#(Finger)FoodForThought.1

Shoes and relationships

I put on a cute pair of shoes for the opening of an exhibit I was heading to. A new environment, the ‘smell’ of a cultural-social event we all have been missing so much, summer in the air, and a new city on whose streets I indulge in strolling. A city that surprises me, that doesn’t reveal itself at once, but that makes me feel at ease, in a comforting balance between familiarity and strangeness, urban and provincial, international and cozy.

Going back to my shoes. I decided to celebrate the going-back-to-normal-in-a-new-city-in-summer wearing that cute pair of shoes. Ladies know by experience that cute doesn’t necessarily mean comfortable. On the contrary. Still, I stuck to my ‘cuteness’ plan, which turned my usual pleasant strolling along the meandering lanes of my new town into a burning—literally and metaphorically—wish to choose the shortest way to my destination to ease the pain inflicted on my feet by said shoes. Still, I made it somehow relatively unscathed to the exhibit after a twenty-minute walk, during which I was trying to convince myself that the pain was just a question of perception.

Once at my destination and despite the lack of a reassuring chair, bench or else on which I could have given respite to my aching feet, I was able to enjoy the drawings, the pleasant social chatting, the people-watching and the people-meeting. Then I decided to head out into the beautiful summer evening. My feet, however, took me back to reality. I decided stoically to walk back home anyway, the cuteness of my shoes untouched. And then it dawned on me: I chose those shoes the same way I have chosen in my life uncomfortable—if not straight painful—relationships. I have deliberately associated myself with people who were ‘cute’ for one reason or the other: good-looking, of social status, highly educated and the like. Did their ‘cuteness’ make my life more pleasant? Not necessarily. While beauty, sharing social status and education are still important, one—you and I, in fact—may also want to find a pair of shoes/friendships/relationships that make one’s journey—yours and mine—through the meanders of a city or a life just easier, more enjoyable. It’s as simple as that. The choice of a pair of shoes or a friend is ours to do. Let’s choose wisely, then.

Epilogue

The day after the opening of the exhibit, I went shoe-buying. Did I need yet another pair of shoes? Yes and no. In terms of numbers, I didn’t need another addition to the bunch I already have. In terms of comfort + cuteness, I did (I cannot go to social events in my flip-flops). So, here we go. And I found what I was looking for: cuteness AND comfort, hopefully a sign of what awaits me in the new, beautiful city and of the better choices I will make for my life.

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#NewYork(wild)life

Solstizio d’estate

Le sirene ululano lontane mentre la musica imperiosa della Madama Butterfly contrappone un silenzio estatico nel cuore di Central Park. Sono le notti d’estate newyorkesi. Migliaia di persone radunate su un enorme prato – il Great Lawn – equipaggiate di tutto punto con coperte, candele, vino e pietanze disposte accuratamente sui vassoi preparati per l’occasione. New York si raccoglie all’opera. E la musica dell’orchestra del Metropolitan rarefà l’aria. Il palco coperto da un tendone a forma di manta sembra che debba decollare e dissolversi non appena la musica si spegnerà. Tutt’intorno l’immagine della città diffusa dai media: i grattacieli illuminati, le macchine che corrono, la gente che si sfiora senza guardarsi. Nel cuore del cuore del mondo le note di Puccini lievitano. La New York che va all’opera a Central Park è composta da famiglie con bambini, giovani innamorati, musicisti e intenditori, quelli – per intenderci – che chiudono gli occhi alla prima nota e non appena l’orchestra comincia a suonare zittiscono noi sempliciotti che scattiamo fotografie e accendiamo candele sulla notte per ricordare questa nostra giovinezza, questa nostra gloriosa estate del nuovo millennio passata nel cuore del cuore del mondo. Butterfly muore, gli applausi prorompono e rompono il silenzio attonito. La vita ricomincia a scorrere. La vita ricomincia a correre. 

(Finger)food for Thought

Now is the time

I want to use this time to heal and to do all the work on myself (and on my apartment) that I usually find excuses for not doing. Too busy, too tired, too something. I am still quite busy at work, but without the commute and the socializing, I still have more time on my hands.

How I use this time is my choice. How I use this huge challenge is my choice. And I have decided to do my best to use it wisely. I cannot find excuses now, I cannot “escape” anywhere, be it work or a dinner with a friend. Now is the time to sort out all the papers I tend to accumulate and get rid of what I don’t need, be it old doctors’ notes or expired coupons. Now is the time to deepen my spiritual journey and trying to translate into actions all the beautiful teachings I have been reading about in the last 20 years.

