Mi querido y admirado amigo Luis Llobet Tur de Montis me acaba de regalar dos de sus libros: "Escandel, la vocación de un artista" y "Mariano Tur de Montis, un pintor de Ibiza". Recuerdo a su tio, Mariano Tur de Montis, en los años 70 bajando a pie majestuosamente desde Dalt Vila (la ciudad alta antigua de Ibiza). Parecía un cuadro de "El Greco"; alto, espigado, cara larga ovalada. Tenía un porte y una prestancia que llamaba la atención. Me fascinaba. Nunca llegué a hablar con él pero le veía casi a diario. Fue un excelente retratista. Estoy deseando hincarle el diente (mas bien los ojos) a la biografía escrita por su sobrino, Luis.
My dear and admired friend, Luis Llobet Tur de Montis, has just given me two of his books: "Escandel, an Artist's Vocation" and "Mariano Tur de Montis, an Ibizan Painter". I remember his uncle, Mariano Tur de Montis, walking down, majestically, from Dalt Vila (the old high town of Ibiza) in the seventies. He looked like one of "El Greco's" paintings. Tall, slender, long oval face. He carried himself with such grace and elegance that attracted everyone's attention. He fascinated me. I never spoke to him but I used to see him almost daily. He was an excellent portrait artist. I'm dying to sink my tooth (or, rather, eyes) into the biography written by his nephew, Luis.
lunes, 30 de junio de 2008
viernes, 27 de junio de 2008
MARGARET ATWOOD
Simplemente quería rendir mi humilde agradecimiento y homenaje a esta gran escritora canadiense que, muy merecidamente, ha ganado el premio Principe de Asturias de las Letras. Tambien porque ya era hora, que los escritores canadienses bastante desconocidos en el resto del mundo no anglosajón, fueran reconocidos. Recuerdo leer con fruición a Northrop Frye, Pierre Berton y muchos mas de cuyos nombres--perdonad--en estos momentos no me acuerdo. Los que hayais seguido mis peripecias desde que llegué a Canada, igual os interesaría leer "Cat's Eye" (Ojo de Gato) escrito por Margaret Atwood que trata tambien de una joven que llega a Toronto desde Vancouver en esos años 50.
I simply wanted to thank and pay my humble tribute to this great Canadian writer who, very meritoriously, has won The Principe de Asturias Literature Award. Also, because it was about time that Canadian writers, quite unknown in the rest of the non-Anglosaxon world, came out into the limelight. I remember greatly enjoying reading the stories of Northrop Frye, Pierre Berton and many others whose names--sorry--have skipped my mind. Those of you who have followed my adventures since I arrived in Canada, might be interested in reading Margaret Atwood's "Cat's Eye" which also has to do with a young woman arriving in Toronto from Vancouver in the fifties.
I simply wanted to thank and pay my humble tribute to this great Canadian writer who, very meritoriously, has won The Principe de Asturias Literature Award. Also, because it was about time that Canadian writers, quite unknown in the rest of the non-Anglosaxon world, came out into the limelight. I remember greatly enjoying reading the stories of Northrop Frye, Pierre Berton and many others whose names--sorry--have skipped my mind. Those of you who have followed my adventures since I arrived in Canada, might be interested in reading Margaret Atwood's "Cat's Eye" which also has to do with a young woman arriving in Toronto from Vancouver in the fifties.
jueves, 26 de junio de 2008
LENTEJAS EN MIAMI - LENTILS IN MIAMI
Cuando viví en un apartamento de Venetian Way en Miami Beach, una de mis vecinas era una joven española encantadora, Tatiana, una graduada reciente de la Boston University que había decidido mudarse a Miami a pasar una temporada. Trabajaba como redactora/publicista en una revista editada en esa ciudad. Hicimos muchísima amistad. Ella había perdido a su madre recientemente que tendría mi edad, y yo tenía a mi hija (que tenía su edad) en Londres. Total, que fuimos como madre e hija. Ella tenía una pandilla de amigos muy simpáticos, jovenes arquitectos españoles recien graduados de universidades americanas, la novia de su hermano una preciosa colombiana y algun que otro YUCA (Young Urban Cuban-American). Hice mucha amistad con todos ellos hasta que se convirtieron tambien en MI pandilla... Me invitaban a todo, a la playa, a las discotecas (siempre, por supuesto, salía antes que ellos aunque insistían de que me quedara). Fueron adorables y amorosos. Decidí (echaban de menos las lentejas caseras) hacerles lentejas una vez a la semana. Dicho y hecho. Ahí estábamos comiendo lentejas ¡con un calor tropical-pegajoso insoportable! Gotas de sudor resbalándonos por las sienes pero ¡todos encantados!
When I lived in an apartment in Venetian Way, Miami Beach, one of my neighbours was a very charming young Spanish woman, Tatiana, who had just graduated from Boston University and had decided to spend some time in Miami. She worked as a writer/advertiser in a magazine that was published in that city. We became great friends. She had recently lost her mother, who was my age, and my daughter, who was her age and lived in London, transformed our friendship into a mother/daughter relationship. She had a great group of friends, young Spanish architects who had finished their careers in American universities, her brother's beautiful Colombian girlfriend and some YUCA'S (Young Urban Cuban-Americans). I became a great friend of all of them to the point that they always invited me to go to the beach with them and to the Disco's (of course I would always leave before they did although they insisted that I stay...). They were adorable and very lovable. One day I decided, because they missed their home-cooked lentils, to make a lentil-dinner once a week. Said and done. There we were eating lentils in that horrible-sticky tropical heat, with perspiration "pearls" dropping down our brows but everybody enjoyed it!
