpose of the blog. Also it costs 2 francs.



Here's a view of the city upriver. You can see St. Peter's clock face in the distance there.


This is the back of a building that is not the Rathaus. The statue is of Ulrich Zwingli, winner of Zuerich's Guy With The Coolest Name contest in 1526.


This is the festive holiday window display at Teuscher, Zuerich's high-end chocolatier, on the Rennweg. They make the best truffles I have ever tasted.

There's a common story among expatriates in Switzerland: If you ask a Swiss person if they speak English and they say "A little," it means they speak it perfectly with almost no accent. If they say "Yes," they speak it better than you do with no accent at all. Apparently, however, this does not apply to written English and punctuation. Unless the proprietress of this store is named Jean and has an unearthly blue pallor, this shop has failed to master the apostrophe. I won't give them too hard a time, though, because I have seen worse in New York.

This is the Cafe Odeon, a bar that once hosted the likes of Lenin, Einstein, and James Joyce (who is buried here) while they were exiled in Zuerich. Nowadays, it's a bit of a gay haven.

That's a taste of Zuerich for those who bother to read this when not stranded at their desks at work. I'll likely post again before the family trip to Barthelona.

Meanwhile, Merry Christmas and Happy Hannukah to all!

This is what jet lag looks like.

Gaaah! Ok. So I'm publishing a pretty horrifying picture of myself on the Internet for two reasons: 1) I literally look like jet lag embodied, and that's funny, especially now that I've had some sleep and 2) I wanted to show everyone a picture of the new family canine, Carson (aka The Dude and You Old Yak-Gelder).

Isn't he cute? He has all the portability of a cat (though Appomattox, our smallest cat, has about 5 pounds on him) without the attitude (or litterbox for that matter). I was a little alarmed at first when the parents informed me of the addition of a long haired Chihuahua to the family, but he's pretty great. Not yippy at all and actually pretty smart. I mean, he's no Border Collie, but who is?

As you can see, I made it safely home. Not too much trouble getting to the airport, even with the strike on, which was good. In typical Swiss fashion, we boarded the plane quite promptly. I had a seat on the aisle in the last row of the first section, but gave it up so a couple could sit together. And since no good deed goes unpunished, I ended up in a middle seat, crushed from the front by a big jerkface Swiss guy with the woman from behind's bare feet on my arm rests. Then there was the screaming infant. I didn't get a wink of sleep. Awesome.

I was allowed my usual post-flight nap, helped decorate the Christmas tree, drank some of my parents' good wine, and managed to make it through the evening to 10pm when the puppy and I retired to my room. He snores.

In other news, I'm out of the country for less than 24 hours and this shit happens?

Auf Wiedersehen Mittenand

Well, if getting to JFK doesn't make me apoplectic enough, I've got to brave Atlantic Ave's LIRR station in the midst of a transit strike. Booooo! Boo to you, MTA.

Meanwhile, I'm wrapping up some work at home. With the wife at home as well, we've got a little office going. Except the chairs are uncomfortable and there are three cats milling around and walking on the keyboard and whatnot.

I imagine I'll do a bit of blogging from across the pond. 'Til then!

Exthellent.

It has come to my attention that part of my visit home will be spent on a little family trip to Barcelona. Thith meanth I will begin thpeaking with a Cathtillian acthent now.

Needleth to thay, I hope to thee thome Velathqueth at the mutheum.

One of the many cool things about an expatriate family is the how the family vacations have changed. Growing up in NH, we stayed within driving distance and had some great times on Cape Cod, in Maine, and at Waterville Valley. Vacations were, however, fairly relaxed affairs. Beaches, hikes, cross-country skiing.

Now that our family vacations are in places like Paris and Rome (and now, Barthelona), and we're not little kids with short legs, my father has felt comfortable releasing his inner Power Tourist. No food, no sleep, just sights. Which is fine. You've got to get your money's worth (even my friends on their drunken world tour of Eastern Europe get up at the crack o' dawn to take pictures of themselves with WWI sculptures). How can you enjoy the dogshit slalom of Rome's streets if you're in bed at the hotel? You can't, that's how. The Vatican museum and Notre Dame aren't going to see themselves.

