How To Get Rid Of Metallic Taste During Pregnancy

Letterina of good intentions for 2011

Ok .... You have to be concise .... ... clear. aim directly at the result .... Do not babble .... Do not waste your time ... rights to the winning goal ... ... ... rise from the ashes. Ok I'm ready!

My good intentions for 2011 are

1) lose weight at least 5 kg ... .. to try to get into a wedding dress.
PS: During this holiday season my mother pointed out to me while we were talking about anything .... "Perhaps it would be the case ... .. so I say to you ... ... .. lose weight. Start now .... Without having to acrobatics after "... ... Thank you mom your sincerity has always had a devastating effect on me

2) take a vow of abstinence from alcohol and fried
PS: I know this is the first connection that Zompa ... ... .. ok .... maybe it's to reduce its size

2 ') Moderate alcohol and fried in recruiting

3) Avoid buying cazzatelle minchiatizze and every time I go into a store to save some money
NB: In case of withdrawal symptoms can be purchased minchiatizze low-value (if I leave a window open about it I live it better)

4) Fab answer the phone when I'm angry ... .. dare I say .... even if they are angry angry

5) Read more books in and watch movies without dubbing in Italian .... Strive then to use that great unknown of my brain

6) Try to arrange a marriage whereas traditional Puglia and Campania every time without having to finish the evening in silence with a tombstone that looks at the floor and one ceiling

7) finish many projects initiated by municipalities Fab .... Initiates and frozen in position "work in progress"

8) Learn how to empty the garbage before my kitchen must be submerged

9) Back more aimed at Lecce from my family .... So my mother has the opportunity to remind me that I have to lose weight ... .. I say to you ... .. if you believe ... .. and also addresses a point
And finally ... ..

10) Remember to Fab who must come to our marriage as a photographer but as husband

How difficult year waiting for me !!!!!!!!!!!!! ... ....

Read Naruto Yaoi Doujinshi

prefer the sound of the Cantabrian Sea # 2 (the Basque coast)

In a program dedicated to Mikel Labo, which aired shortly after the death of the most influential Basque singer-songwriter of his era, an elderly stranger told the cameras of the friendship that bound him to the artist in San Sebastian . I remember with emotion the time they spent together in the Basque country and complained of never being able to convince Laboe to return the visits, while I understand, or better, while realizing, with a certain fatalism, which was go this way. According to my friend Nicolas, who then is the one who brought me this episode, Laboe would have loved to visit the land of his friend, however, preferred not to have to do. In order not to deprive yourself of the taste that they could ever imagine, I would add (because it's the same answer, and I assume therefore that the base there is the same reason, I like to give when they ask me why it has never been to Paris throughout the my life).

The discovery of the Labo Mikel owe a very long documentary by Julio Medem, entitled La pelota bathtub, borrowed a few years ago from the library district of Gracia. This is an inspired collage of interviews with Basque or otherwise linked to cultural or political reasons, the "Basque question" with which the talented director of San Sebastian (but now madrileño of adoption) would, without actually succeeding (in the bottom of the film as you get tired after a bus trip in which he chatted with all passengers) and add his testimony to the understanding dell'irrisolta and often misunderstood situation of his country, joining, but would rather sliding, images imbued with the music of epic Baga, biga, higa , opera ancestral and onomatopoeia that makes so much talk over the idea of \u200b\u200ba region that will probably never be an independent nation by the political point of view, but that has always been the Heimat real, different and unique, for many men who were born there or for those metaphorical Heimat , who, like me, thanks to my friend's life, there are simply passed many times, from a bizarre road trip with close friends, continuing with a wet and even more bizarre New Year's Eve with Laura and her sister, ending with a ride Hemingway's father, transforming the randomness in habit, the tourist trip in personal journey, the road novel of formation, the landscapes of the coast in the walls of their room.

visceral attachment to their land, the jealous demands of his own words, the passionate defense of their traditions, the wide sense of family, pride and sincere rough to belong to a small world made up of old memories, gestures, moods out of time, stories, tales of grandparents and uncles are certainly not the prerogatives of the Basque people, but in that strip of land that separates from Bilbao Bayona these elements acquire a different meaning, that can also hide imperfections, flaws, the ingenuity that any declaration of unity brings. Devoid of any ornament or pimp holographic self-satisfaction, the true epic Basque (not the maximalist and exploited its self-styled political spokesman) is hidden, it is perceived in the stories of the old fishermen of Ondarroa, trees paintings the mysterious forest of Oma, the roar of the San Mames stadium, Bilbao, La Catedral, when marking the athletes, txirimiri in bathing suits, plastic figures in the paintings of Aurelio Arteta, Mikel in the cries of Labo, in reproductions of old wooden boats that can be bought in a shop in Casco Viejo of San Sebastian, in post-industrial landscapes of Barakaldo. The epic Basque appears in all its spirit when you travel for its coastal roads, those marked in black on the map, when you stop for a swim in the bays, when you see the cliffs eroded by the incessant flow of Cantabrian Sea, when you walk in feeling dumb of any country gables, thinking about the elderly on the sideline with head in txapela pelotari I bet on point after point, turning the bowl games of pelota in a clash of civilizations between neighbors or building huts.

