Despues de Estocolmo, me fuí con mi primo a Copenhague porque actuaba con su grupo en esa ciudad. Nos quedamos en Christiania, un conjunto anárquico en el corazón de la ciudad. Fué una experiencia muy interesante, todo se llevaba de una manera comunal, comiamos en un comedor con mesas largas de nogal. Cada uno se hacía su propia comida. Se respiraba un olor a hashish por todo el recinto... Fuí a ver a mi primo al teatro donde representaba una obra en sueco. No entendí nada pero su actuación fue grandiosa. Un verdadero Javier Bardem (además se le parecía, en la época). Me sentí tan orgullosa... Mi primo es seis años menor que yo, recuerdo que cuando nació fue mi muñeco, le adoraba. Le llevé a ver su primera pelicula en Irún cuando el tenía tres años. Vimos una pelicula de vaqueros. Al salir del cine, el me decía con su lengua de trapo: "Indio bueno, home blanco malo...". Ya tenía su conciencia social muy desarrollada.
After Stockholm I went with my cousin to Copenhagen where he was acting with his theatre group. We stayed in Christiania, an anarchist compound in the centre of the city. A very interesting experience; it was a communal way of life. We all ate in a dining room with long wooden tables where each one cooked his own meals. There was a hashish aroma all around... I went to see my cousin at the theatre where he acted in Swedish. I didn't understand a word but his acting was grandiose! A real Javier Bardem (he looked like him at the time). I felt so proud... My cousin is six years younger than me and when he was born, he was my baby. I adored him. I took him to see his first movie in Irún when he was three-years-old. A cowboy film. When we came out of the cinema, he said to me: "Indian good, white man, bad..." He already had his social conscience quite developed.
jueves, 28 de febrero de 2008
miércoles, 27 de febrero de 2008
VIAJE A ESTOCOLMO - TRIP TO STOCKHOLM
Mi viaje a Muskoka me ha traido otros recuerdos de un viaje que hice a Estocolmo desde Ibiza. Tenía una amiga sueca casada con un vasco que me invitó a pasar fin de año en su casa al sur de Suecia. Fuimos en coche, embarcándolo en Ibiza, pasando por Barcelona, atravesando toda la Costa Brava, Francia y llegando al norte de Alemania cogiendo un ferry que nos llevó a Suecia. Su pueblo, de cuyo nombre ahora mismo no me acuerdo, era precioso. La casa de su familia, típica sueca de madera; muy cerca había un lago helado dónde su padre iba a pescar haciendo el típico agujero redondo en el hielo. Pasé unos dias maravillosos disfrutando de la hospitalidad nórdica. Despues de celebrar el año nuevo, decidí coger un tren hasta Estocolmo porque tenía un primo viviendo allí que era actor en un grupo teatral callejero sueco (vengo de una familia de locos, como buenos vascos). Los suecos están muy bien organizados, como en Canada. En el tren había vagones especiales para fumadores, para no fumadores, para familias con niños, para familias sin niños... Yo cogí un compartimento para fumadores solitarios. Iba sola cuando de repente entró un borracho que me dió el dia... Llamé al interventor y le dije en inglés: "Mire, ya veo que están muy bien organizados pero ¿no podían tener un vagón especial para borrachos?". El interventor lo apuntó. Cuando llegué a Estocolmo y vi a mi primo le conté lo que me había pasado. Me dijo: "Seguro que toman nota y la próxima vez habrá un vagón especial para borrachos". No sé si será verdad porque no he vuelto. Quizás los que me leen (si hay alguno ahí en la blogosfera) que hayan viajado ultimamente pueden confirmármelo.
My trip to Muskoka has brought me other memories. The time I travelled to Stockholm. I was in Ibiza. I had a very good Swedish friend, married to a Basque, who invited me to spend New Year's at her home in the south of Sweden which name of the town I cannot remember right now. We shipped the car to Barcelona and then drove right through the Costa Brava, France, and when we reached the north of Germany took a ferry to Sweden. Her hometown, was beautiful, her family had a typical wooden Swedish house and nearby a frozen lake where her father went fishing everyday, making a round hole in the ice. I spent a few wonderful days enjoying the typical Scandinavian hospitality. After New Year's I decided to take a train to Stockholm to visit a cousin who belonged to a Swedish street theatre group (madness runs in our family, as in all Basques). In Sweden everything is very well organized, like in Canada. The trains have special wagons for smokers, non-smokers, families with children, families without children. I chose a single smoker's compartment. A drunk came in and gave me the day. I called the train inspector and I told him: "Alright, I see that you're very well organized, but couldn't you have a special wagon for drunks???" The inspector took note. When I arrived in Stockholm, I told my cousin of the happening in the train. He said to me: "Don't worry, I'm sure that next time there is a special wagon for drunks...". I don't know if it's true because I haven't gone back but maybe some of my readers (if there is any out there in the blogsphere...) that have travelled recently can confirm it.
My trip to Muskoka has brought me other memories. The time I travelled to Stockholm. I was in Ibiza. I had a very good Swedish friend, married to a Basque, who invited me to spend New Year's at her home in the south of Sweden which name of the town I cannot remember right now. We shipped the car to Barcelona and then drove right through the Costa Brava, France, and when we reached the north of Germany took a ferry to Sweden. Her hometown, was beautiful, her family had a typical wooden Swedish house and nearby a frozen lake where her father went fishing everyday, making a round hole in the ice. I spent a few wonderful days enjoying the typical Scandinavian hospitality. After New Year's I decided to take a train to Stockholm to visit a cousin who belonged to a Swedish street theatre group (madness runs in our family, as in all Basques). In Sweden everything is very well organized, like in Canada. The trains have special wagons for smokers, non-smokers, families with children, families without children. I chose a single smoker's compartment. A drunk came in and gave me the day. I called the train inspector and I told him: "Alright, I see that you're very well organized, but couldn't you have a special wagon for drunks???" The inspector took note. When I arrived in Stockholm, I told my cousin of the happening in the train. He said to me: "Don't worry, I'm sure that next time there is a special wagon for drunks...". I don't know if it's true because I haven't gone back but maybe some of my readers (if there is any out there in the blogsphere...) that have travelled recently can confirm it.
domingo, 24 de febrero de 2008
VIAJE A MUSKOKA- TRIP TO MUSKOKA
Un fin de semana decidimos ir a acampar al norte de Ontario, al borde del rio Muskoka. Emprendimos el viaje. Kilometros y kilometros de espacios abiertos, pinos y mas pinos, soledad absoluta solamente interrumpida por el cruce de algun reno majestuoso que lentamente atravesaba la carretera. Llegamos y acampamos. Maravillosa la noche estrellada (la verdad que nunca en mi vida he visto las estrellas más nítidas que en Canada). Habiamos ido con nuestro amigo el uruguayo, su guitarra y su canción "A desalambrar, a deselambrar". Montamos las tiendas y nos preparamos para una noche de descanso absoluto. Pero, no habíamos contado con los mosquitos. Gigantescos que nos atacaban por todos los lados (en aquella época aún atraía a los mosquitos, hoy en dia, como digo, a parte de ser invisible para los hombres soy persona non grata para los mosquitos, de lo cual estoy enormemente agradecida). Amaneció y la verdad es que la belleza de la naturaleza nos embargó con un sentimiento apabullante. Decidimos hacer unos de los "trails" (paseos) por el bosque. En Canada todo está muy bien organizado, tienes los "trails" de los castores (media hora) de los del tren antiguo de carbón (una hora) etcétera, etcétera. Escogimos el de los castores. Nos adentramos por el bosque y siguiendo los puntos rojos en los arboles (como en "Pulgarcito") llegamos al alto de un acantilado desde dónde podíamos ver a los castores afanándose en hacer una presa. Era un espéctaculo maravilloso. El castor es la mascota de Canada. ¡Cómo hacían sus presas!. Todos acarreándo sus trozos de madera para juntarlas y así hacer su presa. Eran encantadores. Despues alquilamos una canoa y nos adentramos por el rio. Bordeado de sauces llorones que vertían sus hojas sobre el rio. Qué maravilla de naturaleza. Eso es Canada. Naturaleza salvaje y bellísima.
One weekend we decided to go camping to the north of Ontario, to the Muskoka region. We travelled miles and miles without seeing a soul. Pine trees and more pine trees, only interrumpted by a majestic moose crossing the road. We arrived and we set up our camps. Beautiful starry night (the most beautiful stars that I have ever seen have always been in Canada). We went with our Uruguayan friend, his guitar and his song: "We have to tear down the fences, we have to tear down the fences..." We set up the "teepees" and were ready for a good night's sleep but we didn't count on the mosquitoes... Gigantic mosquitoes that bit us from all sides! At that time I still attracted mosquitoes not like now-a-days when I'm invisible to men and utterly not welcome by mosquitoes (of which I'm very grateful). The dawn arrived and the beauty of the site overwhelmed us. We decided to do one of the trails. In Canada everything is very well organized. The beaver trail (half an hour), the carbon train (one hour). We chose the beaver trail. We entered the forest and we had to follow the red dots on the trees. We arrived at the top of a cliff where we could see the beavers setting up their dam. How fast they made it! Of course the beaver is the mascot of Canada. We could see them carrying their pieces of wood very diligently and piling them up together to make the dam. They were great! Afterwards we rented a canoe and we sailed down the Muskoka river, bordered by Weeping Willows, which leaves overflowed by the sides. What a marvel of nature! That's Canada. Wild and beautiful nature.