These days, Fam. T. Mohan death-marches itself accross Europe's most beautiful cities and it is great fun. We take this show on the road, people. We power through museums, parks, and famous streets. We shower on our knees in the hotel bathtubs. I nearly miss the train at Gare du Nord (oopsie). And Bridget photographs pigeons.

Bust out the cava, Barcelona. We're on our way.

Step in stand clear.

Ok. So, while I was a little disappointed that I would not be able to work through my little office party hangover (four too-sweet margaritas is unwise) at home in my jammies while doing some work today, I would really really like it if our friends in the Transit Workers' Union would refrain from striking. I am familiar, of course, with the reasons behind the strike and I'm all for labor (I am a liberal, after all), but I need the Subway. I love the Subway. I love the Transit Workers. We have our tough days, when it appears to be "Newbie Day" and the train moves as if they've left the parking brake on and I make snide remarks to fellow riders. But the MTA and TWU get me from A to B on a regular basis. I get to take in the beautiful view from the N train twice a day on my commute thanks to them. I don't have to drive. I can get plastered in Manhattan and sleep it off all the way to Park Slope. I get to stand cheek to jowl with 7 million of my closest friends on a regular basis. And you've got to love that. Plus, the people of the TWU are clearly hilarious. Sometimes, I like to fantasize about the things I would say if I were a Subway conductor:

Me: "Ladies and Gentlemen, please be aware that this is the last train that's going to come through this station, ever. You will not be able to leave this station unless you're on this very train. So, please hold open the doors for as long as you have strength and be sure to pack right in. This is the last helicopter out of 'Nam."

I'd likely do that on my first day and then get fired. But it'd be funny.

Anyway, as I dozed on my feet on the way to work this morning, I reflected on what I, a citizen and straphanger of New York, could do to help the TWU feel some love, 'cause Mr. Toussaint and his associates seemed a little peeved. I love you, TWU, and this is what I would do for you:


1 Loan you my cat. Isn't he cute? He's also hilarious because he's a big jerk. And he loves him some 'nip.
2 Take you to the Prom where we could slow dance to Try Me! by James Brown. I'd give you a corsage and tell you how pretty you are and I won't try to score, either. Because I respect you.
3 Make you crepes on a Sunday morning and let you work the crossword first. Now, this is no lame offer. Firstly, because my crepes will blow your mind (I'm half Quebecoise, you know, so even my first one turns out well and I have a real Parisian recipe that kicks ass) and I have Nutella in the larder. Secondly, because you'll get all the easy words and then I'll have only the hard ones left that make me feel stupid.
4 Ply you with Caotina. It works with my friends. They'll never kick me to the curb because I keep them in Swiss chocolate and Cuban rum. I'm betting that if I promise you these things you won't strike.


Can't do anything about the 3 year contract... sorry about that. I luuuurve you guys!

Tag me, will you?

By Cupcake-mandate, I am to post the seven songs I am "into" lately. Lists can be fun diversions and instructive. They can also become cloying. A certain ersatz blogger with whom I have a morbid, horrified fascination is fond of soundtrack lists of the cloying variety (also, the blog's prose is too often in the second person - which drives me, you might imagine, completely shithouse). By way of a disclaimer: I shall attempt not to cloy, but delight, amuse, and recommend. I apologize in advance if I fall short. I figure, if you're here you already like me or you're very lost.

In no particular order, some songs that are getting heavy play on my 'pod (due to a playlist entitled "Awesome"):

1. Pinball Wizard - The Who. I got a cheap "Best Of" disc at Newbury Comics over Thanksgiving. This song is marvelous. As is A Quick One While He's Away.

