You are currently browsing the monthly archive for April 2007.
It is such a wonderful feeling to walk into a fine dining restaurant with the boys, knowing that they will know how to enjoy the experience and not worry about their behavior. These are truly treasured moments where we talk and laugh and have fun as a family.
To celebrate Daredevil’s birthday, we went to Tequilas, one of my favorite Philadelphia restaurants. Please note that I was asked to omit Mr. from the name, on the request of Daredevil himself, who thought it was too starchy and not appropriate for someone under 18. Who am I not to respect those wishes?
Tequilas is a very welcoming Mexican restaurant with a warm atmosphere; flowers and copper tea lights at every table, large pewter mirrors hanging on the walls together with other interesting Mexican decorations.
Shortly after we were seated, we were addressed in rapidly spoken Spanish by one of the busboys. I am certain that my son’s Argentine Polo shirt I bought in Buenos Aires earlier this year contributed to this. I asked the birthday boy to deal with that one, as he is studying Spanish at school.
The waitress was very knowledgeable, friendly and helpful in describing the dishes and making suggestions to the boys making their choices easier.
Chef Carlos Molina prepares fragrant, colorful, beautifully presented dishes reminiscent of the restaurants I have eaten in San Angel suburb of Mexico City. The food was, as always, very authentic and thoroughly delicious. Langustines I indulged in were as good as in the best Portuguese restaurants in South Africa. Daredevil still raves about his chicken served in a beautiful cast iron pot.
We did have some fun when Mr. Responsible decided to test the heat of a chili pepper. One of those natural teenage boy passages, I guess. I have a sequence of photos showing his face from the moment when the idea occurred to him until he is glugging down the water in an attempt to drown the heat.
The most touching to me was how thankful the boys were for the experience, as they are all painfully aware of how drastically our circumstances have changed.
At home, we presented the birthday boy with a funky green cake in the shape of a frog I bought in Wholefoods, with 13 candles like hedgehog’s spikes protruding from it. After “Happy Birthday” song, making a wish and blowing the candles, at 9:36 p.m. London time, where he was born, Daredevil became a teenager.
Now I need to prepare for the big party on Sunday.
The incredibly warm weather for this time of the year has brought everyone to the streets of Philadelphia. On Saturday night, it took me as long to park the car, as it did to drive from the Bucks County to the city. Small tables lining the pavements in front of the cafes and restaurants were full of people catching up with each other’s news or simply watching the world go by. If only Rittenhouse Square and a few surrounding streets were to become a pedestrian zone, it would have been even a more pleasant experience.
My girlfriend and I were still standing in front of Rouge, wondering where to sit down with all the tables taken, when a gentleman invited us to share his table. Why not? Over a glass of deliciously sparkling Bellini we found out that he was a property developer with Greek roots, a taste for Champagne and Jaguars.
He asked us if we wanted to join him at his friend’s night club, and we thought how that sounded like fun. We walked to the club where, shortly upon our arrival, I met the Italian owner who kissed my hand. “Mio piacere,” I responded.
I did not exercise the offer of any music requests, but I did have a blast drumming. During the songs that had a very heavy beat, a drummer came out with one of the African drums. He played some interesting variations on the beat, and I tried to copy after him. Just as I would get comfortable with one, he would switch to another. That was a unique experience. There is something primeval in the drum beat that appeals to all of us.
However, I do not think that I will be dialing any of the numbers from the business card I was given as we walked back to my car.
I was in Princeton on Friday night and the place was dead. “This is a big University town, so what has happened to all the students?”, I couldn’t help wondering. They are either studying hard for their end of year exams, or cannot afford to go out after they have paid for the college.
We started at the bar in Lahieres, a restaurant I remember for overindulgence quite a few years ago that left me feeling sick. I was having a very rich dinner, starting with fois gras, and making a mistake of ending with cremme brule. My body, unaccustomed to this amount of cholesterol, rebelled, and I spent an entire night and the next day feeling nauseous. It also taught me a lesson. From that day I only choose one rich item on the menu.