Now is the time to look at myself in honesty and improve what needs to be improved without hiding behind a finger (as we say in my language). Now is the time to exercise every day, for my physical and mental well-being. Now is the time to “beautify” my soul, to polish it, and come out of this stronger, lighter, wiser. Now is the time.

NYC (wild) life

Sulla strada del jazz

È una tiepida notte di maggio. La gente indugia, pigramente ciarliera, ai tavolini dei bar all’aperto. Si respira l’aria frizzante della primavera nell’atmosfera discreta del lunedì metropolitano.

Mi infilo giù per le scale di un posticino apparentemente anonimo, che quasi non si nota lungo i percorsi consueti dei turisti avidi di immagini a tinte forti. Imbocco la strada del jazz.

Le note scorrono lievi lungo le pareti di questa stanza fumosa e lungo la schiena e ricadono a pioggia sul pubblico ammaliato, in viaggio. La strada del jazz scivola come un nastro attraverso il deserto in una notte stellata e crea mondi di musica, di piacere, di stupore.

Ognuno ha la sua oasi, il suo personalissimo piacere, il suo viaggio: gli spettatori e i musicisti che fanno l’amore con i propri strumenti. Il basso duetta con le percussioni, i quattro sassofoni fanno a turno la prima donna finché nell’unione non si crea un’armonia assoluta e caduca ad un tempo.

Il jazz scorre veloce come un nastro attraverso il deserto. Crea un soffio di vetro che vaga nella notte come una bolla di sapone. La strada del jazz è sinuosa, calda, imprevedibile, armoniosa, misteriosa. Non si sa mai dove conduca. È luce di candela che crea riflessi sulle pareti. È morbida luce lunare che rischiara e non acceca il viandante sprovveduto. È soffio di brezza. È tempo senza tempo. È armonia fluida e inaspettata. È un crescendo senza salite, un pathos senza drammi, un’evoluzione senza rotture, un’armonia senza stasi. Intensa e leggera.

La musica finisce. Il mio viaggio si conclude.

Risalgo le scale sorridendo, assaporando l’effetto prolungato della infinitesimale gioia che ho provato, come quando dopo aver sorseggiato un bel vino rosso rimane sulle labbra il richiamo di quel gusto pieno, illeggiadrito dallo scorrere del tempo e dalla dolcezza del ricordo.

 

 

An award to life

Too fitting for this very night, not to repost it.

NYC (wild) life

Primo giorno di neve.

La metropoli sembra abbia smesso di urlare, assopita come per incanto. Si smorzano i suoni, si fanno silenziosi i passi della gente per strada – cauti ed incerti come quelli di un bambino – si affievoliscono le  percezioni. Con la neve emerge una realtà diversa in cui le persone si affaccendano con operosità ovattata spalando, facendo rifornimenti di combustibile per le case, sfoderando ogni foggia di palette e pennelli per rimuovere la coltre bianca dalle vetture e dal mondo.

Provo una gioia sobria, tenue ed infantile nel calpestare i sentieri intonsi del parco vicino casa, nel vedere le mie orme senza tuttavia che ai miei passi corrisponda un suono. E mi ritorna in mente l’apologia del silenzio fatta da un pensatore indiano, laddove il silenzio non è assenza di vita ma, al contrario, sublimazione del puro essere. Mi ritornano in mente i film “dickensoniani” trasmessi per televisione a Natale, che mi sono sempre sembrati icone di una realtà manicheistica inesistente. Mi torna in mente il titolo di un libro amaro, ma non disperato, che racchiude, forse, l’essenza di questa città e di questa mia giornata, Canto della neve silenziosa.

Camminando parallela alla strada su marciapiedi ancora non contaminati da passi invadenti, vedo con chiarezza il limite tra il bianco della neve pura e il nero di quella già violata dalle ruote delle macchine che passano. La coesistenza labile e netta ad un tempo degli opposti. Vedo questo mondo nuovo, lento, insonorizzato ma vivo. O forse cosí mi piace vederlo. Con gli occhi stupiti di una persona vissuta nel tepore affettuoso di un paese mediterraneo.

 

 

 

 

(Finger)food for Thought

Fuga dell’anima

NYC (wild) life

Urban bikers (accidental and not)

There are five main categories of bikers in NYC, or at least in my mind. (Language purists prefer to call those passionate about a two-wheeled non-engine vehicle ‘cyclists’ to avoid any confusion with those passionate about a two-wheeled engine vehicle, but alas, daily life is far from “pure” so, I will call them bikers.)