Basque

The epic is in the silence of the lighthouse head Matxitxako indicating the route for vessels with their loads back from the North Sea to the ports of Bermeo, Ondarroa, Getaria, in the silence of friends silent when you have to understand something important but do not use the words take you on the beach to watch the waves, in the silence of yellowed photos of a past clinging bitterly to not to get sucked in the anonymity of this, in the silence of marmitako, potato soup, tuna and tomatoes that the sailors were preparing to warm their bones, that the old mother of my friend Fernando's prepared when he was a boy and that, so good, he has never eaten more, breaks the silence of the telephone conversation between Nikolas and his mother made from time to time in Euskera, not because it is needed, not because they do not normally they speak in Castilian, not for not being understood, but only to avoid the language of their homeland, as happened to his story, in the future remains a mystery to which only affect the archaeologists and poets. The Basque is my epic, lived in the silence of a highway at night, trying to guess the output for Hondarribia without going to France, with the cranes of Irun in phosphorescent distance, while a friend is sleeping and the other is recalled about the time lost in another coast, in another life.

The epic of the Basque Country is intertwined in every family history, breaking the barriers that artificially separate the universal and the personal. It is witness a wonderful book, Bilbao Bilbao-New York- , written in Basque and subsequently translated into English (soon, I hope, comes the Italian version). The author and narrator, Kirmen Uribe, but also born poet was born in Ondarroa, a fishing village in the province vizcayna, glorious son and grandson of fishermen in the area. Ondarroa had to go to a July morning to swim, but the wrong street and found ourselves on a winding ridge that carried over Mutriku, in the mountains. When I finally fall back on the coast, after a few stops gastro-intestinal, we now Lekeitio, just in time to die on the sand, preferably in the shade. Kirmen reconstructs the story of his family, documenting the process, seeking information on the generations that preceded them to him I can give anyone. So here is the grandson of the architect Bastida, who had commissioned the painting to his friend Aurelio Arteta En the pilgrimage to the living room of his home in Ondarroa, that fresco preserved at the Museo de Bellas Artes in Bilbao Kirmen's grandfather, just released by the doctor's office where he announced his remaining few months to live, wants to go to observe, because He then attended the show, and perhaps in that pilgrimage , among rural girls, also depicts the love of his life. This is why Uncle Boni, patron of the boat Bizkargi , whose help the teacher to fill in the Eneko Barrutia Diccionario de los pescadores vizcaìnos is documented in a cd, and listening to his voice Kirmen realizes that Nerea his girlfriend was right when he said that the cormorant Ondarroa to call him "sakillu" (for Ondarroa, because is only Bermeo could be another story). Hence the Maritxu elderly aunt, in her apartment in the dusty heart Bilbao, who teaches the meaning of the gesture Kirmen maite-maite , "a gesture that did not know, must have been lost in time":

Maritxu remember the last time saw his father. He stared at her from afar and waved his hands cone: he put one over the other and stroked. Maritxu I repeated the same gesture, and with the palm of a hand caressed the back of the other. "This means maite-maite," my aunt explained to me with his words than eighty years ago.

other side of the sweetness of the look of Kirmen Uribe, but following the same horizon rippled the Basque coast, there is a modern electric grandchildren Mikel Labo, although in reality, musically speaking, there is nothing in common. You cross the border to Hondarribia, where the sultry voice of Miren Iza (in its sweet they might drown, as if they were long waves that washed ashore) started in the direction of Madrid, with its Tulsa. The first exit after San Sebastian, on the highway that leads to Bilbao, leads to Zarautz, which mostly looks like a miniature edition of Guipuzcoan capital, with its concha scale of one to five and the detached house which suggest the frescoes of Arteta, to family dinners, to the rhythms of life different, more human and intense - the opposite of Delorean, whose syncopated rhythms rather refer to the stable of DFA Records . Lekeitio Pass and entered it in Biscay, the stop must be made in Getxo, a suburb of Bilbao pijo well, where the best youth observes the ocean and sees the coast of Oregon, Portland Pavement, when they played for the first time in Spain became accompanied on their tour by Tenant Communist . Today this legendary group, so Quinquis de los ochenta , No more, but the Pavement are resurrected, and if they returned to Spain I am sure that would accompany the Mcenroe , litanies in which post-rock, narcoleptic enough, sometimes it seems that riannidi the thread of the epic Basque Mikel Labo had started with his harrowing Gernika.