2. Let's Go Get Stoned - Ray Charles. 'Nuff said.

3. Non, je ne regrette rien - Edith Piaf. I love the Little Sparrow. A lot.

4. Start Me Up - The Folksmen. From the A Mighty Wind sountrack. It's a jaunty folk cover of the Stones' song you may recall from Microsoft's Windows '95 ad campaign. Remember how it was disappointing when that didn't play upon clicking the Start button? Just me? Anyway, this cover is great. I walk around with a shit-eating grin on my face when it comes up.

5. Passenger Side - Wilco. Because he played it. And because it's written in closed couplets. Sadly, he's not going to marry me.

6. I'm Your Man - Leonard Cohen. Love his voice. And I love how lazy this song is (in spite of having bits in it about bondage and so forth). It's the effect of Quaaludes without having to take Quaaludes.

7. Loving Cup - The Rolling Stones. Easily one of my very favorite songs ever. Great piano, and what the French (and Tobs) call a "double understanding," as the loving cup can be interpreted as *cough cough* dirty, or a clever reference to Ancient Greek traditions.

For a bonus track: A cubicle neighbor's elaborate polysymphonic cell phone ringtone (song? epic frickin' Wagner-length crap?), which he never silences. Even when he goes to the loo or a meeting. But people still call him. Multiple times within ten minutes. In case he didn't hear it. Yeah. I'm not "in to" it so much as it makes me want to stick forks in my eyes. Or sigh in a passive agressive manner (Check! Though do you actually sigh passive-aggressively when the sighee is not there to hear it or his muthereffing phone? Discuss.).

Um. I tag Claire. 'Cause she's the only person I know who might consider participating.

Mmm.. tastes like cheap perfume.

As Josh noted today, last night we went to see The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (I really think there should be an Oxford comma in there, but I suppose C.S. Lewis is allowed to make his own decisions). It was fantastic. Disney-fied (in that Aslan is stabbed to death but does not bleed... at all), and I disagreed with some of the costume design (the fabulous and terrifying Tilda Swinton was clothed in a very architectural combination of what looked like cardboard and felt), but overall it was true to the story, Lewis's prose (as I remember it), and the mishmash of imagery and allusion therein. Aslan was perfect. The Witch was terrifying. Everything I felt when the book was first read to me came crashing back.

Then, there was the disappointment in Turkish Delight. Don't get me wrong, it was real Turkish Delight in the movie, but it forced me to remember how very vile the stuff is. When I first heard the story, I imagined Turkish Delight to be like good truffles. A little bit soft, a little bit gooey, super-sweet and dusted with cocoa. I wanted it desperately, for it was the candy of a magic place called Narnia. Of course, as an American kid, I didn't know it could really found in a less-magical place called England.

An article in Slate describes one person's similar disappointment in discovering that this near-mythical candy (at least to American kids who read C.S. Lewis) is gross. Gross, gross, gross:

In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Edmund Pevensie gobbled up several pounds of this treat in one sitting and clamored for more. The evil White Witch, Jadis, had magicked it up to win his fealty. As a child in Indiana, I hadn't realized that the confection actually existed. (Nor did I think that "wardrobes" existed anymore—surely, I reasoned, British people had closets by now.) I thought C.S. Lewis had invented it, knowing how much more vivid an imagined pleasure can be than a real one. But I loved to think about what it must taste like. I thought it would be crumbly and buttery and warm, like shortbread with walnuts, just out of the oven, with a rich, molten filling inside. "Each piece was sweet and light to the very center and Edmund had never tasted anything more delicious," Lewis wrote.

And so, with anticipation, I took a bite of the Turkish Delight. And a second later, spat it into my hand. It tasted like soap rolled in plaster dust, or like a lump of Renuzit air freshener: The texture was both waxy and filling-looseningly chewy. This … this? ... was the sweetmeat that led Edmund to betray his siblings and doomed Aslan to death on a stone slab? Watching the movie last week, I cringed watching Edmund push piece after squidgy red piece into his drooling mouth, shuddering to think that children in theaters everywhere were bound to start yammering for the candy and that on Christmas morning or Hanukkah nights, their faces would crumple with disappointment as their teeth sank into the vile jelly they had thought they wanted.