One weekend we decided to go camping to the north of Ontario, to the Muskoka region. We travelled miles and miles without seeing a soul. Pine trees and more pine trees, only interrumpted by a majestic moose crossing the road. We arrived and we set up our camps. Beautiful starry night (the most beautiful stars that I have ever seen have always been in Canada). We went with our Uruguayan friend, his guitar and his song: "We have to tear down the fences, we have to tear down the fences..." We set up the "teepees" and were ready for a good night's sleep but we didn't count on the mosquitoes... Gigantic mosquitoes that bit us from all sides! At that time I still attracted mosquitoes not like now-a-days when I'm invisible to men and utterly not welcome by mosquitoes (of which I'm very grateful). The dawn arrived and the beauty of the site overwhelmed us. We decided to do one of the trails. In Canada everything is very well organized. The beaver trail (half an hour), the carbon train (one hour). We chose the beaver trail. We entered the forest and we had to follow the red dots on the trees. We arrived at the top of a cliff where we could see the beavers setting up their dam. How fast they made it! Of course the beaver is the mascot of Canada. We could see them carrying their pieces of wood very diligently and piling them up together to make the dam. They were great! Afterwards we rented a canoe and we sailed down the Muskoka river, bordered by Weeping Willows, which leaves overflowed by the sides. What a marvel of nature! That's Canada. Wild and beautiful nature.
sábado, 23 de febrero de 2008
VISITA DE LOS REYES - ROYAL VISIT
Despues de un año de estar sin director en la ONET, llegó el "toro" del Sr. Núñez. El nuevo director. Empezó a hacer promociones a diestra y siniestra. Venían escanciadores asturianos a mostrar a los canadienses sus proezas escanciadoras de sidra, (yo estaba presente, vestida de asturiana). Tambien yo viajaba a España cada dos por tres acompañando a agentes de viaje para que conocieran nuestro país. Esto, por supuesto, me encantaba. Llegó el dia que los Reyes visitaron oficialmente Canada. En la recepción que daban en Toronto a los residentes españoles, nuestra oficina era la responsable de registrar a todos los que querían acudir y tambien de su seguridad. Aquí la menda lerenda era la responsable. Empezaron a llegar los españoles con sus pasaportes, tenía que registrarles en un cuaderno y si había algun sospechoso tenía que poner una señal para que la Policia Montada del Canada les investigara. La verdad es que sólo hubo dos a los que les puse la señal. Uno porque quería entregar una carta a los Reyes (imposible) y otro porque cuando entró en nuestra oficina dónde teníamos varios periódicos españoles: el "ABC", "El País" etcétera; vió "El País" y dijo: "Este es un periódico de judios...". Puse la señal: "Raro" (al final resultó que era un fugado de la justicia española y lo pillaron). Tambien les tenía que advertir que se quitaran todos los anillos (porque los Reyes dan la mano a todo el mundo) y dejaran sus bolsos y pertenencias a la entrada. Llegó el dia de la recepción, el Sr. Núñez me propuso: "Quieres ir a la recepción y salir en el "HOLA" o prefieres un viaje a España?" Por supuesto que escogí el viaje a España.
After a year without a director at the Spanish National Tourist Office our new director, Mr. Núñez (a "bull" of a man) arrived. He started promotions left and right. Asturian experts in cider-pouring came to show Canadians this timeless art (I, of course, went dressed as an Asturian). I also travelled to Spain quite often with Canadian travel agents to show them our country. This, I loved. The day arrived when we had an official visit of our King and Queen to Canada. Our office in Toronto was in charge of registrating (and the security) of all Spaniards wanting to attend the reception. I, me, myself, was the sole responsible person in charge. I had to register everyone's passport in a notebook and if I noticed anything strange I had to make a comment on the side so that the Canadian Mounties could investigate. It only happened twice. Once when a man said that he had a letter that he wanted to give to the King (impossible). The other time was when a man came to our office. We had several Spanish newspapers: the "ABC", "El País", and others. When he saw "El País" he said: "This is a Jewish newspaper". I wrote "weird" on the side. (It turned out that he was a Spanish law fugitive and they caught him). I also had to warn everyone not to wear rings (because the King and Queen had to shake their hands) and that they had to leave purses and all personal belongings at the entrance. The day of the reception arrived and Mr. Núñez said to me: "Do you want to go to the reception and come out in "HOLA" magazine or do you want to go on a P.R. (Public Relations) trip to Spain?" Of course I chose the trip to Spain.
After a year without a director at the Spanish National Tourist Office our new director, Mr. Núñez (a "bull" of a man) arrived. He started promotions left and right. Asturian experts in cider-pouring came to show Canadians this timeless art (I, of course, went dressed as an Asturian). I also travelled to Spain quite often with Canadian travel agents to show them our country. This, I loved. The day arrived when we had an official visit of our King and Queen to Canada. Our office in Toronto was in charge of registrating (and the security) of all Spaniards wanting to attend the reception. I, me, myself, was the sole responsible person in charge. I had to register everyone's passport in a notebook and if I noticed anything strange I had to make a comment on the side so that the Canadian Mounties could investigate. It only happened twice. Once when a man said that he had a letter that he wanted to give to the King (impossible). The other time was when a man came to our office. We had several Spanish newspapers: the "ABC", "El País", and others. When he saw "El País" he said: "This is a Jewish newspaper". I wrote "weird" on the side. (It turned out that he was a Spanish law fugitive and they caught him). I also had to warn everyone not to wear rings (because the King and Queen had to shake their hands) and that they had to leave purses and all personal belongings at the entrance. The day of the reception arrived and Mr. Núñez said to me: "Do you want to go to the reception and come out in "HOLA" magazine or do you want to go on a P.R. (Public Relations) trip to Spain?" Of course I chose the trip to Spain.
jueves, 21 de febrero de 2008
CORRECTION
In my previous post about the cat and the squirrel. The first phrase in English should read: "One day WHEN or WHILST I was washing the dishes..." not "THAT I was washing the dishes"
ELGATO Y LA ARDILLA - THE CAT AND THE SQUIRREL
Un dia fregando los platos, observé desde la ventana que estaba en frente del fregadero y daba a nuestro jardin trasero, a un gato y una ardilla jugando. La hierba estaba bastante larga/alta, parecía una pequeña jungla. Tambien teníamos un arce majestuoso. El gato, agazapado en plan tigre entre la hierba estaba siendo tentado descaradamente por la ardilla. Le pasaba la cola por delante de su hocico, el gato daba un salto para atraparla pero ella se escurría velozmente, trepando al arce. El gato intentaba hacer lo mismo pero se quedaba a medio camino del arbol, agarrándose desesperadamente al tronco. Cabizbajo volvía a la jungla y la ardilla bajaba y volvía a tentarlo de nuevo. Estó pasó no-sé-cuantas veces. Me dió pena no tener una cámara para filmarlos porque era una escena insólita y muy de Canada.
One day that I was washing the dishes I saw through the window in front of the kitchen sink, which looked out over our backyard, a cat and a squirrel playing. The grass was quite tall. It was like a small jungle. There was also a very majestic maple tree. The cat was hiding behind the grass, tiger-like. The squirrel tempted him, shamelessly, by brushing her tail in front of his face, the cat jumped and went running after her. She quickly climbed up the maple tree. The cat tried to do the same but was left clinging for his life half way up the trunk. Sadly he came down and hid once again behind the grass. The squirrel climbed down and tempted him once again. This happened, I don't know how many times. I was sorry not to have a camera to have filmed them because it was quite a show and very Canadian.
One day that I was washing the dishes I saw through the window in front of the kitchen sink, which looked out over our backyard, a cat and a squirrel playing. The grass was quite tall. It was like a small jungle. There was also a very majestic maple tree. The cat was hiding behind the grass, tiger-like. The squirrel tempted him, shamelessly, by brushing her tail in front of his face, the cat jumped and went running after her. She quickly climbed up the maple tree. The cat tried to do the same but was left clinging for his life half way up the trunk. Sadly he came down and hid once again behind the grass. The squirrel climbed down and tempted him once again. This happened, I don't know how many times. I was sorry not to have a camera to have filmed them because it was quite a show and very Canadian.
miércoles, 20 de febrero de 2008
50 ELLSWORTH AVENUE
Cuando mi colega y yo nos mudamos de casa de mi amiga la catedrática, nos casamos y alquilamos una casa de cinco habitaciones, enorme, con un jardin precioso que por supuesto teníamos que compartir porque no podíamos hacer frente al alquiler nosotros solos. En la Universidad mi colega hizo amistad con un italiano que tambien estudiaba allí y le sugerió si quería compartir. El italiano dijo que sí que encantado. Vino a casa y le reconocí enseguida ( le había visto crecer en el "HOLA") era Milko Skofic, el hijo de Gina Lollobrigida. Mi colega no tenía ni idea... Acabó viviendo con nosotros durante dos años hasta que acabó la carrera y regresó a Italia. Era extremadamente bien educado y bellísima persona. Recuerdo que sus padres le llamaban a menudo, mientras que su padre era encantador y muy correcto cuando llamaba Gina, muy altivamente en plan diva, decía: "Milko pronto!". Luego encontramos a otros que tambien compartieron nuestro hogar. Pero nuestra casa era el centro neurálgico activista de todas las minorías étnicas que habitaban la ciudad. Mi colega había sido un leader político universitario en Madrid e intelectualmente le atraía y apasionaba ayudar a los más desprotegidos. Por lo tanto soliamos tener reuniones de los separatistas eritreos, los isrelies pro palestinos, refugiados de Azania (que no sabía dónde estaba-- es el nombre africano de Sud Africa). Teníamos un muy querido amigo uruguayo que siempre estaba tocando la guitarra y cantando : "A Desalambrar... a desalambrar....". Los amigos españoles que venían a nuestra casa flipaban con el ambiente... Fue un periodo de mi vida muy enriquecedor y, la verdad, que nuestra casa era la única en Toronto dónde podías venir sin llamar antes, para avisar de tu llegada. Llamaban a la puerta y eran bienvenidos.
When my colleague and I moved from my friend the professor's house, we married, and rented a five-bedroom house with a lovely large garden which, of course, we had to share because we couldn't afford it on our own. At the University my colleague had an Italian friend to whom he suggested if he would like to share a room. The Italian said yes, that he would love it. He came to our house and I recognized him right a way (I had seen him grow up in "HOLA"). He was Milko Skofic, Gina Lollobrigida's son. My colleague didn't have the slightest idea... He ended up living with us for two years until he finished his studies and went back to Italy. He was extremely well educated and a wonderful person. His parents called him often and while his father was very charming and correct, his mother Gina was very haughty and diva-ish, she always said: "Milko, pronto!". Later we found other lodgers. Our house became the neuralgic activist centre of all the minorities that lived in the city. My colleague had been a Madrid University student leader and intellectually he was attracted to and loved to support all the unprotected people of this planet. Therefore, we had meetings of the Eritrean separatists, Israelies pro Palestinians, Azanian's refugees (I didn't know where THAT was, it turned out it was the African name for South Africa). We had a very dear Uruguayan friend who was always playing his guitar and singing: "We have to destroy the fences...we have to destroy the fences..."
Our Spanish friends who came to our house, actually flipped with the ambiance... It was a very enriching part of my life. Our house was one of the only ones in Toronto where you could come without calling in advance. Everyone that knocked at our door was welcome.
When my colleague and I moved from my friend the professor's house, we married, and rented a five-bedroom house with a lovely large garden which, of course, we had to share because we couldn't afford it on our own. At the University my colleague had an Italian friend to whom he suggested if he would like to share a room. The Italian said yes, that he would love it. He came to our house and I recognized him right a way (I had seen him grow up in "HOLA"). He was Milko Skofic, Gina Lollobrigida's son. My colleague didn't have the slightest idea... He ended up living with us for two years until he finished his studies and went back to Italy. He was extremely well educated and a wonderful person. His parents called him often and while his father was very charming and correct, his mother Gina was very haughty and diva-ish, she always said: "Milko, pronto!". Later we found other lodgers. Our house became the neuralgic activist centre of all the minorities that lived in the city. My colleague had been a Madrid University student leader and intellectually he was attracted to and loved to support all the unprotected people of this planet. Therefore, we had meetings of the Eritrean separatists, Israelies pro Palestinians, Azanian's refugees (I didn't know where THAT was, it turned out it was the African name for South Africa). We had a very dear Uruguayan friend who was always playing his guitar and singing: "We have to destroy the fences...we have to destroy the fences..."