As the pianist was crooning the Broadway all time favorites, I engaged in the conversation with the barman. Upon finding that I was Croatian, he extolled the virtues of Grgich Hills wines. These wines are justifiably on my top ten list, and not only for the patriotic reasons.
The next stop was Sotto, with its loud Latino techno, a music I couldn’t get excited about however hard I try. It was impossible to talk competing with all the decibels coming out of the speakers, so I danced. What made my alarm go off was a guy who sat at the bar in Lahieres withing an ear shot from us. Then he materialised at Sotto, standing with a beer in his hand and staring at me. Not checking me out, or trying to dance, or strike a conversation. Just standing there all by himself and watching. It was time to move on.
The door at the Witherspoon Grill was already locked, but the manager let us in. It couldn’t have been all that late. A couple of bachelors, regulars, as the barman later informed me, started talking to us. One of them got my attention with a great chat up line. “I couldn’t help noticing that you are a great story teller.” The usual game of ‘Link the Accent to the Location’ ensued. My girlfriend with her unmistakable Queen’s English was a dead giveaway. With me, it’s almost impossible. The undertones are definitely British, but there is a fair hint of a mother tongue being Slavic, complicated further with touches of South African accent. Therefore, I provide clues, which gives me some idea of the guy’s geographic savvy. One of the bachelors asked for my cell phone. He proceeded to enter his name and number and was a little startled to find that two guys with the same name already exist on my list. Then he dialled himself to get my phone number. A little different approach, I have to admit. Usually the guys flip their phones open, enter my number and immediately dial my cell to check that I have given them the right number.
We were given a hint that the bar was closing, by the area all around us being sprayed with the orange scented disinfectant. We only had coffee, but left 70% tip, so I don’t think we were ‘black listed’.
The bachelors’ follow up phone call was quick. Within 20 minutes my phone rang letting us know which night club they were in and to give them a ‘jingle’. I was ready to curl up on my girlfriend’s sofa and have a warm cup of herbal tea before hitting the sheets.
Mr. Daredevil is becoming a teenager today.
He has sneaked up on me 13 years ago as I was sipping my Chianti in beautiful Tuscany. I already had a boy whom I was still nursing and who was about to celebrate his first birthday, so another baby wasn’t in my plans for such a near future. We have been enjoying our vacation touring from Monte Carlo through the South of France down the West Coast of Italy, stopping at Le Cinque Terre and ending in Salvadonica, a beautiful farm in Tuscany, half way between Firenze and Sienna. And it was there, surrounded with olive groves and hills covered in grapevines that Mr. Daredevil came to be. One day I will take him back to the tranquil stone cascina in the Tuscan hills.
I speed. I end up doing it without even noticing.
When I used to drive on German Autobahns, I would be belting 160 kph (100 mph) in the outer lane, when a Porsche with its left indicator flashing would materialize behind me out of nowhere. In Italy, it was a Ferrari, usually a small group of them (Italians love to travel as a crowd), that would arrive with amazing speed behind me. The outer lane traffic would part like The Red Sea in front of those beauties. Although I drive fast, I have learnt to be a considerate driver and move instantaneously to the middle lane. A skill I have noticed many drivers lack here.
There is a commercial in which a brand new Dodge Viper is being shipped to Germany.
“What’s wrong? You don’t like German cars?,” one guy asks another.
“No, I don’t like American roads,” replies the other.
I mirror the sentiment.
I admit that I have tried to slow down and follow the speed limit, as my license is constantly on the verge of suspension. One day I made a super human effort to drive to my son’s school without breaking the speed limit. Most of the way it was 35 mph. This was not an easy feat, and required some serious brake application when going down hill. The speed limit around the bend was reduced even further, to 25 mph.
“Mom, I could bike faster to school!” was my son’s comment.