My disappointment came one chilly night in Dublin. Claire and our friend Katy were visiting me there and Katy was staying in U2's Clarence Hotel for one night. It was cold and wet and the pubs close early, so we went out to buy some chocolate and retreat to the room to watch HBO and lounge on Egyptian-cotton sheets. At the newsagent's, we got a couple of Cadbury bars, one of which was Turkish Delight. We were very excited to finally try that sweet that heretofore had only existed in Narnia.

Blech. Onomatopoeia is really all I have for the taste. The rose flavor is the most common, it seems, and it's nasty. That night in Dublin, we peeled back the top layer of Cadbury's chocolate to peer at the mysterious pink goo. We sniffed it. Then we scraped it off and ate the unmolested chocolate before foregoing the whole enterprise and chucking the bar itself.

Flowers have their place in cooking. Orangeflower water gives Madeleines their delicate fragrance and a few drops of rosewater can give character and body to truffles. But straight-up rosewater does not a pleasant candy make. Crazy Turks.

Check out the article (it's short, I promise). The writer suggests that wartime depravation of sweets colored that generation's affection for it.

Damn you, gentrification!

The Blind Tiger Alehouse is closing at the end of this month. Apparently, their landlord is booting them in exchange for a Marc Jacobs store.

This is most upsetting. Granted, it has been a good long while since I've been there... Back before the paparazzo-style of photo documentation we now implement during our evenings of debauchery. However, if I may bring us back in time to that night:

1. I drank 2 and a half S'muttonators (it's a barleywine, and I'm a dumbass.... ) and was very very unhappy upon arriving home.
2. Dan, our pirate friend, was in town from Seattle and stole a table from an unsuspecting group o' douches.
3. Some guy sidled up and asked me if I went to UNC, presumably because Toby was wearing a UNC sweatshirt, though he claimed I "looked familiar." It was weird.
4. The place was jam-packed (not a surprise, but it irked us, naturally) with slags and Banana Republic collared-shirt-wearing frat types. This made approaching the bar difficult. Lucky for me, when I went to collect aforementioned S'muttonators, one of the aforementioned frat types lifted me and threw me to the front of the scrum (this was upsetting for a few reasons: a) someone touching me b) some frat-boy type presuming familiarity enough to touch me uninvited c) I'm a big girl and by rights no one should really be able to pick me up and throw me).

As you can tell, many fine memories have been made there. I have waxed philosophical with the friendlier slags about how one is not a true woman until she can get in and out of a bar restroom in a minute or less. I have tippled many a fine beer there (though I resent having my choice of Boddington's once sneered at as "too obvious").

We still have Mug's, if ever a change of pace from the usual watering hole is required, or we need to show an out-of-towner that we are indeed CAPABLE of forgoing the usual watering hole. However, Blind Tiger was way easier to get to, if often pretty crowded. That corner window booth was great.

It's a sad day. Perhaps we consider a farewell trip? They have free brunch on Saturdays and Sundays...

My DVR brings joy to the world

And not because we recorded "Emanuelle in Space" (which is, apparently, pornography).

No sir. In a flash of brilliance, I was watching television on a lazy Saturday afternoon and something caught my eye. Bedknobs and Broomsticks was coming on on the Hallmark channel. I wasn't particularly in the mood for the movie at the moment, so I recorded it. Sweet, sweet DVR.

I later tried to get Claire excited about the movie, which was one of those fantastic childhood movies that sort of blends with Mary Poppins in one's memory (apparently one of the songs in it was left over from Mary Poppins), but to no avail. She hadn't seen it. Or if she had, didn't remember it.

"It's about a witch! And she defeats Nazis in England in 1940!" I cried. "She reanimates a bunch of suits of armor and they fight Nazis! It's brilliant."