The cool bikers: Persons who spend their life on a bicycle mainly because of work. Or vice versa, persons who choose certain jobs, e.g. delivery, so that they can spend their work day on a bicycle. The cool bikers are those who swish right past you with the lightness of a night dress. You hardly hear them, you see them when they have already pedaled away, often carrying piles of ware stacked in their backpacks. They are the ones who negotiate traffic with grace, let alone dexterity. In one word, they are cool.

The work bikers: Delivery men (never saw a lady), mainly Latinos, carrying those baskets full of mysterious food to New Yorkers comfortably curled up at home on their couches. Very skilled and solid bikers, but not as cool as the previous group, they are the only ones biking in the snow!

The accidental bikers (a): They are mainly tourists riding rented bicycles. They occupy the whole bike lane, riding parallel to one other and trying to snatch a memorable picture or shoot a video with their phone. They occasionally ride without holding the handlebars because they are on vacation; they are lighthearted and mainly have no idea of New York City traffic or (unwritten) riding rules.

The accidental bikers (b): New Yorkers who occasionally bike instead of taking the subway also fall into this category, but with slightly different nuances. They sprint right past you, ostentatiously standing while pedaling, just to get worn out a few meters farther, because they do not bike regularly. They feel good about themselves for being on a bicycle and they show it.

The honest bikers: A sort of in-between category. They are not as cool as the cool bikers, but not as clueless (or dangerous) as the accidental bikers. These are the people who bike regularly and have chosen a bicycle as their primary means of transportation (can you blame them, considering the status of the NYC subways?), but they lack the expertise, grace or guts of the cool bikers and the work bikers.

The fake bikers: Those who ride electric bicycles and claim the right to use (or misuse) the bike lane. Many of them are delivery men (again, I never saw a lady) for Asian restaurants and often bike—I swear—with a cigarette dangling from their lips!

I am an honest biker. You?

(Finger)food for thought

The super-abilities

I have my right thumb broken, the one of my dominant hand. Trivial detail, certainly. I am learning to twirl spaghetti, brush my teeth, comb my hair, insert keys into locks and use the scissors with my left hand, among many other minutiae of daily life.

A cliché: we always realize the importance of something after losing it, temporarily or else.

An epiphany: I am acquiring extra skills, which I did not have three weeks ago, in order to take care of myself under the circumstances,.

My thought now often go to the people who live day in, day out with a “non-functionality” of their bodies. And I have realized that defining those people “dis-abled” is incorrect. Having an impairment forces one to develop “super-abilities” that fully functional people can hardly fathom. That I can hardly fathom, for that matter!

Just think how difficult it can be to use New York public transportation elbowing one’s way through a crowded subway car, for example, for people who can rely on their legs. And I wonder how extremely hard it must be for people who cannot walk, if it’s possible at all. In this connection, a scene came back to my mind: some time ago, I was attending a press conference on the rights of disabled people, of which the keynote speaker was a well-regarded director of my organization, a beautiful and proud lady. No organizer of the conference had the consideration of clearing the way from chairs to ease her access to the podium on her wheelchair. People with a fully functional body can be, in general, so “thought-less”, let alone realizing the super-abilities developed by the so-called dis-abled!

Another super-ability of the differently able is a tremendous psychological strength: to keep one’s pride and emotional integrity intact in spaces (and a city like New York) that are not at all disabled-friendly is not for the faint of the heart!

My humble regards and admiration to all the super-abled of daily life!

Adieu, Mr. Annan

August 26, 2018

It was 10 August 1998. The World Expo on the oceans was held in Lisbon. I was in that city just for a few hours. The following day, Kofi Annan made a statement to the Independent Commission on the Oceans. Back then, I had no idea that, (relatively) shortly thereafter, I would have started to work for the United Nations.

I was in a nice restaurant for supper (the name of which I still recall today), a place recommended by a local tour guide to hear fado, the melancholic music (almost) automatically associated with Portugal. Suddenly, there was some commotion: to my great surprise and delight, the United Nations Secretary-General arrived at the same restaurant, preceded by the officers in charge of his security. To my increasing delight (which, at that point, started to border indulging disbelief), a few minutes later, he briefly sang some fado. Yes, Kofi Annan! He did not stay for dinner. When he left the restaurant, I was galvanized.