Our Spanish friends who came to our house, actually flipped with the ambiance... It was a very enriching part of my life. Our house was one of the only ones in Toronto where you could come without calling in advance. Everyone that knocked at our door was welcome.
domingo, 17 de febrero de 2008
CANADA (3)
La experiencia en la ONET fue muy interesante. ¡Lo qué la gente podía preguntar! Había personas que querían recorrer toda España en bicicleta en una semana...yo les decía que se fueran a Ibiza y Formentera. Luego venían algunos preguntando por Bolivia....les decía que nosotros eramos España, Europa... Un dia recibí una carta muy curiosa. Un hombre muy airado nos escribió diciéndo que nos había escrito para que le mandáramos el libro "Retirement in Spain" ("Jubilación en España") y que había recibido "Life after Death" ("La Vida despues de la Muerte"). Averigué lo que podía haber pasado. Me dijeron que a veces en correos, un libro se caía y metían otro. Le escribí, disculpándonos enviándole el libro requerido y explicando lo que podía haber pasado pero le añadí: "¿Se imagina al que escribió pidiéndo "Life After Death" y recibió "Retirement in Spain"?... la vida está hecha de anécdotas humorísticas...". No contestó por lo que supongo que se quedó satisfecho...
My experience at the Spanish National Tourist Office was very interesting. What people could ask! There were people that wanted to travel all over Spain on a bike in a week! I told them to go to Ibiza and Formentera. Then there were some that came in to ask about Bolivia....I told them that we were Spain, Europe... One day I received a very curious letter. A very irate man wrote saying that he had asked us for the book "Retirement in Spain" but that he had received "Life after Death". I found out what could have happened. At the post office they told me that sometimes a book fell and they would stick another one. I wrote him apologizing for the error and enclosing the book that he wanted but I added: "Can you imagine whoever wrote for "Life after Death" and received "Retirement in Spain"? Ah, life is full of humorous anecdotes!" He didn't reply so I suppose he was satisfied...
My experience at the Spanish National Tourist Office was very interesting. What people could ask! There were people that wanted to travel all over Spain on a bike in a week! I told them to go to Ibiza and Formentera. Then there were some that came in to ask about Bolivia....I told them that we were Spain, Europe... One day I received a very curious letter. A very irate man wrote saying that he had asked us for the book "Retirement in Spain" but that he had received "Life after Death". I found out what could have happened. At the post office they told me that sometimes a book fell and they would stick another one. I wrote him apologizing for the error and enclosing the book that he wanted but I added: "Can you imagine whoever wrote for "Life after Death" and received "Retirement in Spain"? Ah, life is full of humorous anecdotes!" He didn't reply so I suppose he was satisfied...
MANOS - HANDS
Hablando con una amiga sobre nuestras experiencias amatorias, me ha venido a la memoria, la vez que tuve un orgasmo simplemente acariaciándonos las manos. Fué en Mallorca, conocia a un americano muy atractivo, estábamos invitados a cenar en casa de unos amigos. Fumamos un porro. En el tocadiscos, sonaba un concierto maravilloso. Sentados en la mesa y ya en la sobremesa entrelazamos las manos y al son de la música, nuestras manos se fueron acariciando lentamente, el tempo fue en crescendo hasta que mi mano derecha explotó en un orgasmo. Fué alucinante... una de mis experiencias mas inolvidables.
Speaking with a friend of our love experiences, I remember the time I had an orgasm simply by caressing our hands. It was in Mallorca, I knew a very attractive American. We were invited to dinner at a friends' house. We smoked a joint. In the record player a very beautiful concert was playing. Sitting at the table, after dinner, we joined our hands and slowly we began caressing to the tune of the music, the tempo went faster until my right hand exploded in an orgasm! It was the most extraordinary and unforgettable experience of my life.
Speaking with a friend of our love experiences, I remember the time I had an orgasm simply by caressing our hands. It was in Mallorca, I knew a very attractive American. We were invited to dinner at a friends' house. We smoked a joint. In the record player a very beautiful concert was playing. Sitting at the table, after dinner, we joined our hands and slowly we began caressing to the tune of the music, the tempo went faster until my right hand exploded in an orgasm! It was the most extraordinary and unforgettable experience of my life.
sábado, 16 de febrero de 2008
CANADA (2)
Antes del año nuevo fui a la Oficina de Turismo española a ver si necesitaban a alguien. Resultó que el director, Sr. Sanjuan, era el mismo que había sido director en mi época de "Miss España" de Toronto (cuando iba de representante de España a todos los actos culturales, vestida de flamenca, de maña, de lagarterana, de mallorquina, en fin, de lo que se terciara). Pues había una plaza disponible y me contrató. En enero empecé a trabajar en la ONET (Oficina Nacional Española de Turismo) encargada de dar la información a los canadienses que visitaban nuestro país. Al Sr. Sanjuan le trasladaron a Roma y nos quedamos sin director durante un año. Pero el turismo a España aumentó ¡¡un 15%!! Porque yo, turista en potencia que entraba en nuestra oficina a pedir información, turista que iba a España. Les comía el coco de una manera..., por ejemplo los que iban a Madrid, siempre les decía: "Don't miss Cuenca!" que no se perdieran Cuenca. Un dia en el "Toronto Daily Star" salió un artículo con ese título "Don't miss Cuenca!". Trabajando en la ONET, un dia nos vinieron a pedir actrices extras para la obra de Federico García Lorca "La Casa de Bernarda Alba" los del departamento de español de la Universidad de Toronto. Me apunté. Fuí una de las mujeres del duelo que tenía que decir: "Qué dia de calor..."
abanicándome furiosamente. La experiencia me gustó y seguí con ellos. Participé en varias obras. "La señora recibe una carta" de no-sé-quien en este momento. Yo era la señora. "Cianuro sólo o con leche" hice el papel de Doña Socorro que confundía todo con cosas verdes porque era sorda. Luego llegó el festival de teatro multicultural dónde nuestro grupo repusimos "La Casa de Bernarda Alba" dónde yo hice el papel de la criada, no la Poncia, sino la criada, que decía: "Ya no me levantarás las faldas detrás del portón..." y mi hija hacia el papel de la pordiosera que me venía a pedir limosna y yo le decía: "Fuera de aquí, que tambien están solos los perros y no piden limosna..." (en todos los ensayos mi hija se moría de la risa pero le dije: "Como te rias el dia del estreno, te mato!") Lo hizo estupendamente bien. LLegó el dia de los premios, una cena, a la cual no fuí. Cuál no fue mi sorpresa que el único premio que cayó a nuestro grupo fue mi papel de criada...me llamaron a casa y mi hija me llamó toda excitada: "Mamá, mamá, que te han dado el premio!!" Lo tengo enmarcado en el cuarto de baño dónde todo el mundo lo pueda ver... Luego ya hice mi papel estelar, la madre en "Bodas de Sangre". Por cierto que uno de los profesores que estaban al cargo del departamento de español había participado en "La Barraca" de Lorca. Continuará.
Before the new year I went to the Spanish National Tourist Office to see if they needed anyone. The director of the office at the time was the same one that had been director when I was "Miss Spain" of Toronto assisting at every cultural event dressed as a flamenco dancer, an Aragonese woman, a woman from Lagartera, from Mallorca or whatever... Well, there was a place available and he gave me the job. I was in charge of giving the information to Canadian tourists wishing to visit Spain. In January I started working. Mr. Sanjuan, the director, was transferred to our offices in Rome. We were without a director during a whole year but tourism to Spain increased 15%!!. Because potential tourist planning to visit Spain who came in for information, tourist that visited Spain! I was very persuasive... For example, people who were going to Madrid, I would tell them: "Don't miss Cuenca!" Once an article came out in the "Toronto Daily Star" with the heading: "Don't miss Cuenca!". One day, the Spanish Department of the University of Toronto came asking for extras for Lorca's "The House of Bernarda Alba" that they were setting up. I offered myself as an extra. I was one of the women at the burial who said: "What a hot day..." fanning myself like a madwoman. I liked the experience so I signed-up with them and participated in several plays. Then the multicultural theatre festival came up. Our group re-represented "The House of Bernarda Alba" where I played the part of the maid, not "la Poncia" (who was the important maid) but just the one who said: "OK, now you won't lift up my skirt by the animals' gate anymore...." my daughter played the part of the beggar who came to ask for money and I said to her: "Go away, dogs are also astray and they don't ask for money!" In all the rehearsals my daughter split with laughter when I said that to her. I told her: "If you laugh the day of the opening, I'll kill you!". When the day came she did a marvellous job. The day of the awards came up, a dinner which I didn't assist. What a surprise that the only award that was given to our group was my part as the maid!! They called me at home and my daughter who received the news said: "Mamá, mamá, they've given you the award!!" I have it framed in the washroom where everyone can see it... Afterwards I did my most important part, the mother in "Blood Wedding". By the way, one of the professors of the Spanish Department had been part of "La Barraca" Lorca's travelling theatre group before the Spanish Civil War. (It will continue)
abanicándome furiosamente. La experiencia me gustó y seguí con ellos. Participé en varias obras. "La señora recibe una carta" de no-sé-quien en este momento. Yo era la señora. "Cianuro sólo o con leche" hice el papel de Doña Socorro que confundía todo con cosas verdes porque era sorda. Luego llegó el festival de teatro multicultural dónde nuestro grupo repusimos "La Casa de Bernarda Alba" dónde yo hice el papel de la criada, no la Poncia, sino la criada, que decía: "Ya no me levantarás las faldas detrás del portón..." y mi hija hacia el papel de la pordiosera que me venía a pedir limosna y yo le decía: "Fuera de aquí, que tambien están solos los perros y no piden limosna..." (en todos los ensayos mi hija se moría de la risa pero le dije: "Como te rias el dia del estreno, te mato!") Lo hizo estupendamente bien. LLegó el dia de los premios, una cena, a la cual no fuí. Cuál no fue mi sorpresa que el único premio que cayó a nuestro grupo fue mi papel de criada...me llamaron a casa y mi hija me llamó toda excitada: "Mamá, mamá, que te han dado el premio!!" Lo tengo enmarcado en el cuarto de baño dónde todo el mundo lo pueda ver... Luego ya hice mi papel estelar, la madre en "Bodas de Sangre". Por cierto que uno de los profesores que estaban al cargo del departamento de español había participado en "La Barraca" de Lorca. Continuará.