Although my insurance company disagrees, I consider myself a safe driver. In six years that I have lived here I haven’t hit a squirrel, let alone deer who have a nasty habit of prancing across major roads in herds. Wherever there may be kids around, I come to a crawl. It is rather unfortunate that the troopers do not see my point of view. As a result I spent a good deal of the past Friday morning reading a Special Points Exam manual. A riveting read that informed me how my license would be suspended at 11 points and how no one should be behind the wheel with more than 0.08 alcohol in their blood. All ready, mind bursting with newly learnt information, I went to the local driving test place to take the exam and have 2 points taken off my licence. I sat down and waited patiently for my name to be called for the 1 o’ clock exam.
“Speeding?” asked a young man sitting next to me, noticing that I have not picked up a ticket, reserved for people with untainted driving record.
“Yes, I have to do the Special Points Exam. How about you?” I asked.
“The hearing. My license got suspended,” he replied.
“What happened?” I became curious.
“Got caught going 115mph on the highway,” replied the man.
“So, how did you get here?” I wondered.
“Drove myself,” he said.
“You were lucky that you didn’t get stopped,” I said, the penalty for such an offense freshly stored in my mind from reading the manual.
1 o’clock came and went and no one called my name. I approached one of the clerks minding his own business behind the glass and asked about the exam. The Special Point Exam was at 11. I couldn’t believe it. I must have omitted number 1 in my scheduler, and instead of 11, put it under 1. Blast!
“Can I reschedule please?” I asked politely.
“Not here. You need to call 1 800 number,” I was told.
“There is a thirty day window in which I need to take the test. Otherwise, my license will be suspended,” I added with some cause for concern.
The man replied, “There is nothing I can do. I can only tell you that there will be no more testing in here today.” He checked on his computer for my suspension date. “You have till the 26th.”
I had only three working days to take the test, so I dialled the scheduling center while still sitting in a car at the car park in front of the Driving Test Center.
“The first date I can give you is May 5th,” the woman on the other line informed me.
“My license will expire on the 26th. What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Starve to death?” I asked, knowing that nothing is walking distance where I live and ‘public transport’ is a non existent word in Bucks County.
“Sorry, I can’t give you any sooner date. I can look at the next center nearest to you.”
I liked the idea of having a plan. This sounded promising.
“That one has May the 2nd available. Shall I keep looking?” she asked.
I didn’t exactly have a choice in this matter. I was prepared to drive to Pittsburgh if necessary to get the test done. Luckily, It is going to be Philadelphia on April 23rd. This time it definitely is at 1 o’clock.
Does Wednesday night television really suck? I ask as I wouldn’t know. I don’t have time, nor inclination to indulge in such a pastime. I couldn’t though help noticing that my phone displayed more messages on Wednesday evening than a railroad station during the rush hour. Hence my TV question.
I was on the phone with the Cowboy, who was not impressed with the way New Jersey handled the latest floods, and was pining for his beloved Arizona. As I was wishing him bonne voyage to Taiwan and good luck in clinching the deal, the Pilot called. I never understood the point of putting someone on hold to tell another person to hold on while rushing to finish the conversation with the person who was put on hold first. So, I never do it. Unless you are an ER surgeon on call, rather than impose the stress of juggling all those people holding and waiting, let them leave a message.
And that’s what The Pilot did. Left me a message that he had made it with his three offspring to Orlando for the vacation and was calling to see what I was up to. I was returning his call when the Architect left a message. Back from his Caribbean family vacation, he was following up on the two e-mails he had sent me since his return.
Making a mental note to call back, I jumped on the bed with all three of my boys taking turns in reading, or rather acting Shel Silverstein’s poems. Judging by the laughter that rocked the room, I think I was pretty good at “Oh, I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor.” When I am having fun with my boys, I don’t care if it were her British Majesty, whose humble subject I am, phoning me. She would have to leave a message with all the other mere mortals.