When I lived in an apartment in Venetian Way, Miami Beach, one of my neighbours was a very charming young Spanish woman, Tatiana, who had just graduated from Boston University and had decided to spend some time in Miami. She worked as a writer/advertiser in a magazine that was published in that city. We became great friends. She had recently lost her mother, who was my age, and my daughter, who was her age and lived in London, transformed our friendship into a mother/daughter relationship. She had a great group of friends, young Spanish architects who had finished their careers in American universities, her brother's beautiful Colombian girlfriend and some YUCA'S (Young Urban Cuban-Americans). I became a great friend of all of them to the point that they always invited me to go to the beach with them and to the Disco's (of course I would always leave before they did although they insisted that I stay...). They were adorable and very lovable. One day I decided, because they missed their home-cooked lentils, to make a lentil-dinner once a week. Said and done. There we were eating lentils in that horrible-sticky tropical heat, with perspiration "pearls" dropping down our brows but everybody enjoyed it!
lunes, 23 de junio de 2008
FUTBOL - SOCCER
La locura que se desató ayer porque ¡al fin! España pasó de los cuartos me hizo recordar el Mundial del '82 que se celebró en España. Entonces yo estaba en la ONET (Oficina Nacional Española de Turismo) en Toronto y me conocía al dedillo todas las ciudades dónde iban a jugar los diferentes partidos además de los diferentes países. Estaba hecha una experta. Cuando Italia ganó los cuartos, en Toronto hubo una revolución, coches y más coches con italianos ondeando su bandera y tocando los claxons por todas las calles. Los canadienses no entendían nada. Toronto, una ciudad tan conservadora y silenciosa fué invadida por miles de forofos. Luego ganaron las semi-finales, ya fué el-no-va-más, no había visto tantas banderas italianas en mi vida... y al ganar el campeonato, ni os cuento. ¡Apoteósico! Vivíamos en el barrio italiano y nos fuimos a pasear entre la alegría y entusiasmo de la gente (parecía cómo las típicas fiestas que tenemos en España que para Toronto era todo un acontecimiento--en esos años Toronto tenía la población italiana mas populosa despues de Milán). Al oir que hablábamos español, la gente nos abrazaba, nos besaba, nos ofrecían vino y comida, nos daban las gracias... fué muy divertido.
Yesterday, Spain won the quarter-finals of the European Soccer Championship and it was MADNESS. It reminded me of the World Cup of 1982 that took place in Spain. That year I was working at the Spanish National Tourist Office in Toronto and I knew, by heart, the different cities where the games were going to be played and also the countries. I was an expert... When Italy won the quarter-finals, there was a revolution! Thousands of cars, honking, with Italians waving their flags invaded the streets. Canadians didn't understand a thing. Toronto being such a conservative and quiet city had never experienced anything like it. Then, they won the semi-finals, well, that was QUITE something. I had never seen so many Italian flags in my life! When they, finally, won the championship as you can imagine, it was WILD! We lived in the Italian quarter of the city, and we went walking to see the action (it reminded me of the local fiestas we have in Spain which for Toronto was very rare... Toronto, at the time had the second-largest Italian population after Milan). When they heard us speak Spanish, they embraced us, kissed us, offered us wine and food, thanked us... Anyway, it was a lot of fun.
Yesterday, Spain won the quarter-finals of the European Soccer Championship and it was MADNESS. It reminded me of the World Cup of 1982 that took place in Spain. That year I was working at the Spanish National Tourist Office in Toronto and I knew, by heart, the different cities where the games were going to be played and also the countries. I was an expert... When Italy won the quarter-finals, there was a revolution! Thousands of cars, honking, with Italians waving their flags invaded the streets. Canadians didn't understand a thing. Toronto being such a conservative and quiet city had never experienced anything like it. Then, they won the semi-finals, well, that was QUITE something. I had never seen so many Italian flags in my life! When they, finally, won the championship as you can imagine, it was WILD! We lived in the Italian quarter of the city, and we went walking to see the action (it reminded me of the local fiestas we have in Spain which for Toronto was very rare... Toronto, at the time had the second-largest Italian population after Milan). When they heard us speak Spanish, they embraced us, kissed us, offered us wine and food, thanked us... Anyway, it was a lot of fun.
viernes, 20 de junio de 2008
MIS PADRES - MY PARENTS
Mi madre iba para solterona. Tenía 25 años y aún no tenía novio ni nada que se lo pareciese. Antes de la guerra (¿civil?) ella se había enamorado de un tal Iñaki que murió en la guerra. Sin embargo mi padre, amigo de mi tio Rafael, siempre la quiso desde que tenía 15 años. En silencio. Llegó la guerra, mi madre y mi amona (por si alguien no sabe a estas alturas, significa abuela en euskera--vascuence) se fueron a Bruselas, mi tio Rafael quedó exiliado en Burdeos para los restos de su vida, tio Pacho (no sé dónde estuvo) y tia Mercedes encarcelada al igual que su marido, tio Gerardo, tricotándole jerseys. Acabó la guerra. Mi amona y mi madre volvieron a Irún. Mi madre era el patito feo de la familia, al contrario de su hermana Mercedes que era un bellezón, tenía todo al revés. Piernas gruesas, pecho pequeño, buena dentadura, eso sí (lo hemos heredado de mi amona) bonitos ojos, pero nariz aguileña un poco torcida...pobrecita. No era fea pero tampoco era guapa. Como iba diciendo, pasó la guerra. Un dia que tia Mercedes estaba en Madrid, paseando por la Gran Vía se tropezó ¡con mi padre! "Hola Manolo, cómo estás...qué alegría de verte..." Papá preguntó por mi madre. Tia Mercedes (encantada) le dijo que estaba en Irún y que seguía soltera. Mi padre, rápidamente, le contactó por carta. A los pocos meses se casaron y tambien se quisieron toda la vida. Hasta que la muerte (de mi padre) los separó.