She was intrigued, but not terribly excited. So, it has languished on the DVR for a while. Until last night. Josh (bearer of Mallomars and beer... well done)and Seth (bringer of fantastic cupcakes...a slam dunk) were over, we had gorged ourselves and were beset by cats and breathing shallowly on the couch. I flipped on the "list," and Seth, much to my delight, freaked out at the sight of Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Josh had never seen it. Through the magic of technology, Seth and I introduced him to the first hour or so. Trouble is, it was just getting started brilliance-wise when we all three sort of crapped out. I forgot all about the key things that make it fantastic that have yet to come: marionettes and an animated element (like Poppins). And the suits of armor v. the Nazis is not to be missed.

That sucker is STAYING on the DVR (along with my stockpile of Slings & Arrows), and we're going to hold Josh's eyes open and he's gonna see it through. Maybe we'll even start from the beginning and make Claire watch it as well.

Oooh. We can turn it into a drinking game. Take a sip every time the kids say something weird or cockney.

Two pieces of trivia: The movie is based on a series of books. Said books were written in 1943 by the same woman who wrote The Borrowers. I had no idea.

Hosannas from the highest mountaintop

Yippy skippy! Choirs of angels are singing. Edgar Renteria is not letting the door hit him in the ass on the way out.

Sorry Edgah, you were a dead spot in the beginning of lineup. A goose fart in the wind. Getting rid of Orlando was a horrid misstep and taking on your bloated salary for play that was middling at best caused me great physical pain all season. And while you are catching a ball in this photo, you made a bunch of easily avoided errors in the field. You should have batted 9th but you were too fragile for that kind of change.

The icing on this little $40 million dollar cake (pricey, yes, but so are 30 muthereffing errors on the season) is that we're getting Marte, Atlanta's top prospect. So, if Lowell craps out on third, we're still ok.

Stoke that hot stove, baby.

In other baseball (old) news: Josh, how are you feeling about Grady "Leave Him In" Little at the helm in LA?

No, no. I do not mean "shmoopie."

Yesterday's discussion of Krampus made me do a little Google search for Schmutzli ("The Dirty One"), Samichlaus's alter-ego/companion. Trouble was, I Spoonerized the name in my head to be "Smutchli" ("The Kissy One," I guess), and it wasn't until I had a pint or two in me last night that I realized my mistake.

And so, before I work hard for the money today, I give you the Swiss version of Herr Krampus: Schmutzli. Every year in Zurich, there's a parade of Samichlauses and Schmutzlis on Samichlaus Day (Dec. 6). According to some random Swiss events calendar:

Samichlaus and his helper, Schmutzli (the Dirty One), live deep in the woods. On this day they visit the children in the woods or at home. Samichlaus wears a long red robe with a fur lined hood, carries a big book, a bag filled with sweets and oranges, and a bundle of switches. Schmutzli looks like a chimney sweep wearing a long dark robe. He carries a broom switch and a sack over his shoulder in which to deposit children who have not been their best over the past year.

As the children stand facing him, Samichlaus reads from the book, which lists the good and bad deeds of each child. Individually, he praises each child for the good things and expresses his hope that the child will correct those things which need improvement. After he has finished speaking, Samichlaus expects each child to sing, or recite a poem for him. Children are warned that if they are naughty, Schmutzli will take them into the woods in the sack.

So, Schmutzli's pretty scary. Not quite as scary looking as Krampus, but close. The being carried away in a sack thing is pretty terrifying.

Wikipedia has an interesting article on the companions of Saint Nicholas. Apparently, our Anglicized version of Santa is pretty tame. There's no terrifying demonic companion to our jolly St. Nick. Also, our Santa doesn't have "blackamoor slaves." Germanic Santas rule. And I'm not just saying that so I won't get dragged away to the woods in a sack and beaten with a switch.

I imagine that if Claire were to be confronted with Schmutzli, she'd lick her thumb and rub it on his face. "You've got a little..."