That particular avenue of communication was the only one open to the Lawyer when he dialed my number. I met him at the South African wine tasting recently. He was wondering in his message when he could take me out to dinner. I’ll need to check my calendar. It seems to be getting busy.
‘Lekker!’
On Monday morning I battled heavy winds and torrential rain that swept across the town to get to the Courthouse. Passing the neighbouring farm so reminiscent of Provence, I noticed that the geese were having a field day splashing in the pond twice its normal size. Walking to my attorney’s office, I had my umbrella turned inside out resigning myself to the ‘wet look’ in front of the judge. We entered the Courthouse, our high heels clicking in unison, wheeling my heavy file behind us. To my relief, we settled the tax and house issues in a conference room and only reported to the judge our decision.
It was a strange experience standing next to my Wasbund, attorney on each side, swearing on the Bible to speak the truth and nothing but the truth. I’ve seen it done in the movies many times. Except this was not a movie. This was my real life. I wondered if everyone had to swear on the Bible regardless of their religion or beliefs. How did they know that I wasn’t an atheist or a Buddhist? The Bible would mean diddly squat then.
Why does my mind keep wondering like this all the time? I need to concentrate on what the Wasbund’s lawyer is reciting to the judge. No, I’ll let my lawyer do that and I’ll keep pondering about how many couples like us has the man typing with a disinterested mask over his face seen in his lifetime. Back to reality where the lawyers are firing comments to each other over our heads. Judge gets pissed off and leaves, telling our attorneys to sort out the exact wording of a clause in question. He leaves us standing long after we have reached the agreement. I remind myself of our lawyers combined hourly rate. At least two out of four people are not wasting their time. The judge returns. Wasbund and I answer lots of questions with “I do your honor.” A very different kind of “I do” than the one we uttered 19 years ago.
We leave the courtroom. It’s still raining cats and dogs.
We have all been following in disbelief and horror the news of the shooting at Virginia Tech. 33 lives have been lost and it is difficult not to ponder whether such gruesome act could have been prevented. A man who committed the violent crime was a South Korean student majoring in English. His profile fits the bill of someone who was capable of planing and executing this vile act. He was a loner whose disturbing writing landed him in the counselor’s office.
It is the chain of events from this point that is completely incomprehensible to me. How can a person who was already pegged as potentially disturbed simply walk in the gun shop and buy any weapon he chooses? Shouldn’t there at least be a black list of people who, in psychologists opinion, should not posses guns? Why aren’t there requirements to undergo a psychological evaluation before buying a gun?
With stricter gun laws, the tragedy like this one should never happen. People who use guns in their work, for sport or hunting would still be able to procure guns under stricter licencing laws. 19 year old students on a whim of a moment would not.
In the U.S.A. Cho Seung-Hui would have had more difficulty buying a bottle of wine at the local liquor store than a weapon. There is something disturbingly wrong with that scenario.
I believe that there are loner, disturbed types everywhere in the World. However, the mass shooting seems to be a U.S. phenomenon. Perhaps those in power need to admit what is the key contributing factor and reexamine the laws.
I had the most perfect evening last night. It was my very first wine tasting event at Tria Fermentation School in Philadelphia. The last night was all about the wines so close to my heart – the wines from South Africa. I have many beautiful memories of the times spent eating local cheeses, snoek pate and tasting wines under the shade of old oak trees in many of its finest vineyards. Western Cape province, where the wine is grown, is like no other place on Earth. Picture the Tuscan hills planted with grapes in little rows, but then add the drama of the Swiss mountain peaks, and the red African soil. This soil, left in a red cloud behind your Land Rover, enters your every pore, never to leave. Those who have inhaled it, are forever going to crave coming back. Returning to Africa always feels like arriving home.