My mother was on her way to being a spinster. She was twenty-five years old and she didn't have a boyfriend or anything close to it. Before the Spanish (civil?) war she had been in love with someone called Iñaki who died during the war. However, my father, friend of my uncle Rafael, had always been in love with her since he was fifteen. In silence. The war arrived and my mother and grandmother left for Brussels, my uncle Rafael lived as an exile in Bordeaux for the rest of his life, my uncle Pacho I don't know WHERE he was, my aunt Mercedes was imprisonned, knitting sweaters for her husband, my uncle Gerard. The war ended. My grandmother and mother returned to Irún. My mother was the ugly duckling of the family, as regards to her beautiful sister, Mercedes, my mother had fat legs, small breasts, crooked large nose, beautiful eyes and teeth (these we have inherited from my grandmother). She wasn't altogether ugly but she wasn't a beauty. As I was saying, the war ended. One day when my aunt Mercedes was walking in the Gran Vía of Madrid, she bumped into my father! "Manolo, how are you??? I'm SO happy to see you...!" My father asked her about my mother. She very happily replied that she was still single and living in Irún. My father wrote to her and a few months later they were married. They loved eachother until death (my father) did them apart.
My mother was on her way to being a spinster. She was twenty-five years old and she didn't have a boyfriend or anything close to it. Before the Spanish (civil?) war she had been in love with someone called Iñaki who died during the war. However, my father, friend of my uncle Rafael, had always been in love with her since he was fifteen. In silence. The war arrived and my mother and grandmother left for Brussels, my uncle Rafael lived as an exile in Bordeaux for the rest of his life, my uncle Pacho I don't know WHERE he was, my aunt Mercedes was imprisonned, knitting sweaters for her husband, my uncle Gerard. The war ended. My grandmother and mother returned to Irún. My mother was the ugly duckling of the family, as regards to her beautiful sister, Mercedes, my mother had fat legs, small breasts, crooked large nose, beautiful eyes and teeth (these we have inherited from my grandmother). She wasn't altogether ugly but she wasn't a beauty. As I was saying, the war ended. One day when my aunt Mercedes was walking in the Gran Vía of Madrid, she bumped into my father! "Manolo, how are you??? I'm SO happy to see you...!" My father asked her about my mother. She very happily replied that she was still single and living in Irún. My father wrote to her and a few months later they were married. They loved eachother until death (my father) did them apart.
jueves, 19 de junio de 2008
HISTORIA DE AMOR - LOVE STORY
No sé si será por el calor que, al fin, ha llegado a Ibiza pero hoy me siento muy romántica. Os quería contar la bellísima historia de amor de mi tia Mercedes y mi tio Gerardo. Tía Mercedes era la hermana mayor de mi madre. Una mujer bellísima, alta, con un cuerpo bien redondeado (o sea, con curvas) facciones perfectas, una boca preciosa con una dentadura deslumbrante y piernas fabulosas. La verdad es que ella y mi tio Rafael (los dos mayores) fueron los más guapos de la familia, porque mi madre y mi tio Pacho eran ya más corrientitos. A mi tio Rafael le llamaban el "Rodolfo Valentino" de la época (los jovenes buscar en Google). Bueno, la historia comienza cuando mi tia tenía 14 años, iba al colegio francés de Fuenterrabía de monjas (que luego llamamos del "Dispensario") con los cachirulos almidonados y puntiagudos. Tenía unas trenzas larguísimas de unos 10 cm. de grosor (esas trenzas ya no existen, no sé porque...). Cuando salía del colegio se empezó a fijar que un hombre muy guaperas la miraba desde el otro lado de la acera. Pasaron los meses, él siempre estaba ahí observándola, ella se fijó en él. Ya cuando cumplió los 15, él (de unos 20 años) la seguía esperando a la salida del colegio y ya se atrevió a coger el mismo tranvía que ella para regresar a Irún. Continuaron mirándose, sin decir palabra. Cumplió los 16, ya se empezaron a hablar. A los 17 se dieron el primer beso y a los 19 se casaron. Pero el dia antes de la boda, tio Gerardo tenía que haber ido a ver a tia Mercedes a una cierta hora pero se retrasó por alguna razón (estaría tomando chatos con sus amigos) y apareció tarde. Cuando llamó a la puerta, mi tia le dijo, muy airada "Usted ¿quién es? a Usted no le conozco..." y le cerró la puerta en sus narices. Pero se casaron. Tía Mercedes me contó que la primera noche fue muy, muy tierna. Luego pasaron las de Caín porque tio Gerardo fue concejal republicano del ayuntamiento de Irún y cuando la guerra civil estuvo preso (ocho años) y a punto estuvieron de fusilarle. Tía Mercedes tambien estuvo presa por ser su mujer. Ella se pasó el tiempo tricotándole jerseys... Se quisieron toda la vida. Cuando yo era pequeña, me encantaba cuando venían de Barcelona a pasar los veranos en Gainchurizqueta, y recuerdo cuando tio Gerardo, le cogía en brazos a tia Mercedes para llevarla a sus aposentos en el piso de arriba del caserío...