Before the new year I went to the Spanish National Tourist Office to see if they needed anyone. The director of the office at the time was the same one that had been director when I was "Miss Spain" of Toronto assisting at every cultural event dressed as a flamenco dancer, an Aragonese woman, a woman from Lagartera, from Mallorca or whatever... Well, there was a place available and he gave me the job. I was in charge of giving the information to Canadian tourists wishing to visit Spain. In January I started working. Mr. Sanjuan, the director, was transferred to our offices in Rome. We were without a director during a whole year but tourism to Spain increased 15%!!. Because potential tourist planning to visit Spain who came in for information, tourist that visited Spain! I was very persuasive... For example, people who were going to Madrid, I would tell them: "Don't miss Cuenca!" Once an article came out in the "Toronto Daily Star" with the heading: "Don't miss Cuenca!". One day, the Spanish Department of the University of Toronto came asking for extras for Lorca's "The House of Bernarda Alba" that they were setting up. I offered myself as an extra. I was one of the women at the burial who said: "What a hot day..." fanning myself like a madwoman. I liked the experience so I signed-up with them and participated in several plays. Then the multicultural theatre festival came up. Our group re-represented "The House of Bernarda Alba" where I played the part of the maid, not "la Poncia" (who was the important maid) but just the one who said: "OK, now you won't lift up my skirt by the animals' gate anymore...." my daughter played the part of the beggar who came to ask for money and I said to her: "Go away, dogs are also astray and they don't ask for money!" In all the rehearsals my daughter split with laughter when I said that to her. I told her: "If you laugh the day of the opening, I'll kill you!". When the day came she did a marvellous job. The day of the awards came up, a dinner which I didn't assist. What a surprise that the only award that was given to our group was my part as the maid!! They called me at home and my daughter who received the news said: "Mamá, mamá, they've given you the award!!" I have it framed in the washroom where everyone can see it... Afterwards I did my most important part, the mother in "Blood Wedding". By the way, one of the professors of the Spanish Department had been part of "La Barraca" Lorca's travelling theatre group before the Spanish Civil War. (It will continue)
viernes, 15 de febrero de 2008
CANADA
A principios de los 80, me fuí de Ibiza. Mi colega me presentó a toda su familia en Madrid.(venerable familia republicana, era nieto del que fué ministro de educación en la II República). Dijo a su familia que se iba a Canada conmigo y con mi hija. Tambien era mas joven que yo y no sé si a su familia le hiciera mucha gracia que se fuera a Canada conmigo y con mi hija... pero él lo quiso, porque yo me iba a ir igual. Nos fuimos a Estados Unidos primero, a Nueva York. De ahí, el se fue a Boston a ver a su prima que a la sazón era la jefa bibliotecaria de la facultad de arquitectura en Harvard y yo me fui a San Antonio, Texas donde residia mi hermano, cardiólogo. Dejé a mi hija con mi hermano hasta que tuviera mi vida encaminada en Toronto. Era Noviembre. Me reuní con mi colega en Boston y de ahí cogimos un autobus (Greyhound) hasta Toronto. Llevábamos poquísimo dinero. En la frontera, nos hicieron muchísimas preguntas, yo no tuve problemas porque tenía mi pasaporte canadiense pero mi colega era español. Lo que le salvó es que hablaba un "Queen's English" (un inglés muy refinado) que los aduaneros pensaron que era un Lord. Llegamos a Toronto con 50$ entre los dos. Buscamos un hotel barato. Encontramos uno que costaba 25$ la noche. Pero tuvimos la gran suerte que solo nos podíamos quedar una noche porque al dia siguiente todos los hoteles de la ciudad estaban llenos a rebosar ya que se celebraba el final de un torneo de football nacional que ese año tocaba en Toronto. Empecé a llamar a todos mis amigos. Di con una amiga, catédratica de la Universidad de Toronto, que vivía sola y tenía espacio para acogernos. Nos quedamos tres meses. Como ya era diciembre y antes de Navidad, una vez paseando por el centro vi un restaurante que se llamaba "La Maison Basque". ¡Aha! me dije, este es un restaurante vasco y seguro que necesitan trabajo extra para Navidad. Entré y pregunté por el dueño. Resultó ser un vasco francés de San Juan de Luz. Le dije que era vasca-canadiense y que buscaba trabajo. Me dijo que en el restaurante no necesitaban a nadie pero que tenía otro negocio en una de las partes más "chic" de la ciudad y que ahí sí podía darme trabajo. Era un "delicatessen" frecuentado por la "intelligentsia" local. El propietario vasco era un amor de persona y al final de la jornada me dejaba llevar lo que sobraba, todo tipo de comidas deliciosas con lo cual no gastábamos nada porque comíamos gratis. Mi colega, sin embargo se tenía que buscar la vida. Como no podía trabajar, decidimos que volviera a retomar sus estudios de Economicas que había dejado a medias en Madrid cuando tuvo que exiliarse en Londres y que sus padres le ayudaran. Le ayudaron y el se matriculó en York University. (Esto se está haciendo muy largo, por lo tanto, continuará)
At the beginning of the 80's I left Ibiza. My colleague introduced me to his whole family in Madrid (a very venerable republican family. His grandfather had been Minister of Education during the II Republic). He told his family that he was going with me to Canada. I don't think they were very happy to see their son, much younger than me, going off to Canada with me and my daughter...but he wanted to come because I was going to go anyway. We went to the States first, New York. Then he went to Boston to stay with his cousin who at the time was head librarian at the Faculty of Architecture in Harvard and I went to San Antonio, Texas where my brother, the cardiologist, lived. I left my daughter with my brother until we had our lives set up in Toronto. It was November. I flew to Boston to meet my colleague and from there we took a Greyhound bus to Toronto. At the border we had some problems, not I, because I had a Canadian passport but my colleague was Spanish. We hardly had any money between us. The border officials asked all sorts of questions but my colleague spoke a "Queen's English", so they thought he was a Lord. They let us pass. We arrived in Toronto with 50$ between the two of us. We had to find a cheap hotel. We found one for $25 a night. But we were so lucky, we could only stay one night because the following days all the hotels in the city were booked up due to a national football final match which that year took place in Toronto. I started calling my friends. I hit up with a dear friend who was a professor at the University of Toronto. She lived alone and had space to put us up. We stayed three months. Since it was before Christmas, one day walking around downtown I saw a restaurant: "La Maison Basque", I said, OK, this place must belong to a Basque. I went in and asked for the owner. He turned out to be a French Basque from St. Jean de Luz. I told him I was Basque-Canadian and that I needed a job. He told me that they didn't need anyone for the restaurant but that he did need someone for another business he had in the most "in" area of the city. A delicatessen where the local intelligentsia hung out. The owner was a lovable person who let me take home all the leftovers. So we didn't spend anything. We had great free meals. But my colleague had to do something with his life. He couldn't work so we decided that it would be best for him to go back to university and finish his Economic studies that he had left pending in Madrid when he had to exile himself to London. He would need his parents' financial help to do that. They helped him. He signed up at York University (this is becoming too long, so it will continue).
At the beginning of the 80's I left Ibiza. My colleague introduced me to his whole family in Madrid (a very venerable republican family. His grandfather had been Minister of Education during the II Republic). He told his family that he was going with me to Canada. I don't think they were very happy to see their son, much younger than me, going off to Canada with me and my daughter...but he wanted to come because I was going to go anyway. We went to the States first, New York. Then he went to Boston to stay with his cousin who at the time was head librarian at the Faculty of Architecture in Harvard and I went to San Antonio, Texas where my brother, the cardiologist, lived. I left my daughter with my brother until we had our lives set up in Toronto. It was November. I flew to Boston to meet my colleague and from there we took a Greyhound bus to Toronto. At the border we had some problems, not I, because I had a Canadian passport but my colleague was Spanish. We hardly had any money between us. The border officials asked all sorts of questions but my colleague spoke a "Queen's English", so they thought he was a Lord. They let us pass. We arrived in Toronto with 50$ between the two of us. We had to find a cheap hotel. We found one for $25 a night. But we were so lucky, we could only stay one night because the following days all the hotels in the city were booked up due to a national football final match which that year took place in Toronto. I started calling my friends. I hit up with a dear friend who was a professor at the University of Toronto. She lived alone and had space to put us up. We stayed three months. Since it was before Christmas, one day walking around downtown I saw a restaurant: "La Maison Basque", I said, OK, this place must belong to a Basque. I went in and asked for the owner. He turned out to be a French Basque from St. Jean de Luz. I told him I was Basque-Canadian and that I needed a job. He told me that they didn't need anyone for the restaurant but that he did need someone for another business he had in the most "in" area of the city. A delicatessen where the local intelligentsia hung out. The owner was a lovable person who let me take home all the leftovers. So we didn't spend anything. We had great free meals. But my colleague had to do something with his life. He couldn't work so we decided that it would be best for him to go back to university and finish his Economic studies that he had left pending in Madrid when he had to exile himself to London. He would need his parents' financial help to do that. They helped him. He signed up at York University (this is becoming too long, so it will continue).