With those thoughts, I arrived fashionably late, thanks to the horrendous traffic on 95. I was handed a glass of the Forrester’s Sauvignon Blanc ‘05, a wine at its very peak, crisp, dry and refreshing. I loved it and would highly recommend it. At $20 a bottle, it is a good value for such a nice wine. It turned out to be my second favorite of the evening.
All the wines tonight were from Ken Forrester vineyards in Stellenbosch area. There are three main distinctive wine regions on the Cape wine route – Paarl, Franschoek and Stellenbosch. The grapes and the knowledge of viticulture were brought by the Hugenots, fleeing the Catholic persecution in Europe. I had a pleasure of tasting three Chenin Blancs, a Pinotage, two Shiraz/Grenache blends, and a Chenin Blanc Noble Late Harvest. The last one was similar to the French Sauternes, sweet and delicate, a perfect complement to a Foie Gras.
The absolute winner in my opinion was Chenin Blanc, the FMC 2004. It retails in the U.S. for $69 a bottle and it is an ‘F’-ing Magnificent Chenin (Is that what FMC stands for?) This, without any exaggeration, is a truly beautiful wine with strong ginger overtones that has lost all the bitterness of its younger cousins. If you are a fan of great Chardonneys, you would love this wine.
I am also delighted to say that I am now a proud owner of a black Forrester cap, which I am hoping to use as a protection from the strong South African sun, preferably on the tennis court. I have no idea how I memorized this particular fact during the presentation, but I was able to answer the prize question, “When was the Pinotage introduced to South Africa?” In case you are dying to know, it was in 1925.
At the end of the presentation, I enjoyed meeting the Tria Manager who organized the event and the Manager of the Boutique Wine Collection, an importer of lesser known wines. These guys were a treasure of information on wine and an absolute pleasure to talk to. Anthony, the witty South African presenter and the wine maker, soon joined us. This man leads what others would describe as a ‘dream’ life. Living in one of the most stunning parts of the world, creating wines, travelling around the globe presenting the wine, or purchasing French oak barrels or Portuguese cork. It is hard to believe that some people get paid to enjoy themselves this much.
Full of lasting impressions, I left Tria Fermentation School. Of course, I realised that I was in no condition to sit behind the steering wheel. I decided to stop for a cappuccino at the Brasserie Perrier. Having been surrounded all evening with wine connoisseurs and sommeliers, the Universe had an interesting plan for the end of my evening. There was only one seat in the whole place where I could possibly sit down and sip my coffee. It just happened that the guy finishing his dinner at the table next to mine was a Food and Beverage Director of a 5 Star hotel in Philadelphia. To give things a bit of a spin, he also happened to be from San Francisco and had a great knowledge of the Napa Valley. This obviously was meant to be my wine night. After some more talk about wine, food and travel, he added his business card to the ones I had collected earlier.
To all of you in London who have to wait till October to see this exhibition, here is a little preview.
Stimulated through sounds, decor, and exhibits, it is easy, with a touch of imagination, to travel over 3,000 years back in time. This was the golden age of the pharaohs. 130 artifacts from that era have been transported all the way from Egypt and are on display in Philadelphia till the end of September.
I entered an opulent Egyptian temple. Numerous objects used by the priests during the process of mummification were on display. Looking at the exhibited jars, one could not help the feeling of ‘being there’, surrounded with priests chanting, while the Head Priest with the mask of the jackal god Anubis performed the ritual of the opening of the mouth. With the hook in the most beautiful opal blue, which also was on the display, he would extract the brain. Other internal organs, such as liver, stomach, intestine, lungs would be carefully placed in separate jars. Some had simple lines carved in alabaster, and some were inlaid with semi precious stones. The heart was always left in the body, so that it could be weight against the feather of Maat. If the deceased was a good person and his spiritual heart was lighter than the feather, the deceased would meet Osiris.
From the surrounds of the temple, I moved into the darkness of the tomb. This is the closest one could ever get to experience what Howard Carter must have felt in 1922 when he discovered the tomb of Tutankhamun.