I don't know if it's because the hot weather has, finally, arrived in Ibiza but I feel very romantic... I want to tell you about the fabulous love story between my aunt Mercedes and my uncle Gerard. My aunt Mercedes was my mother's oldest sister. She was VERY beautiful, gorgeous face, beautiful teeth, tall, round-shaped body and great legs. As a matter of fact my grandmother's two oldest children, Mercedes and Rafael were very, very beautiful/handsome. My uncle was considered the "Rodolfo Valentino" of the time (young ones look into Google) whereas my mother and uncle Pacho were more run-of-the-mill type. Well, the story begins when my aunt was fourteen-years-old. She went to the French school in Fuenterrabia run by nuns who wore the starched-pointed headgear. My aunt had long, 10cm wide, braids (they don't exist anymore, I wonder why...). Whenever she finished school and came out she began to notice that a very handsome young man watched her from the other side of the lane... the months went by and HE was always there, just looking at her. She noticed him. When she was fifteen, (he was about twenty) he still stood waiting until she came out from school and started taking the same streetcar that she took to go to Irún. They kept looking at eachother without saying a word. When she was sixteen, they started to talk. When she was seventeen, they kissed. When she was nineteen, they got married. However, the day before the wedding, uncle Gerard had to go and see aunt Mercedes at a certain time but he didn't show up (I suppose he was having a few drinks with his friends) when he did show up my aunt very haughtily said "Who are you? I don't know WHO you are!" and slammed the door in his face. But they got married. Aunt Mercedes told me that their first night together was very, very tender. Afterwards, they went through very rough times. My uncle was a politician in the local Republican government of Irún and was made prisonner during the Spanish Civil War (eight years) and was about to be killed. My aunt was also imprisonned because she was his wife. She spent her time knitting sweaters for him... they loved eachother all their life. I still remember when I was a child in Gainchurizqueta and they came from Barcelona to spend the summer and uncle Gerard would pick up my aunt in his arms to take her up to the bedrooom upstairs...
I don't know if it's because the hot weather has, finally, arrived in Ibiza but I feel very romantic... I want to tell you about the fabulous love story between my aunt Mercedes and my uncle Gerard. My aunt Mercedes was my mother's oldest sister. She was VERY beautiful, gorgeous face, beautiful teeth, tall, round-shaped body and great legs. As a matter of fact my grandmother's two oldest children, Mercedes and Rafael were very, very beautiful/handsome. My uncle was considered the "Rodolfo Valentino" of the time (young ones look into Google) whereas my mother and uncle Pacho were more run-of-the-mill type. Well, the story begins when my aunt was fourteen-years-old. She went to the French school in Fuenterrabia run by nuns who wore the starched-pointed headgear. My aunt had long, 10cm wide, braids (they don't exist anymore, I wonder why...). Whenever she finished school and came out she began to notice that a very handsome young man watched her from the other side of the lane... the months went by and HE was always there, just looking at her. She noticed him. When she was fifteen, (he was about twenty) he still stood waiting until she came out from school and started taking the same streetcar that she took to go to Irún. They kept looking at eachother without saying a word. When she was sixteen, they started to talk. When she was seventeen, they kissed. When she was nineteen, they got married. However, the day before the wedding, uncle Gerard had to go and see aunt Mercedes at a certain time but he didn't show up (I suppose he was having a few drinks with his friends) when he did show up my aunt very haughtily said "Who are you? I don't know WHO you are!" and slammed the door in his face. But they got married. Aunt Mercedes told me that their first night together was very, very tender. Afterwards, they went through very rough times. My uncle was a politician in the local Republican government of Irún and was made prisonner during the Spanish Civil War (eight years) and was about to be killed. My aunt was also imprisonned because she was his wife. She spent her time knitting sweaters for him... they loved eachother all their life. I still remember when I was a child in Gainchurizqueta and they came from Barcelona to spend the summer and uncle Gerard would pick up my aunt in his arms to take her up to the bedrooom upstairs...
miércoles, 18 de junio de 2008
DARGOR
Simplemente queria recomendar vivamente a todos mis queridos bloggers que visiten el blog: http://shadetown.blogspot.com/ y lean "Requiem por la educación" escrito por Dargor un joven muy inteligente de 17 años. Besos a todos. M.
Those of you who understand Spanish, I heartily recommend that you read the following blog: http://shadetown.blogspot.com/ and read "Requiem por la educación" written by Dargor a brilliant young man (17 years-old). Kisses to everyone, M.