jueves, 14 de febrero de 2008
IBIZA (6)
Vuelvo a Ibiza. En los años 70 había una conexión Ibiza-Bali fuera de lo normal. La gente pasaba el verano en Ibiza y en invierno se iba a Bali. Eran las islas de referencia, las islas mágicas. Yo, instalada de nuevo en Ibiza, separada de Fernando, empecé mi vida de guía turística. Conocí a un francés, cuatro años mas joven que yo. Nos veiamos en todas partes. Un dia que llovía torrencialmente nos vimos, el vivía en el campo y tenía una moto. Le dije que se quedara en mi apartamento de la ciudad porque no era noche para ir al campo con ese tiempo en moto... (así empezaban las relaciones en esa época cuando no existía el Sida). Duramos dos años. Tuvimos un romance tórrido. El era uno de los que pasaba el verano en Ibiza y el invierno en Bali. Se quedó conmigo pero siempre me decía de ir a Bali con el. Yo le daba largas porque aunque era bastante bohemia tenía a mi hija y sus estudios que no quería interrumpir. Al final de los dos años de pasión y lujuria (me encantaba en la cama pero fuera no le aguantaba, esa es la verdad) me dijo que se iba a Bali pero me pidió que le esperase. Le dije que quien sabía lo que el futuro nos aguardaba. El podía conocer a alguien y yo tambien. Que dejaramos que el destino decidiese. Se fue. Me escribió cartas muy apasionadas pero ese verano conocí a un colega (guía) que había estado de refugiado político en Inglaterra que me atrajo muchísimo a nivel intelectual. Yo tenía decidido que al final de la temporada me iba a Canada con mi hija. El colega me suplicó que quería ir a Canada conmigo. El francés regresó y le dije que me iba a Canada con mi colega. Una vez mas, escenas de celos porque el francés no admitía que me separase de él. Me fuí. (Continuará)
I'm back in Ibiza. In the 70's there was an Ibiza-Bali connection which wasn' t normal. People spent the summers in Ibiza and the winters in Bali. They were the "in" islands. The magical islands. I was back in Ibiza, separated from Fernando and working as a guide. I met a French man, four years younger than me, who I saw everywhere. He lived in the countryside and had a motorcycle. One evening that there was a torrential rainstorm I saw him and suggested that he stayed in my flat in town (affairs started that way in those years without Aids) because it wasn't a night to go to the country in a motorbike. He stayed two years. We had a torrid romance. He was one that spent the summers in Ibiza and the winters in Bali. He wanted me to go with him to Bali. I always said no, because even though I was quite bohemian I had my daughter and her studies which could not be interrumpted. After two years of passionate and lascivious love-making (I loved him in bed but outside I couldn't stand him, that is the truth). He told me that he was going to Bali and would I wait for him. I told him that who knew. He could meet someone or I could meet someone that we should leave it to fate. He left. He wrote me passionate letters but that summer I met a colleague who had been a political refugee in England who I was very attracted to at an intellectual level. I had decided that at the end of the season I was going back to Canada with my daughter. My colleague begged me to take him with me to Canada. The French man came back. I told him I was going to Canada with my colleague. Again jealousy scenes which I couldn't put up with because the French man wouldn't accept that I was leaving him. I left. (it will continue)
I'm back in Ibiza. In the 70's there was an Ibiza-Bali connection which wasn' t normal. People spent the summers in Ibiza and the winters in Bali. They were the "in" islands. The magical islands. I was back in Ibiza, separated from Fernando and working as a guide. I met a French man, four years younger than me, who I saw everywhere. He lived in the countryside and had a motorcycle. One evening that there was a torrential rainstorm I saw him and suggested that he stayed in my flat in town (affairs started that way in those years without Aids) because it wasn't a night to go to the country in a motorbike. He stayed two years. We had a torrid romance. He was one that spent the summers in Ibiza and the winters in Bali. He wanted me to go with him to Bali. I always said no, because even though I was quite bohemian I had my daughter and her studies which could not be interrumpted. After two years of passionate and lascivious love-making (I loved him in bed but outside I couldn't stand him, that is the truth). He told me that he was going to Bali and would I wait for him. I told him that who knew. He could meet someone or I could meet someone that we should leave it to fate. He left. He wrote me passionate letters but that summer I met a colleague who had been a political refugee in England who I was very attracted to at an intellectual level. I had decided that at the end of the season I was going back to Canada with my daughter. My colleague begged me to take him with me to Canada. The French man came back. I told him I was going to Canada with my colleague. Again jealousy scenes which I couldn't put up with because the French man wouldn't accept that I was leaving him. I left. (it will continue)
YOLANDA
Queridos, éste va a ser un post un poco más triste de lo habitual porque quiero rendir homenaje a una gran amiga de la juventud que poco a poco se está apagando en una clinica de Londres dónde he estado recientemente para despedirme de ella.
Yolanda y yo nos conocimos en el colegio en Canada. Ella era una de las internas sudamericanas con quien hice mucha amistad en nuestros años adolescentes. Era y es colombiana. No era de las típicas bellezas de ese país pero sí muy atractiva y sensual. Tenía un cuerpo precioso y unos andares muy femeninos y bellos. Era la que siempre me animaba a ir a las fiestas de los estudiantes sudamericanos a las cuales yo era tan reacia a ir porque estaba muy metida en mi mundo anglosajón. Hasta que al final me decidí y se me abrió otro mundo mucho mas cercano a mi cultura. Ibamos juntas a las fiestas y por supuesto Yolanda era la estrella. En cuánto entraba, tenía a todos los muchachos a sus pies pues no solo era atractiva y bailaba genial pero tambien era muy inteligente y tenía esa astucia latina que los encandilaba. Yo era "la españolita" aunque tambien tenía mi éxito... Las demás chicas sudamericanas le tenían mucha envidia y, la verdad, es que no la podían ni ver. Como a mi me hacia gracia y me encantaba sus éxitos con el sexo opuesto, me convertí en su única y mejor amiga. Hemos pasados muchas vivencias, penas y alegrías juntas. Luego conoció a un canadiense maravilloso, Douglas, que se convirtió en su marido hasta hoy. Vivieron gran parte de su vida en Londres donde tuvieron a sus dos hijos, Patrick y Nicolas. Es la madrina de mi hija que se llama igual, Yolanda. Ahora tiene máximo tres meses de vida pero la he visto tan inteligente como siempre afrontando su muerte con gran entereza y sabiduría. Nada de sentir auto-compasión. Una gran mujer y una gran amiga.
This is going to be a sadder post than usual as it is a homage to a great friend who is slowly dying of cancer in a London clinic and who I just visited recently to say goodbye.
Yolanda was a Colombian intern student in my high school in Canada with whom I forged a great friendship. She was one of my friends who insisted I go to the weekend parties held by other Southamerican students at the time but that I resisted because I was so much into my Anglo way of life. Until one day, I went and a whole new world opened up before my eyes much closer to my own culture. We went together to the parties and, of course, Yolanda was the star. She wasn't the typical Colombian beauty but she was very attractive and sexy. She had a beautiful body and a very feminine and sensuous walk. She was also a great dancer. Anyway, whenever we went to a party, as I was saying, Yolanda was the star. All the young men were at her feet as she was not only attractive and sexy but very intelligent and had the typical latin astuteness that wrapped them around her little finger. I also had my bit of success as I was known as "the little Spanish one"... The other Southamerican girls were very envious of her and, frankly, couldn't stand her. I, on the other hand, found her amusing and was thrilled of her success with the opposite sex. I became her only true friend. We went through a lot together, sad times and good times. She then married a great Canadian, Douglas. Until today. They moved to London and had their two marvellous sons, Patrick and Nicky. She is my daughter's godmother who's named after her, Yolanda. Now she has maximum three months life expentancy but she faces it with great intelligence, wisdom and lack of self-pity. She is a great woman and a great friend.
Yolanda y yo nos conocimos en el colegio en Canada. Ella era una de las internas sudamericanas con quien hice mucha amistad en nuestros años adolescentes. Era y es colombiana. No era de las típicas bellezas de ese país pero sí muy atractiva y sensual. Tenía un cuerpo precioso y unos andares muy femeninos y bellos. Era la que siempre me animaba a ir a las fiestas de los estudiantes sudamericanos a las cuales yo era tan reacia a ir porque estaba muy metida en mi mundo anglosajón. Hasta que al final me decidí y se me abrió otro mundo mucho mas cercano a mi cultura. Ibamos juntas a las fiestas y por supuesto Yolanda era la estrella. En cuánto entraba, tenía a todos los muchachos a sus pies pues no solo era atractiva y bailaba genial pero tambien era muy inteligente y tenía esa astucia latina que los encandilaba. Yo era "la españolita" aunque tambien tenía mi éxito... Las demás chicas sudamericanas le tenían mucha envidia y, la verdad, es que no la podían ni ver. Como a mi me hacia gracia y me encantaba sus éxitos con el sexo opuesto, me convertí en su única y mejor amiga. Hemos pasados muchas vivencias, penas y alegrías juntas. Luego conoció a un canadiense maravilloso, Douglas, que se convirtió en su marido hasta hoy. Vivieron gran parte de su vida en Londres donde tuvieron a sus dos hijos, Patrick y Nicolas. Es la madrina de mi hija que se llama igual, Yolanda. Ahora tiene máximo tres meses de vida pero la he visto tan inteligente como siempre afrontando su muerte con gran entereza y sabiduría. Nada de sentir auto-compasión. Una gran mujer y una gran amiga.
This is going to be a sadder post than usual as it is a homage to a great friend who is slowly dying of cancer in a London clinic and who I just visited recently to say goodbye.
Yolanda was a Colombian intern student in my high school in Canada with whom I forged a great friendship. She was one of my friends who insisted I go to the weekend parties held by other Southamerican students at the time but that I resisted because I was so much into my Anglo way of life. Until one day, I went and a whole new world opened up before my eyes much closer to my own culture. We went together to the parties and, of course, Yolanda was the star. She wasn't the typical Colombian beauty but she was very attractive and sexy. She had a beautiful body and a very feminine and sensuous walk. She was also a great dancer. Anyway, whenever we went to a party, as I was saying, Yolanda was the star. All the young men were at her feet as she was not only attractive and sexy but very intelligent and had the typical latin astuteness that wrapped them around her little finger. I also had my bit of success as I was known as "the little Spanish one"... The other Southamerican girls were very envious of her and, frankly, couldn't stand her. I, on the other hand, found her amusing and was thrilled of her success with the opposite sex. I became her only true friend. We went through a lot together, sad times and good times. She then married a great Canadian, Douglas. Until today. They moved to London and had their two marvellous sons, Patrick and Nicky. She is my daughter's godmother who's named after her, Yolanda. Now she has maximum three months life expentancy but she faces it with great intelligence, wisdom and lack of self-pity. She is a great woman and a great friend.
viernes, 8 de febrero de 2008
PICASSO
Hago un inciso en los capítulos sobre Ibiza. Perdonad. Escribiendo en el blog de Pedro Ojeda sobre los museos, me ha venido a la memoria, la vez que trabajé en el Museo Picasso de Barcelona cuando iban a inaugurar la nueva ala con la biografía de Picasso en dibujos infantiles, primeros cuadros etcétera. Era un trabajo de dos o tres semanas organizando todo porque esperaban la llegada de muchos directores de museos de todo el mundo y hasta pensaban que Picasso se acercaría desde su güarida en Francia. Los primeros que llegaron eran los periodistas. Nosotras, eramos dos (una por cierto se llamaba Miren Eguiguren y era catalana y yo Mercedes Pallarés y era vasca...) Se armaban un lio... Bueno, al final no vino nadie porque se canceló debido a no-sé-qué problemas políticos de la época (1970). Pero estabamos contratadas por esas dos semanas. Me dediqué a leer los libros que había sobre Picasso y me enteré de algunas anécdotas muy jugosas. Por ejemplo en uno de sus primeros cuadros, titulado "Ciencia y Caridad" la escena es de una mujer moribunda en la cama, el médico sentado al lado de ella tomándole el pulso, una monja de las del capirote almidonado puntiagudo sosteniendo a un bebé al otro lado de la cama. Como Picasso tenía mucho sentido del humor, resultó que la moribunda era una gitana que había ido a pedir limosna a la casa con su bebé. Picasso la metió en la cama y uno de sus mejores amigos se vistió de monja sujetando al bebé y su padre, que era profesor de arte y en sus primeros cuadros posaba para él, era el médico. Un dia que había unos visitantes viendo el museo, les acompañé y les conté la anécdota. El director me oyo y me preguntó de dónde sacaba yo esa información. Le dije que de uno de los libros que existían en el museo. A partir de ese dia, cada vez que venía gente a visitar el museo me decía que les acompañase. Ahí empezó mi vida de guía.