I looked with fascination at the hieroglyphic carvings on the golden sarcophagus of the queen Tuyu, great grandmother of Tutankhamun. Intricately carved scarab beetles symbolising the rebirth, the key of life and many other hieroglyphs adorned the sarcophagus.
There were numerous beautifully carved shabti, figurines placed in the tomb to perform manual tasks for the pharaoh or the queen in their afterlife.
I felt the great excitement when I entered the chamber I thought was the one before the last. Five objects that were buried with the body of Tutankhamun were on display, including the gold crown with a cobra and a vulture placed on Tutankhamun’s head. The dagger was also wrapped in the sheets of the mummy to protect it in the afterlife. On the floor, the lines marked five coffins that, like a Russian doll, contained five sarcophagi and a mummified body of 19 year old pharaoh Tutankhamun.
I moved like in trance anticipating the next room to contain the one object worthy of a grand finale – Tutankhamun’s sarcophagus. Instead, I found myself in the gift shop. I felt a momentary disappointment, which soon dissipated as I remembered the dramatic and spectacular exhibition I have just witnessed.
I missed my boys terribly, as they were with the English Wasbund eating roast beef. This was the first family oriented holiday that I had to spend without them and I would be lying if I were to say that it wasn’t soul crushing. All I could do was to send them funny interactive e-cards with bunnies spray painting Humpty Dumpty or singing the Easter blues.
Fortunately, although my very small family is in Croatia, I have spent Easter Sunday in a warm atmosphere surrounded with the people I care for. My friend’s family, large for my one or two child European family standards, have adopted me for every major holiday, and I have spent past Thanksgiving and Christmas Day with them. I met my friend, Ms C., at the ‘End of Season’ annual function at the outdoor tennis club we both belong to. We discovered that we were both in the throws of the divorce with three children and, despite her beating me in tennis, became friends.
I find her family to be very engaging and stimulating. Discussions rage over dinner table laden with ham, rack of lamb, asparagus and other culinary delights. At one moment we could be talking about movies we have seen, the next we could be voicing our opinions on Nancy Pelosi’s visit to Syria. The house was abuzz with children and their stories from college or from the many activities they do. The Golf Masters was permanently on in the family room for anyone who wanted to check on the latest development.
Sitting at the table, I suddenly became aware how we were a microcosm of the family structure in the U.S. today. There were two happily married couples, three divorced singletons and two widows.
According to the statistics, we live longer, especially women, who should expect to celebrate their 80th birthday if they are white and 76th if they are black. They continue to lead active lifestyles and travel, long after their husbands have passed away. The same statistics point at men’s life expectancy being 5 years less than that of the women. (Bring on the jokes!)
Divorce has become a common phenomenon, although there is nothing common in the way people act during this process or in the emotions arising from it. It is a well known fact that half of the marriages in the U.S. end up in divorce. This figure is even worse for the second marriage with 76% ending in divorce. For the brave enough to attempt it for the third time, 87% will be filing for the divorce. I sometimes feel that, as we approach the midlife number 40, life becomes a game of musical chairs. Lots of people are dancing to different tunes, but when the time comes to sit on a chair, there is always someone left standing. When the music starts and the next round begins, the person that was left standing has a chance to bump someone else off the chair, and so the game continues. The marriage counselors are desperately trying to piece together the flying debris from the broken chairs. The players having the most fun are the lawyers, competing in their own game of who can run to the bank the fastest with the largest bucket of money.
Have you ever played the game?
The Namesake is a film directed by Mira Nair that juxtaposes well two cultures, the modern American and the traditional Indian. It follows the lives of a beautiful, artistic Ashima and Ashoke, her professor husband from an arranged marriage. Ashima’s expectations differed from those of her Western counterparts, as she was conditioned by the society she grew up in to marry the ‘best of the lot’ who came knocking on her parents’ door, and not for love.