Those of you who understand Spanish, I heartily recommend that you read the following blog: http://shadetown.blogspot.com/ and read "Requiem por la educación" written by Dargor a brilliant young man (17 years-old). Kisses to everyone, M.
sábado, 14 de junio de 2008
BARCELONA
Esta semana pasada fuí a Barcelona a encontrarme con mi ex Fernando (padre de mi hija) y con mis "nietrastos", Yara y Eric, hijos de mi difunto hijastro Pancho. Me quedé en casa de mi nietrasta Yara (de ahora en adelante, nieta). El primer dia cuando llegué llovía a cántaros. Quedamos en la Plaza de Catalunya con Fernando, su mujer Alejandra, el hermano de ella Conrado, su mujer y su hija. Yara, su novio Javier, su hijo Alec (el bisnietrasto) y yo nos reunimos con ellos, despues de haber estado de pié durante un buen rato delante del Corte Inglés esperando. La verdad es que a mi me dolían los riñones de tanto estar de pie esperando, y gracias a los teléfonos movíles, nos desplazamos al parque en frente de El Corte Inglés, diciéndoles que estábamos esperando sentados en uno de los bancos. Llegaron desde Cornellá donde estaban hospedados, porque Alejandra (la mujer de mi ex) estaba asistiendo a un congreso de marketing directo que este año lo celebraban en Cornellá (los años anteriores siempre había tenido lugar en Madrid). Nos fuimos por las Ramblas, y recalamos a tomar unas tapas (¡CARISIMAS!) en la "Cervecería". Nos trajeron de todo, langostinos, gambas, calamares, pimientos del piquillo, y otras cosas más que ahora no me acuerdo. El niño (bisnieto) comió huevos fritos con patatas fritas y se durmió (tiene nueve años) antes de acabar el ágape. Ellos siguieron su camino Ramblas abajo y nosotros (Yara, Javier el niño y yo) a casa. Seguía lloviendo a raudales. Creo que los embalses de Cataluña deben de estar a rebosar.
Last week I went to Barcelona to see my ex (Fernando, father of my daughter) and my step-grandchildren, Yara and Eric (children of my deceased step-son Pancho). I stayed at my step-grandaughter Yara's house. The day I arrived it was pouring with rain! We agreed to meet in front of the Corte Inglés in Plaza Catalunya, Fernando, his wife Alejandra, her brother Conrado, his wife and daughter. Yara, Javier (Yara's boyfriend) and her son Alec (my step-grand-grandchild) and I stood for quite a while in front of said department store until my kidneys started to hurt from standing so much (thank God for mobile phones) we called them and told them we would be sitting on a bench in the park in front. Finally, they arrived from Cornellá (they were staying there because Alejandra had a "Marketing Direct" convention, which this year was taking place in that town. Other years it had taken place in Madrid). We went to the Ramblas and had tapas (VERY EXPENSIVE) at the "Cervecería". Alec (my step-grand-grandchild) had fried eggs with fries. He fell asleep (he's nine years old) before we finished. Afterwards, Fernando and the rest went their way down the Ramblas, and we (Yara, Javier, Alec and me) went straight home. It was still raining. I think the water reservoirs must be full by now.
Last week I went to Barcelona to see my ex (Fernando, father of my daughter) and my step-grandchildren, Yara and Eric (children of my deceased step-son Pancho). I stayed at my step-grandaughter Yara's house. The day I arrived it was pouring with rain! We agreed to meet in front of the Corte Inglés in Plaza Catalunya, Fernando, his wife Alejandra, her brother Conrado, his wife and daughter. Yara, Javier (Yara's boyfriend) and her son Alec (my step-grand-grandchild) and I stood for quite a while in front of said department store until my kidneys started to hurt from standing so much (thank God for mobile phones) we called them and told them we would be sitting on a bench in the park in front. Finally, they arrived from Cornellá (they were staying there because Alejandra had a "Marketing Direct" convention, which this year was taking place in that town. Other years it had taken place in Madrid). We went to the Ramblas and had tapas (VERY EXPENSIVE) at the "Cervecería". Alec (my step-grand-grandchild) had fried eggs with fries. He fell asleep (he's nine years old) before we finished. Afterwards, Fernando and the rest went their way down the Ramblas, and we (Yara, Javier, Alec and me) went straight home. It was still raining. I think the water reservoirs must be full by now.
viernes, 13 de junio de 2008
ESTAFADORES - CON-MEN
El miercoles 11 leí en "El País" un artículo sobre un tal Stan Lauryssens que parece ser que ha escrito un libro totalmente falso sobre Dalí y tambien hay una pelicula en ciernes sobre el libro con Al Pacino como protagonista. En dicho artículo el tal Stan se enorgullece de su pasado delictivo. Luego, unas páginas mas adelante hay otra noticia con foto "glamourosa" de Penelope Cruz (por cierto, en las últimas fotos que he visto de ella, no la reconozco--creo que se ha hecho algo en la cara...) y Salma Hayek con la gran noticia de que se habían hospedado en la casa de un "narco" mexicano.
Me pregunto: ¿estas noticias son edificantes? ¿no se estará glorificando demasiado a los delincuentes de cualquier índole? La verdad es que estoy muy hastiada de este mundo perro que nos ha tocado en suerte donde los estafadores, mafiosos, criminales son considerados, casi, casi héroes.
Last Wednesday 11th I read in "El País" an article about a "writer" called Stan Lauryssens who has written an, apparently, false book on Dalí and that there is a film planned on the same starring Al Pacino. In said article, the writer very proudly explained about his corrupt past. A few pages ahead, another news-clip with a glamorous picture of Penelope Cruz (who, by the way, in the last pictures that I've seen of her I can't recognize--I think she's done something to her face...) and Salma Hayek with the "great" news that they were guests at a famous Mexican narco's house.
Now, I ask myself: Are these news edifying? Aren't we glorifying these con-men a bit too much? The truth is that I'm fed-up with this horrible world we live in where con-men, mafiosi, criminals, swindlers are considered "almost" heroes.
Me pregunto: ¿estas noticias son edificantes? ¿no se estará glorificando demasiado a los delincuentes de cualquier índole? La verdad es que estoy muy hastiada de este mundo perro que nos ha tocado en suerte donde los estafadores, mafiosos, criminales son considerados, casi, casi héroes.