I'm making an incision in my tales of Ibiza. Sorry. But writing in Pedro Ojeda's blog on museums, I remembered when I worked for two weeks at the Picasso Museum of Barcelona. We were organizing the opening of a new wing with Picasso's early childhood drawings and paintings and we were expecting most of the world's art museum's directors to come and even Picasso himself from his hide-out in France. The first to arrive were the journalists. We were two (one was Miren Eguiguren (a very Basque name) who was Catalan and I, Mercedes Pallarés (a very Catalan name) who was Basque). Very confusing.... Well, at the end no one came because of a political problem at the time (1970). But we had been booked for those two weeks. I decided to read the books on Picasso that were there at the museum. In one of them I found out some juicy stories, for example, in one of his early paintings called "Science and Charity", the scene is a dying woman lying in a bed, a doctor at her bedside taking her pulse, a nun with the white starched upward wings holding a baby at the other side of the bed. Picasso had a great sense of humour. The dying woman was a gypsy who had just come to their house begging with her baby. Picasso made her lay down in the bed, dressed his best friend as the nun holding the baby and his father, who was an art teacher and often posed for his paintings, was de doctor. One day I was accompanying some visitors and I told them of the anecdote. The museum's director heard me and asked me where did I get that information. I told him from one of the books I had read. Every since that day, whenever people came to see the museum, he asked me to show them. That's when my life as a guide began.
I'm making an incision in my tales of Ibiza. Sorry. But writing in Pedro Ojeda's blog on museums, I remembered when I worked for two weeks at the Picasso Museum of Barcelona. We were organizing the opening of a new wing with Picasso's early childhood drawings and paintings and we were expecting most of the world's art museum's directors to come and even Picasso himself from his hide-out in France. The first to arrive were the journalists. We were two (one was Miren Eguiguren (a very Basque name) who was Catalan and I, Mercedes Pallarés (a very Catalan name) who was Basque). Very confusing.... Well, at the end no one came because of a political problem at the time (1970). But we had been booked for those two weeks. I decided to read the books on Picasso that were there at the museum. In one of them I found out some juicy stories, for example, in one of his early paintings called "Science and Charity", the scene is a dying woman lying in a bed, a doctor at her bedside taking her pulse, a nun with the white starched upward wings holding a baby at the other side of the bed. Picasso had a great sense of humour. The dying woman was a gypsy who had just come to their house begging with her baby. Picasso made her lay down in the bed, dressed his best friend as the nun holding the baby and his father, who was an art teacher and often posed for his paintings, was de doctor. One day I was accompanying some visitors and I told them of the anecdote. The museum's director heard me and asked me where did I get that information. I told him from one of the books I had read. Every since that day, whenever people came to see the museum, he asked me to show them. That's when my life as a guide began.
jueves, 7 de febrero de 2008
IBIZA (5)
Queridos, como no me voy hasta el sabado, tengo tiempo de escribir otro capítulo sobre Ibiza.
Volviendo atrás, antes de separarnos, nos mudamos al campo a una preciosa casa payesa (campesina) llamada Can Placido ("Can" quiere decir casa de, usan el nombre, el apellido o el mote del propietario). Yo me movía por la isla en bicicleta o haciendo auto-stop. Por las mañanas acompañaba a mis hijas al colegio inglés de San Carlos (Morna Valley School). Despues me iba a pasear con nuestro perro, un pastor alemán llamado "Raku" (Dios de la guerra en euskera) por Dalt Vila (la ciudad alta antigua). ¡Cómo disfrutaba de esas mañanas, con el rocio de la noche aún presente, subiendo hasta la catedral! Era un placer indescriptible. El silencio, la paz, el sosiego. Era y, aún es, un espacio mágico de la isla. Lástima que hoy en dia, la gente solo suba cuando se hace la fiesta medieval en el mes de mayo... Cuando bajaba siempre me sentaba en el "Montesol" a tomar un café con leche. Y siempre estaba Ernesto, un pintor alemán, con quien me sentaba a conversar. Era un hombre mayor, muy interesante, que había vivido mucho y un gran conversador. Era un personaje de la isla que cuando falleció dejó toda su herencia para la educación de los niños ibicencos. Porque cuando el llegó a la isla en los años 50 existía un gran analfabetismo entre los isleños y el quiso poner su granito de arena para las generaciones futuras. Era un hombre admirable. (continuará)
Dear bloggers, since I'm not leaving until Saturday I have time to write another post.
Before our separation, and going backwards, we moved to a beautiful country house "Can Placido" ("Can" means house of: they use the name, last name or nickname of the owner). I moved around the island on a bike or hitch-hiking. In the early morning I accompanied my daughters to the Morna Valley School in San Carlos. Afterwards, with my German Shepherd "Raku" (God of war in Basque) I walked up "Dalt Vila" (the high town). How I enjoyed those morning walks up to the old town, to the cathedral, with the early-morning dew, the silence, the peace, the calmness! They were undescribable! Even now-a-days it's a beautiful experience to walk up to the old town, but unfortunately, people seem to go only during the Medieval Fair in May... When I came down I always sat at the "Montesol" and had a white coffee. Ernesto, a German artist was always sitting there. I sat with him and we had very interesting conversations as he had had a very long and interesting life and was a great conversationalist. He was a "character" of the island. When he died he left all his money for the education of the Ibizan children. He had come to Ibiza in the fifties and had experienced the illiteracy that existed at the time among the islanders, so he wanted to give something of himself back to the islanders that had given him so much. He was a great man. (It will continue)
Volviendo atrás, antes de separarnos, nos mudamos al campo a una preciosa casa payesa (campesina) llamada Can Placido ("Can" quiere decir casa de, usan el nombre, el apellido o el mote del propietario). Yo me movía por la isla en bicicleta o haciendo auto-stop. Por las mañanas acompañaba a mis hijas al colegio inglés de San Carlos (Morna Valley School). Despues me iba a pasear con nuestro perro, un pastor alemán llamado "Raku" (Dios de la guerra en euskera) por Dalt Vila (la ciudad alta antigua). ¡Cómo disfrutaba de esas mañanas, con el rocio de la noche aún presente, subiendo hasta la catedral! Era un placer indescriptible. El silencio, la paz, el sosiego. Era y, aún es, un espacio mágico de la isla. Lástima que hoy en dia, la gente solo suba cuando se hace la fiesta medieval en el mes de mayo... Cuando bajaba siempre me sentaba en el "Montesol" a tomar un café con leche. Y siempre estaba Ernesto, un pintor alemán, con quien me sentaba a conversar. Era un hombre mayor, muy interesante, que había vivido mucho y un gran conversador. Era un personaje de la isla que cuando falleció dejó toda su herencia para la educación de los niños ibicencos. Porque cuando el llegó a la isla en los años 50 existía un gran analfabetismo entre los isleños y el quiso poner su granito de arena para las generaciones futuras. Era un hombre admirable. (continuará)
Dear bloggers, since I'm not leaving until Saturday I have time to write another post.
Before our separation, and going backwards, we moved to a beautiful country house "Can Placido" ("Can" means house of: they use the name, last name or nickname of the owner). I moved around the island on a bike or hitch-hiking. In the early morning I accompanied my daughters to the Morna Valley School in San Carlos. Afterwards, with my German Shepherd "Raku" (God of war in Basque) I walked up "Dalt Vila" (the high town). How I enjoyed those morning walks up to the old town, to the cathedral, with the early-morning dew, the silence, the peace, the calmness! They were undescribable! Even now-a-days it's a beautiful experience to walk up to the old town, but unfortunately, people seem to go only during the Medieval Fair in May... When I came down I always sat at the "Montesol" and had a white coffee. Ernesto, a German artist was always sitting there. I sat with him and we had very interesting conversations as he had had a very long and interesting life and was a great conversationalist. He was a "character" of the island. When he died he left all his money for the education of the Ibizan children. He had come to Ibiza in the fifties and had experienced the illiteracy that existed at the time among the islanders, so he wanted to give something of himself back to the islanders that had given him so much. He was a great man. (It will continue)
miércoles, 6 de febrero de 2008
IBIZA (4)
Queridos, escribo este post pero estaré ausente unos dias porque me voy a Londres a ver a mi hija.
Ibiza es y ha sido una isla muy fuerte. En aquellos años tenía fama de hacerte o deshacerte. De hecho en muchas ocasiones vi el deterioro de la gente que llegaba super guapa y a los pocos meses estaban hechos unos guiñapos humanos sumidos en la droga. Horrible. Era una isla muy joven, llena de gente de mi generación que como sabeis es y fué la mayoritaria debido al "baby boom" de la postguerra II. Ahora somos viejos. Existian unos personajes muy estrafalarios, originales y únicos. Muchos venían a "La Familia", como los escritores Antonio Escohotado, Leopoldo Lovelace, Elmyr de Hory (considerado el más grande falsificador de arte del Siglo XX) y su joven amigo americano, Mark; tambien alguna vez vino el escritor americano Clifford Irving (sobre Elmyr y Clifford, Orson Welles rodó una pelicula titulada "Fake" (Falso) y últimamente Richard Gere hace el papel de Irving en la pelicula "Hoax" (Engaño). No la he visto porque no creo que haya llegado a Ibiza... Tambien la isla tenía fama de que matrimonio que llegaba, matrimonio que se separaba. Desgraciadamente, eso nos pasó a nosotros. Como había tanta gente guapa, Fernando se volvió celoso... que si me miraban, que si me dejaban de mirar. Llegó un momento en el que me sentí como un pajaro enjaulado. Le dije a Fernando que era una pena que estuvieramos así porque ibamos a estropear algo muy bello que teníamos pero que yo no aguantaba. Además tambien fui egoista al pensar que, quizás, "the grass was greener on the other side" (la hierba estaba más verde al otro lado). Craso error. Me separé. Nos abrazamos, cogí a nuestra hija, y me fui a Mallorca. El pobre lo pasó fatal y yo tambien pero la decisión estaba tomada. Decidió dejar "La Familia". El retomó su trabajo de correo de turismo, viajando por todo el mundo. Mis hijastros se quedaron y luego volví y empecé a trabajar de guía. (Continuará)
Dear bloggers, I'm writing this post but I'll be away for a few days because I'm off to London to see my daughter.