With the marriage she replaces the colorful, warm, though overpopulated Calcutta with the bleakness and isolation of New York City in search of Ashoke’s dream. Through all the ups and downs that life presents them with, they stay true to their values and to each other.
The film moves on to the next generation of the Ganguli family, born and raised in the U.S., with their different perspectives on life and different values. The story centres around Gogol, or Nick, as he prefers to be called when he becomes a teenager. One of the central themes of the film is Gogol’s dilemma which name to embrace. Is it going to be the name given to him by his father, inspired by the writer Nikolai Gogol as well as an important past event that changed Ashoke’s life, or Nikhil which in Nick form could easily blend with the American culture.
The film also examines the possibilities of immigrant’s children mingling with the elite of their birth country. It raises the issue whether the modern relationships based on the same ‘roots’ have more potential to succeed than those of the chance encounters.
Where, in my opinion, the movie fails to deliver is by trying to pack in too much without going deeper into the characters. At one point a director concentrates on showing that the Bengali culture and traditions are alive and well in New York’s suburbia, with immigrant families closely knit together. At the other, the protagonist is left isolated and alone in times of a major life crisis. I somehow felt that one would preclude the other.
The director likes to use flashbacks, which I felt did not always serve the purpose. Rather than seeing the crucial past event again in this form, it may have been more original to view it from some other perspective entering deeper into the psychology of the character.
My rating would be four out of five.
I had the most amazing time with the boys at the Ben Franklin Institute on Friday. We explored together the giant heart walking through all four of its chambers. Mr. Responsible, a med student hopeful, was mesmerized by the open heart surgery video shown on a screen embedded in the mannequin’s chest. His youngest brother, on the other hand, shivered at the mere thought of blood.
The electricity section was packed with many hands-on miniature experiments in physics, involving lots of cranking, to the boys’ amusement. They designed the most aerodynamic airplane wings and fast trains on computer screens. A group of kids, including my own, teamed together to build, what appeared to me, a domino chain long enough to be mentioned in a Guinness Book of Records. To the delight of the younger siblings, the whole structure was put in motion, and collapsed in an amazing chain reaction within seconds.
Exhausted from virtual soccer, surfing, and car racing, we headed to the Imax Theater. Reclining in our chairs, we watched a spectacular show about mummies on a giant all surround screen. It was fascinating to see the interconnectedness of the world that existed thousands of years ago with our own. Scientists used a modern mummy, a body donated to science and mummified twenty years ago, to find out from which tissue to take the elusive DNA sample from the ancient mummies. This information would then point to the illnesses that plagued the ancient Egyptians, some of which, like malaria, are still killing millions of people today. Comparing the malarial strains from the ancient times to those of today, could potentially lead to the cure.
By the end of the day, we were tired, thirsty and had a crank in the neck, but we also had a great time.
Two weeks ago, Universe has thrown down my path a man with a boundless creative energy. It was a chance meeting at the function we attended out of curiosity. His passion for his latest architectural project, an art gallery, was contagious. This was a collision of planets.
His e-mail followed a day later. I chose not to reply, hoping that we could simply store the conversation, and the energy that flowed between us, in the memorable experiences compartment of our brains and lock it there.
The meeting must have been weighing on his mind, as four days later I have received a ‘2nd try’ e-mail.
It took me three days to finally take a plunge and start an intricate e-mail dance exchanging stories and observations. This led to our lunch together last week in a small cafe. The magic was there. Conversation flowed effortlessly. His soup arrived, went cold and was taken away untouched. His salad plate left the table with only a few leaves missing. He explained how all he wanted to do was to talk to me. So we talked, enveloped in our own world, till the time came to return to reality.
I wasn’t even out of the city when I had received a text message thanking me for a lovely moment and complimenting me for being an amazing woman.
A beautiful e-mail followed that very evening, although he was hectically packing, getting ready to leave the country for a family vacation.
Shall I blame it all on Spring?