Last Wednesday 11th I read in "El País" an article about a "writer" called Stan Lauryssens who has written an, apparently, false book on Dalí and that there is a film planned on the same starring Al Pacino. In said article, the writer very proudly explained about his corrupt past. A few pages ahead, another news-clip with a glamorous picture of Penelope Cruz (who, by the way, in the last pictures that I've seen of her I can't recognize--I think she's done something to her face...) and Salma Hayek with the "great" news that they were guests at a famous Mexican narco's house.
Now, I ask myself: Are these news edifying? Aren't we glorifying these con-men a bit too much? The truth is that I'm fed-up with this horrible world we live in where con-men, mafiosi, criminals, swindlers are considered "almost" heroes.
viernes, 6 de junio de 2008
SAN MARCIALES - IRUN'S FIESTAS
Qué lio, qué lio me he hecho al bajar la foto, publicarla, intentar escribir el post. En fin, que ya veis cómo ha quedado--¡hecho un cristo! Bueno, la foto es de hace bastantes años con uno de lo rostros que tenía en la época (he tenido muchos mas durante estos años y ese, particularmente, pasó a la historia...). En la foto, de izquierda a derecha, está mi primo Luis, mi hija, mi prima Marijota, yo (sin boina) y mi tio (padre de mi prima). Al final de junio se celebran las fiestas de San Marcial en Irún cuando conmemoramos una batalla que ganamos a los franceses. Es un desfile militar muy colorido y mi tio Pacho (hermano de mi madre) a la sazón era el general del alarde. Ese año su hija salía de cantinera de caballería que es el equivalente a ser la Miss Universo de Irún. De hecho nuestra amona--la de Gainchurizqueta--madre de tio Pacho y de mi madre, fué la primera cantinera de caballería que existió en Irún a principios del siglo XX. Todo un honor.
What a mess! I don't know what I did to upload the picture, publish it, and start the post. Anyway, you see the results...A REAL MESS! Well, the picture is quite old with one of the faces that I had a the time. I've had several more in these past years but that one, in particular, has become part of history... (doesn't exist anymore). In the picture, from left to right, is my cousin, Luis, my daughter, my cousin Marijota, me (without the beret) and my uncle (my cousin Marijota's father). At the end of June, in Irún, we celebrate our fiestas of St. Marcial commemorating a battle that we won against the frogs (French). It's a very colourful military parade. My uncle was the General of the troops and, that year, his daughter was the "cantinera" of the Cavalry which is equivalent to being the Miss Universe of Irún. As a matter of fact, our grandmother--my uncle and mother's mother-- who lived in Gainchurizqueta, had been the first "Cantinera of the Cavalry" ever at the beginning of the Twentieth Century... Quite an honour.
What a mess! I don't know what I did to upload the picture, publish it, and start the post. Anyway, you see the results...A REAL MESS! Well, the picture is quite old with one of the faces that I had a the time. I've had several more in these past years but that one, in particular, has become part of history... (doesn't exist anymore). In the picture, from left to right, is my cousin, Luis, my daughter, my cousin Marijota, me (without the beret) and my uncle (my cousin Marijota's father). At the end of June, in Irún, we celebrate our fiestas of St. Marcial commemorating a battle that we won against the frogs (French). It's a very colourful military parade. My uncle was the General of the troops and, that year, his daughter was the "cantinera" of the Cavalry which is equivalent to being the Miss Universe of Irún. As a matter of fact, our grandmother--my uncle and mother's mother-- who lived in Gainchurizqueta, had been the first "Cantinera of the Cavalry" ever at the beginning of the Twentieth Century... Quite an honour.
jueves, 5 de junio de 2008
NARCISO, JUANA Y VICENTE (IN ENGLISH)
My previous blog had to do with three persons who came across in my life, whom I'm very proud to have known.
NARCISO, was our driver when I worked for Cmdr. John Rigge, ex-Naval Attaché of the British Embassy and who was at the time, head of Hawker-Siddeley, the British company that made the "Concorde" with France, for Spain and Portugal. Narciso was always very withdrawn, sad-looking (I imagined he was one of the defeated in the Spanish Civil War). He was married and had two daughters. Years later when I saw him again, I found out that his two daughters, one was a doctor and the other a university professor. Narciso was a happy man and very, very proud.
JUANA, was a professor at the University of Ottawa. She was the daughter of a construction worker and a cleaning woman that when she went to a religious school in Madrid, she had to wear a different uniform and had to enter the school through a back entrance (I couldn't believe it!). However, she was very bright, she won a Fulbright Scholarship and studied in the States and there she was: a university professor.
VICENTE, he was an exile in Canada who worked with me at the Spanish National Tourist Office. He was Juana's partner. He had been a very important member of the Spanish Communist Party, actually, second to Carrillo. He had been illiterate until he was twenty-two years old. He told me that during the Spanish Civil War he ate grass because there wasn't anything else to eat. When he was twenty-two he went to work at a Marquis' house as a servant. The Marquis realized that he was a bright young man and had him learn how to read and write. He learned. Afterwards, he read all the books in the Marquis' library, thereby, becoming a very learned man. A scholar.
This is my tribute to many of my dear bloggers who are now professors, journalists, teachers and whose family were poor but who, nevertheless, helped their children to study and overcome their handicaps and become great professionals.