Ibiza has always been, and is, a very strong island. In those years there was a saying that Ibiza either made you or broke you. In those years I saw so many beautiful people arrive and in a few months were so degraded, consumed by drugs. It was horrible. It was a very young island because our "baby boom" generation was the majority as it is now, although now we're old. There were a lot of extravagant, original and unique characters. Many came to "La Familia", Spanish writers like Antonio Escohotado, Leopoldo Lovelace, also Elmyr de Hory (considered to be the greatest art forger of the 20th Century) with his young American friend, Mark. The American writer Clifford Irving also came from time to time (Orson Welles made a film called "Fake" based greatly on these two characters--Elmyr and Clifford. Lately, Richard Gere is playing the part of Clifford in a film called "Hoax" which I haven't seen yet. Also the island was famous because married couple that came, married couple that separated. Unfortunately, this happened to us. As there were so many beautiful people around, Fernando became jealous... that someone looked at me, that I looked, etc. I felt like a caged bird. I told him that it was sad that we should break a loving relationship but that I couldn't stand it. Also, I was quite selfish thinking that maybe the grass was greener on the other side. Great mistake. I separated. We embraced goodbye, took our daughter, and went to Mallorca. He suffered terribly and so did I but the decision had been taken. He let "La Familia" go, retook his job as an international guide travelling all over the world. My stepchildren stayed. I came back and started working as a guide (it will continue)
Ibiza es y ha sido una isla muy fuerte. En aquellos años tenía fama de hacerte o deshacerte. De hecho en muchas ocasiones vi el deterioro de la gente que llegaba super guapa y a los pocos meses estaban hechos unos guiñapos humanos sumidos en la droga. Horrible. Era una isla muy joven, llena de gente de mi generación que como sabeis es y fué la mayoritaria debido al "baby boom" de la postguerra II. Ahora somos viejos. Existian unos personajes muy estrafalarios, originales y únicos. Muchos venían a "La Familia", como los escritores Antonio Escohotado, Leopoldo Lovelace, Elmyr de Hory (considerado el más grande falsificador de arte del Siglo XX) y su joven amigo americano, Mark; tambien alguna vez vino el escritor americano Clifford Irving (sobre Elmyr y Clifford, Orson Welles rodó una pelicula titulada "Fake" (Falso) y últimamente Richard Gere hace el papel de Irving en la pelicula "Hoax" (Engaño). No la he visto porque no creo que haya llegado a Ibiza... Tambien la isla tenía fama de que matrimonio que llegaba, matrimonio que se separaba. Desgraciadamente, eso nos pasó a nosotros. Como había tanta gente guapa, Fernando se volvió celoso... que si me miraban, que si me dejaban de mirar. Llegó un momento en el que me sentí como un pajaro enjaulado. Le dije a Fernando que era una pena que estuvieramos así porque ibamos a estropear algo muy bello que teníamos pero que yo no aguantaba. Además tambien fui egoista al pensar que, quizás, "the grass was greener on the other side" (la hierba estaba más verde al otro lado). Craso error. Me separé. Nos abrazamos, cogí a nuestra hija, y me fui a Mallorca. El pobre lo pasó fatal y yo tambien pero la decisión estaba tomada. Decidió dejar "La Familia". El retomó su trabajo de correo de turismo, viajando por todo el mundo. Mis hijastros se quedaron y luego volví y empecé a trabajar de guía. (Continuará)
Dear bloggers, I'm writing this post but I'll be away for a few days because I'm off to London to see my daughter.
Ibiza has always been, and is, a very strong island. In those years there was a saying that Ibiza either made you or broke you. In those years I saw so many beautiful people arrive and in a few months were so degraded, consumed by drugs. It was horrible. It was a very young island because our "baby boom" generation was the majority as it is now, although now we're old. There were a lot of extravagant, original and unique characters. Many came to "La Familia", Spanish writers like Antonio Escohotado, Leopoldo Lovelace, also Elmyr de Hory (considered to be the greatest art forger of the 20th Century) with his young American friend, Mark. The American writer Clifford Irving also came from time to time (Orson Welles made a film called "Fake" based greatly on these two characters--Elmyr and Clifford. Lately, Richard Gere is playing the part of Clifford in a film called "Hoax" which I haven't seen yet. Also the island was famous because married couple that came, married couple that separated. Unfortunately, this happened to us. As there were so many beautiful people around, Fernando became jealous... that someone looked at me, that I looked, etc. I felt like a caged bird. I told him that it was sad that we should break a loving relationship but that I couldn't stand it. Also, I was quite selfish thinking that maybe the grass was greener on the other side. Great mistake. I separated. We embraced goodbye, took our daughter, and went to Mallorca. He suffered terribly and so did I but the decision had been taken. He let "La Familia" go, retook his job as an international guide travelling all over the world. My stepchildren stayed. I came back and started working as a guide (it will continue)
martes, 5 de febrero de 2008
IBIZA (3)
Bueno, pues perdimos el "22" pero nos salió la oportunidad de alquilar (esta vez con papeles firmados) el antiguo bar "Mañana" y el restaurante "Crisis" que, a decir verdad fue un negocio redondo de todo el año porque el bar funcionaba en invierno y el restaurante en verano. Yo tambien le di el nombre "La Familia" porque la gente nos llamaba así ya que siempre ibamos juntos y nos conocían como "la familia". En invierno yo era la camarera y me encantaba atender a nuestros clientes, algunos eran millonarios, otros de clase media pero los que me llenaban a nivel espiritual eran los colgados que se quedaban toda la noche sentados, bebiendo agua, y que yo sentía que les dabamos un calor humano que necesitaban. Por ejemplo, recuerdo el hippy italiano que venía y siempre pedía un vaso de vino. Un dia, uno de nuestros clientes, se encaró con el y quiso entablar una pelea (en aquellos años, en invierno, como no había muchas mujeres, los hombres estaban muy salidos y peleones...) Le dije al italiano: "Per favore, questa e mia casa, no voglio peleas" y el italiano se levantó y se fue, así evitando una trifulca. Unos dias despues, el italiano apareció, yo le saqué un vaso de vino y le dije: "Grazie, Vd. fué un caballero y le invito al vino" y el me contestó: "Lo hice per lei signora" ("lo hice por Vd. señora") lo cual me llenó de orgullo y satisfacción. Otro dia que me retrasé en llegar al bar, un grupo de argentinos clientes asiduos (porque atraíamos a todo tipo de gente, gays, alemanes, franceses, italianos, ingleses, americanos, argentinos, lesbianas, y lo que se terciara) me dijeron: "Ya decíamos que faltaba la luz en este boliche!" lo cual tambien me halagó mucho. Luego en verano con el restaurante yo era la cajera, me sentaba detrás de una mesa con cintas de goma sujetando las comandas. Mis hijastros eran los camareros y Fernando el cocinero. Tuvimos muchísimo éxito. Venía todo el mundo. Todos los famosos que venían o vivían en Ibiza en la época. Cuando lo dejamos lo traspasamos a unos vascos que montaron "El Aquelarre" (aún sigue).
When we lost the "22" we leased (this time with signed papers) the old Bar "Mañana" and the "Crisis" Restaurant which was a year-round business because the bar worked in the winter and
the restaurant in the summer. We called it "La Familia" because in those years everyone knew us as the "family". In the bar, in the winter, I was the waitress. I loved my job serving everyone, millionaires, middle-class clients; but those that filled me the most at a spiritual level were the hung-up that would sit there all night drinking water but who I felt needed the affectionate ambiance that we provided. For example, I remember an Italian hippy who came every evening and always asked for a glass of wine. One evening one of our clients was very provocative with the Italian and wanted to provoke a fight (in those years due to the lack of women in the winter, men were very aggressive) I asked the Italian: "Please, this is my house I don't want a fight" and the Italian, very graciously, left, that way avoiding the fight. A few days later he appeared and I brought out a glass of wine (on the house) and said to him: "Thank you, you were a gentleman the other day" and he replied: "I did it because of you madam" which filled me with great pride and satisfaction. Another day that I was late coming to the bar a group of Argentinians (we attracted everyone, by the way, gays, lesbians, Argentinians, French, Germans, Italians, English, Americans etc.) when I appeared, said to me: "Ah, no wonder we thought the light was missing from this place" which was also very sweet of them to say that. In the summer, in the restaurant, I was the cashier. Sitting behind a table with a rubber band holding on to the kitchen orders, my step-children were the waiters and Fernando was the cook. We had a great success. Everyone that was famous that lived or spent the summer came. Afterwards, we leased it to a Basque that called it "El Aquelarre". It still exists.
When we lost the "22" we leased (this time with signed papers) the old Bar "Mañana" and the "Crisis" Restaurant which was a year-round business because the bar worked in the winter and
the restaurant in the summer. We called it "La Familia" because in those years everyone knew us as the "family". In the bar, in the winter, I was the waitress. I loved my job serving everyone, millionaires, middle-class clients; but those that filled me the most at a spiritual level were the hung-up that would sit there all night drinking water but who I felt needed the affectionate ambiance that we provided. For example, I remember an Italian hippy who came every evening and always asked for a glass of wine. One evening one of our clients was very provocative with the Italian and wanted to provoke a fight (in those years due to the lack of women in the winter, men were very aggressive) I asked the Italian: "Please, this is my house I don't want a fight" and the Italian, very graciously, left, that way avoiding the fight. A few days later he appeared and I brought out a glass of wine (on the house) and said to him: "Thank you, you were a gentleman the other day" and he replied: "I did it because of you madam" which filled me with great pride and satisfaction. Another day that I was late coming to the bar a group of Argentinians (we attracted everyone, by the way, gays, lesbians, Argentinians, French, Germans, Italians, English, Americans etc.) when I appeared, said to me: "Ah, no wonder we thought the light was missing from this place" which was also very sweet of them to say that. In the summer, in the restaurant, I was the cashier. Sitting behind a table with a rubber band holding on to the kitchen orders, my step-children were the waiters and Fernando was the cook. We had a great success. Everyone that was famous that lived or spent the summer came. Afterwards, we leased it to a Basque that called it "El Aquelarre". It still exists.