NARCISO, was our driver when I worked for Cmdr. John Rigge, ex-Naval Attaché of the British Embassy and who was at the time, head of Hawker-Siddeley, the British company that made the "Concorde" with France, for Spain and Portugal. Narciso was always very withdrawn, sad-looking (I imagined he was one of the defeated in the Spanish Civil War). He was married and had two daughters. Years later when I saw him again, I found out that his two daughters, one was a doctor and the other a university professor. Narciso was a happy man and very, very proud.
JUANA, was a professor at the University of Ottawa. She was the daughter of a construction worker and a cleaning woman that when she went to a religious school in Madrid, she had to wear a different uniform and had to enter the school through a back entrance (I couldn't believe it!). However, she was very bright, she won a Fulbright Scholarship and studied in the States and there she was: a university professor.
VICENTE, he was an exile in Canada who worked with me at the Spanish National Tourist Office. He was Juana's partner. He had been a very important member of the Spanish Communist Party, actually, second to Carrillo. He had been illiterate until he was twenty-two years old. He told me that during the Spanish Civil War he ate grass because there wasn't anything else to eat. When he was twenty-two he went to work at a Marquis' house as a servant. The Marquis realized that he was a bright young man and had him learn how to read and write. He learned. Afterwards, he read all the books in the Marquis' library, thereby, becoming a very learned man. A scholar.
This is my tribute to many of my dear bloggers who are now professors, journalists, teachers and whose family were poor but who, nevertheless, helped their children to study and overcome their handicaps and become great professionals.
miércoles, 4 de junio de 2008
NARCISO, JUANA Y VICENTE
Hoy he leido la entrevista a Manuel Borja-Villel, nuevo director del Reina Sofía, en "El Pais Semanal" y me ha maravillado, el hecho de que ser el hijo de un paleta de la construcción, a través de su esfuerzo (con la ayuda de su padre que quería que estudiase y le ayudaba con sus estudios) consiguiera becas para estudiar ¡hasta en la Universidad de Yale! Tambien me he percatado que muchos de mis bloggers, profesores universitarios o periodistas proceden de familias humildes que nunca tuvieron la oportunidad de estudiar y sin embargo lo sacrificaron todo para que sus hijos tuvieran una educación y salieran adelante. Quiero hacerles un homenaje a través de tres personas que se cruzaron en mi vida y que admiro profundamente.
NARCISO, era nuestro chófer cuando llegué a España y trabajé para Commander John Rigge, ex-Attaché Naval de la Embajada Británica que a la sazón era el director de la Hawker-Siddeley (compañía aeronáutica inglesa que hizo el "Concorde" con Francia) para España y Portugal. Narciso era un hombre amargado, triste (supongo que uno de los perdedores de la guerra), casado con dos hijas. Pasados los años, nos vimos y me enteré que sus dos hijas, una era médico y la otra catedrática. Narciso rebosaba de felicidad y orgullo.
JUANA, la conocí en Canada. Era catedrática en la Universidad de Ottawa. Me contó que era hija de albañil y asistenta, que cuando estudió en un colegio religioso de Madrid, tenía que llevar un uniforme diferente a las demás niñas y que tenía que entrar por una puerta trasera diferente a las otras; (no me lo podía creer...)
Sin embargo ganó una beca Fulbright, estudió en Estados Unidos y ahí estaba, de catedrática.
VICENTE, trabajaba en la ONET (Oficina Española de Turismo) en Toronto, era compañero de Juana. Estaba exiliado en Canada y había sido una persona importante del partido comunista español. De hecho creo que el era el número dos despues de Carrillo. Me contó que fue analfabeto hasta los 22 años, que durante la guerra civil tuvo que comer hierba porque no había nada mas... A esa edad entró a trabajar como criado en la casa de un marqués. El marqués (que ahora no me acuerdo quien era pero se merecería una estatua) vió que el chico era espabilado e hizo que le enseñaran a leer y escribir. Vicente aprendió. Se leyó toda la biblioteca del marqués, convirtiéndose en un verdadero erudito.
I'M TOO TIRED TODAY TO WRITE IT IN ENGLISH. I WILL WRITE IT TOMORROW.
NARCISO, era nuestro chófer cuando llegué a España y trabajé para Commander John Rigge, ex-Attaché Naval de la Embajada Británica que a la sazón era el director de la Hawker-Siddeley (compañía aeronáutica inglesa que hizo el "Concorde" con Francia) para España y Portugal. Narciso era un hombre amargado, triste (supongo que uno de los perdedores de la guerra), casado con dos hijas. Pasados los años, nos vimos y me enteré que sus dos hijas, una era médico y la otra catedrática. Narciso rebosaba de felicidad y orgullo.
JUANA, la conocí en Canada. Era catedrática en la Universidad de Ottawa. Me contó que era hija de albañil y asistenta, que cuando estudió en un colegio religioso de Madrid, tenía que llevar un uniforme diferente a las demás niñas y que tenía que entrar por una puerta trasera diferente a las otras; (no me lo podía creer...)
Sin embargo ganó una beca Fulbright, estudió en Estados Unidos y ahí estaba, de catedrática.