sábado, 2 de febrero de 2008
IBIZA (2)
Qué curioso, la primera vez que Ibiza se cruzó en mi camino fue en los años 50 en Canada. Salió un reportaje en la revista "LIFE" con unas fotos preciosas de la isla. En aquella época yo no me acordaba mucho de la geografía que había estudiado en España y pensé que Ibiza estaba en el Pais Vasco!! El nombre, la verdad, me sonaba vasco. Un amigo de mis padres me sacó de mi craso error y me dijo que era una de las islas Baleares (yo solo me acordaba de Mallorca y Menorca...). Las vueltas que da la vida. Como iba diciendo, nos instalamos y abrimos el "22" (yo le di el nombre que era el número de la calle y cuando regresé a la isla hace trece años, me sorprendió ver que el nombre seguía y sigue igual). El local pertenecía a una señora que lo usaba como almacén de sus antiguedades. Nos lo alquiló porque pensó que sería bonito (tenía un horno fenicio en el interior) como bar. Ella quiso poner su apellido al bar pero insistí que se dejara el número de la calle. En aquellos años todo se hacia "de palabra" no se firmaba nada. Le dije a Fernando que firmara algo, pero él se fió y no firmó. Lo pusimos precioso, decorado con algunas de las antiguedades y abrimos. Estabamos, Fernando, Pancho, Fatima y yo. Cada vez que pasaba alguien por la calle mirábamos a ver si entraban y nada, no entraban. Mi cuñado nos dijo que no funcionaría porque era demasiado elegante para Ibiza (entonces el bar que funcionaba a tope era "La Tierra", llena de cojines por los suelos, muy hippy). Los primeros dias sí que no venía nadie y pensamos que lo que nos había dicho Luis (mi cuñado) era verdad. Pero empezó a venir gente..., gente y más gente. Al final de mes (febrero, pleno invierno) estaba a tope. El trato verbal que habíamos hecho es que iriamos a medias con la dueña. Ese mes le dimos 50,000 Ptas. En Marzo, tocó Semana Santa y entonces ya fue el no-va-mas. Hicimos una exposición en el piso de arriba que lo habilitamos como galería de arte, de las pinturas de Valentino pintor naïf colombiano que vendió absolutamente todo. Fué un éxito abrumador; a la dueña creo que le dimos unas 200.000 Ptas. Pues bien, ella pensó que el bar funcionaba por el local y no por nosotros que lo llevábamos y de un dia para el otro nos cerró la puerta y se puso ella al frente. Nos dejó a toda la familia en la calle. Menos mal que en aquellos años nos conociamos todos y la noticia fue corriendo de boca en boca y todo el mundo boicoteó el lugar quedándose ella sola y descangallada. No fué ni Dios. Hasta que dos años despues lo traspasó a unos chicos de San Sebastian y funcionó de nuevo. Pero, los problemas entre Fernando y yo empezaron ahí. Nos buscamos la vida pero tuvimos suerte de encontrar otro local dónde montamos un restaurante llamado "La Familia". Continuará.
The first time that Ibiza came into my life was in the fifties in Canada. An article appeared in "LIFE" magazine. Beautiful pictures. However, my Spanish Geography was a bit rusty and I thought Ibiza was in the Basque Country! Well, it sounded Basque. A friend of my parents brought me out of my ignorance and told me that it was one of the Balearic Islands. (I only remembered Mallorca and Menorca...) But what a small world it is. Here we were in Ibiza. As I was saying, we opened the "22" (I gave it the name which was the number of the street. Thirteen years ago when I came back to the island I was surprised to see that the name was and still is the same). The place belonged to a woman who kept it as a warehouse for her antiques but since it was so nice (it had a phoenician oven inside) she thought it would be quite adequate as a bar. She wanted to name it with her last name but I insisted that the number of the street be left as it was. She rented the place to us but nothing was signed. In those days many deals were settled verbally. I told Fernando to sign something but he trusted her word and didn't sign anything. We opened the bar, beautifully decorated with some of the antiques, and Fernando, Pancho, Fatima and I were waiting for the first customers to arrive. No one came in during the first few days. As a matter of fact, everytime someone passed our door we all looked to see if they came in! My brother-in-law told us that it wouldn't work because it was too elegant for Ibiza. Actually, the only place that worked very well at the time was "La Tierra" full of cushions on the floor, very hippy. We thought, OK maybe it won't work. But then, people started coming in and coming in and at the end of the month (February), the place was packed! The deal with the owner is that we went halves. At the end of that first month we gave her 50,000 Ptas. Then March came and an early Easter. The place was even more packed! We had an art exhibit of Valentino's paintings in the upstairs flat that we had arranged as an Art Gallery. Valentino was a naïf Colombian artist. He sold absolutely everything! We gave the owner, I think, about 200,000 Ptas. Well, she thought the bar functioned because it was so beautiful and not because of us who were running it. From one day to the other she locked the door and she took over. She left our whole family out on the street! But, thank goodness, that in those days we all knew eachother and the word spread like bonfire and everyone boycotted the place! Absolutely no one went. The place was empty for at least the two years that she was in charge until she leased it to a couple of young men from San Sebastian and then it started working again. But, unfortunately, that's when my problems with Fernando began. We, however, found our way of life and then we were lucky to find another place that we opened as a restaurant, "La Familia". (It will continue).
The first time that Ibiza came into my life was in the fifties in Canada. An article appeared in "LIFE" magazine. Beautiful pictures. However, my Spanish Geography was a bit rusty and I thought Ibiza was in the Basque Country! Well, it sounded Basque. A friend of my parents brought me out of my ignorance and told me that it was one of the Balearic Islands. (I only remembered Mallorca and Menorca...) But what a small world it is. Here we were in Ibiza. As I was saying, we opened the "22" (I gave it the name which was the number of the street. Thirteen years ago when I came back to the island I was surprised to see that the name was and still is the same). The place belonged to a woman who kept it as a warehouse for her antiques but since it was so nice (it had a phoenician oven inside) she thought it would be quite adequate as a bar. She wanted to name it with her last name but I insisted that the number of the street be left as it was. She rented the place to us but nothing was signed. In those days many deals were settled verbally. I told Fernando to sign something but he trusted her word and didn't sign anything. We opened the bar, beautifully decorated with some of the antiques, and Fernando, Pancho, Fatima and I were waiting for the first customers to arrive. No one came in during the first few days. As a matter of fact, everytime someone passed our door we all looked to see if they came in! My brother-in-law told us that it wouldn't work because it was too elegant for Ibiza. Actually, the only place that worked very well at the time was "La Tierra" full of cushions on the floor, very hippy. We thought, OK maybe it won't work. But then, people started coming in and coming in and at the end of the month (February), the place was packed! The deal with the owner is that we went halves. At the end of that first month we gave her 50,000 Ptas. Then March came and an early Easter. The place was even more packed! We had an art exhibit of Valentino's paintings in the upstairs flat that we had arranged as an Art Gallery. Valentino was a naïf Colombian artist. He sold absolutely everything! We gave the owner, I think, about 200,000 Ptas. Well, she thought the bar functioned because it was so beautiful and not because of us who were running it. From one day to the other she locked the door and she took over. She left our whole family out on the street! But, thank goodness, that in those days we all knew eachother and the word spread like bonfire and everyone boycotted the place! Absolutely no one went. The place was empty for at least the two years that she was in charge until she leased it to a couple of young men from San Sebastian and then it started working again. But, unfortunately, that's when my problems with Fernando began. We, however, found our way of life and then we were lucky to find another place that we opened as a restaurant, "La Familia". (It will continue).
viernes, 1 de febrero de 2008
IBIZA (1)
En 1972 decidimos venir a Ibiza. Vinimos en barco desde Barcelona. La llegada fue maravillosa con la vista de Dalt Vila y el precioso puerto. Traíamos nuestro querido "600" repleto de cachivaches. Nos instalamos en los Aptos. Sud de Figueretas con unas vistas al mar y a Formentera. Recuerdo ir a Salinas, la playa vacía y a Sylvia P. conduciendo un todoterreno por la playa que la tuvimos que esquivar para que no nos atropellara! Me dije: "Qué lugar mas extraño con gente conduciendo por la playa..." Fué alucinante. Pero Ibiza era especial. De repente sentí que aquí estaban mis raices, fue una sensación muy extraña ya que yo no tenía raices al ser vasca emigrante (con apellido catalán) y haber vivido en muchos sitios toda mi vida. Cuando llegué, dije aquí me siento a gusto. Este es mi hogar. Adoré Ibiza. Era tan especial con el contraste de las payesas vestidas a la antigua usanza, con sus faldas largas, su pañuelo en la cabeza, su trenza y lazo y los hippies tan originales en sus vestimentas. La Avenida de España era un camino de tierra. El lugar de encuentro era el "Montesol". Decidimos quedarnos (bueno el hermano de Fernando había vivido en la isla desde 1958 y su hermana veraneaba desde 1960). Pero, qué ibamos a hacer en Ibiza. Decidimos montar un negocio y es cuando abrimos nuestro bar-galería de arte el "22" en Calle de la Virgen.
In 1972 we decided to move to Ibiza. We came by boat from Barcelona. The arrival was beautiful with the view of Dalt Vila and its lovely harbour. We brought our dear "Fiat 600" full of luggage and utensils. We settled at the Apts. Sud in Figueretas with a beautiful view of the sea and Formentera. I remember going to Salinas beach, empty, but being nearly run over by Sylvia P. who was driving a jeep through the beach! I thought, how strange, people driving on the beach... It was mind-boggling but Ibiza was special. All of a sudden I felt I had found my roots. Because being a Basque immigrant (with a Catalan last name) and having lived in many places, I was rootless. I felt this island was my home. I loved Ibiza. It was so special with the Ibizan country women dressed the same way they had dressed for centuries, with their long skirts, kerchief on their heads, the braid and the ribbon and the hippies with their colourful and extravagant outfits. The "Avenida de España" was a dirt trail. The "Montesol" was everyone's meeting place. We decided to stay (actually Fernando's brother had lived on the island since 1958 and his sister spent the summers since 1960). But, what were we going to do in Ibiza? It's when we decided to open a bar-art gallery, the "22" in Calle de la Virgen.
In 1972 we decided to move to Ibiza. We came by boat from Barcelona. The arrival was beautiful with the view of Dalt Vila and its lovely harbour. We brought our dear "Fiat 600" full of luggage and utensils. We settled at the Apts. Sud in Figueretas with a beautiful view of the sea and Formentera. I remember going to Salinas beach, empty, but being nearly run over by Sylvia P. who was driving a jeep through the beach! I thought, how strange, people driving on the beach... It was mind-boggling but Ibiza was special. All of a sudden I felt I had found my roots. Because being a Basque immigrant (with a Catalan last name) and having lived in many places, I was rootless. I felt this island was my home. I loved Ibiza. It was so special with the Ibizan country women dressed the same way they had dressed for centuries, with their long skirts, kerchief on their heads, the braid and the ribbon and the hippies with their colourful and extravagant outfits. The "Avenida de España" was a dirt trail. The "Montesol" was everyone's meeting place. We decided to stay (actually Fernando's brother had lived on the island since 1958 and his sister spent the summers since 1960). But, what were we going to do in Ibiza? It's when we decided to open a bar-art gallery, the "22" in Calle de la Virgen.
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