VICENTE, trabajaba en la ONET (Oficina Española de Turismo) en Toronto, era compañero de Juana. Estaba exiliado en Canada y había sido una persona importante del partido comunista español. De hecho creo que el era el número dos despues de Carrillo. Me contó que fue analfabeto hasta los 22 años, que durante la guerra civil tuvo que comer hierba porque no había nada mas... A esa edad entró a trabajar como criado en la casa de un marqués. El marqués (que ahora no me acuerdo quien era pero se merecería una estatua) vió que el chico era espabilado e hizo que le enseñaran a leer y escribir. Vicente aprendió. Se leyó toda la biblioteca del marqués, convirtiéndose en un verdadero erudito.
I'M TOO TIRED TODAY TO WRITE IT IN ENGLISH. I WILL WRITE IT TOMORROW.
domingo, 1 de junio de 2008
BERAUN
"Beraun" es la casa solariega del S.XVI de mis tios abuelos en Irún. Mi tio, hermano de mi abuelo materno, era escritor y mi tia era hija del pintor Salís (época de la "España Negra", Regoyos, etc.)que a su vez tambien fue una gran escultora. Cuando era niña, me encantaba ir a esa casa y perderme por sus estancias enormes. Recuerdo, cuando despistada, entraba en lo que había sido el estudio del pintor, me sobrecogía con su enormidad. Paredes altísimas, techo de cristal, y un gran piano de cola en el centro de la estancia. Salía rápidamente toda acongojada. En esa casa aún viven sus hijos, primos de mi madre, todos ya ochentañeros. Un hijo y cuatro hijas. Dividieron la casa en varios apartamentos y todos viven juntos pero no revueltos. Ahora bien, son un caso. La mayor, soltera, tiene 85 años pero que ha vivido lo suyo. Dos ya viudas con hijos y nietos, una sigue casada y el hermano, separado. No aparentan para nada su edad, de hecho muchas veces les he dicho que en Beraun debe de existir la fuente de la juventud. Todas aparentan muchísimos años menos de los que tienen (sin operaciones) y tambien de espíritu. Hace dos años, mi hermano, mi cuñada y una amiga mia estuvimos en Irún. Ibamos a comer todos los dias con ellas, en una de estas comidas, la mas joven (78 ) que estaba disfrutando de unos dias con su nieto que había venido de Paris, tuvo una discusión con su hermana mayor (85) debido a que despues de comer nos ibamos a San Sebastián y el nieto quería venir con nosotros. Su abuela no quería desprenderse de él. Entonces la mayor le dijo "no seas así, déjale que se vaya con ellos que disfrutará más que estar contigo todo el dia" entonces ella le respondió "¡claro! como tu no has tenido hijos no sabes lo que es. Espera a que los tengas..." Como digo, son un caso.
"Beraun" is a beautiful old house dating back to the Sixteenth Century in Irún. It belonged to my great-uncle and aunt. My uncle, my maternal grandfather's brother, was a writer and my aunt was the daughter of a famous Spanish painter, Salís, of the "Black Spain" movement that included painters such as Regoyos, etc. She was also a very good sculptress. When I was a child I used to love going to that house. I used to love to explore its great rooms. Whenever I got lost and went to the large room that had been the artist's studio I was petrified with its tall walls, cristal roof and huge piano in the center. I rushed out, very frightened. In that house their children still live, a son and four daughters. The house has been divided into different apartments so they all live together but not "mixed". All of them are in their eighties. The oldest (85) is single but has lived her life quite well. Two are widows with children and grandchildren, one is still married and the son is separated. All of them are in their eighties, however, they don't look it whatsoever. As a matter of fact, I've always said that in "Beraun" they must have the fountain of youth. They're quite something. Very young-looking (without operations) and very young in spirit also. Two years ago, my brother, my sister-in-law, a friend and I went to Irún. We had lunch with them almost every day. One day, that we were having lunch, the youngest of the sisters (78) was enjoying a visit from one of her grandsons who had come from Paris, she had an argument with her older sister (85) because her grandson wanted to go with us to San Sebastian after lunch and she didn't want to let him go. Her older sister said: "Let him go, he'll have a better time than staying with you here...for God's sake..." Her sister answered: "Well, you just don't know what it's like to have children... wait 'till you have one..." As I say, they're quite something...
"Beraun" is a beautiful old house dating back to the Sixteenth Century in Irún. It belonged to my great-uncle and aunt. My uncle, my maternal grandfather's brother, was a writer and my aunt was the daughter of a famous Spanish painter, Salís, of the "Black Spain" movement that included painters such as Regoyos, etc. She was also a very good sculptress. When I was a child I used to love going to that house. I used to love to explore its great rooms. Whenever I got lost and went to the large room that had been the artist's studio I was petrified with its tall walls, cristal roof and huge piano in the center. I rushed out, very frightened. In that house their children still live, a son and four daughters. The house has been divided into different apartments so they all live together but not "mixed". All of them are in their eighties. The oldest (85) is single but has lived her life quite well. Two are widows with children and grandchildren, one is still married and the son is separated. All of them are in their eighties, however, they don't look it whatsoever. As a matter of fact, I've always said that in "Beraun" they must have the fountain of youth. They're quite something. Very young-looking (without operations) and very young in spirit also. Two years ago, my brother, my sister-in-law, a friend and I went to Irún. We had lunch with them almost every day. One day, that we were having lunch, the youngest of the sisters (78) was enjoying a visit from one of her grandsons who had come from Paris, she had an argument with her older sister (85) because her grandson wanted to go with us to San Sebastian after lunch and she didn't want to let him go. Her older sister said: "Let him go, he'll have a better time than staying with you here...for God's sake..." Her sister answered: "Well, you just don't know what it's like to have children... wait 'till you have one..." As I say, they're quite something...
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