Yeah, Mikel Labo. The Basque coast has invented him. She writes Nikolas, on the first page of the book Kirmen Uribe who sent me a month ago, had seen him several times walking along the promenade of San Sebastian, in front Ondarreta beach, just steps from his house. Even a few days before he died, just a couple of years ago. He always wore the same simple clothes like a uniform. The white shirt with a sweater on the back of dark blue wool, blue pants and shoes like the sea from the beach, canvas, white. The discovery neck, eyes bright, wise smile, pride of the gaze of the boy who was ( Haika Mutil , Mikel). Against the backdrop of the Cantabrian Sea, the sky gray, the wind dies, any boat, a landscape of Aurelio Arteta, many stories to tell to anyone willing to stop and listen, if only for a moment, the fragments of the epic silent Basque.

Who Is Mia From Nadine Jansen

arancine to speak of Favignana, with Saccardi

(Minima Moralia)

The last time I was confronted with a conversation like that, like a child observes that the magic of the aquarium on the other side of the glass, leaning on his nose and leaving the halo, while the fish swim happy with their futility, was in a dilapidated Renault Four, which fades into the rust-colored amaranth, and vice versa. As we sailed up the calle Bailen, the Diagonal, la calle Augusta, through stately neighborhoods of the north, to go as far as the Vall d'Hebron, where the dusty football field, nestled in a palm tree dying and a nostalgic advertising signs of Kas Limon, Barcelona could be observed in full, with the smokestacks of industrial and cinturione Sagrada Familia, a city that looked like a tired prostitute lying on the bed with a cigarette in his mouth and the sea from her pillow, the four Argentines packed Renault Four with me in never interrupts the same conversation continued from the beginning of the journey. The theme was just an insignificant detail, the important thing was the tone of passionate get-together at a cafe in the early Twentieth Century, the slope of the sweet voice, consciousness, like a game of Trivial Pursuit, he had nothing to gain the final approval of "being right", and hence the "need" to cover its arguments can be of the utmost seriousness, the desire to dance with the other person, as if the words are hints of a tango by Gardel, or maybe a ranchera of Chavela Vargas. I particularly remember an endless debate sull'Aquarius, an energy supplement on the market just at the time, that the observance from the outside, without an exact understanding of the language, and with the window slightly open, closing his eyes for a moment, one could imagine sitting at a cafe on the Rio de la Plata, in the company of Borges, Galeano, Cortazar and Soriano, Fernando in the hand and the salty sea wind to mess up his hair. But in reality it was much better, because the devil in literature, at the end of the trip was playing football, and those you know to put in front of the Argentine goalkeeper touches with metaphysical doubt that those writers have never counted among their qualities.

Similarly, sitting around the dining table from Laura, waiting to perform the ritual of dell'ingozzamento pasta alla norma (say the standard for simplicity, in reality it was a pasta mythopoeic, almost five meals at the same time, complessissima work and sweet, the gastronomic equivalent of a hard Broadcast), the four Saccardi debate with arancine of Palermo. Influenced by local arancine met in Favignana, unanimously approved high level, and stressed from my personal memories of a summer outing at the time of middle school, when we spent a week in a convent of nuns in a remote village in the mountains of Palermo and modernity and, above all, we discovered the hot kiss un'arancina the flesh of freshly baked from the bar when the square is about to set, the Saccardi found themselves involved in a heated dispute about which was the best arancina of their city. Beyond the content-for me, not knowing Palermo, stuffed like a squid inextricable doubt that I'll bring back to the next visit to St. John of the Hermits (it's really that good arancina the bar Scimone, or is it better than the bar Rosanero? But the bar Scimone may participate in this competition although, in reality, a pastry shop? And also the fact which is only a few arancine day, if you go in the afternoon already do not find them, not disqualified from the game? It should then be able to participate, and probably win, even the mother of Mark, that its forty arancine of the year, however, turns out? arancine And the chefs offer catering Palermo, apply, and why it is so decayed the historic bar Alba?) - the look was gorgeous for me to hear about the four young artists, and find, in the atmosphere for smoking languidly empty their speeches, the spirit of those trips on Renault Four, the conversations of the four Argentine-chance that - four years ago, and update what you once told me his friend Fernando in Madrid: can you imagine what must be Buenos Aires, a city full of Argentines who speak of nothing all the time? I can imagine , as now I can imagine what must be Palermo, when it is time dell'arancina.

Argentina, as Sicily, are places extremes. The south, at least from a literary point of view, it always is. Saccardi I know this extremism and sat on him, deride him, respect him. From Trapani to Palermo, not even one hundred kilometers away, I counted a dozen fires on either side of the highway. The fire licked the fields, mountains, houses, but gave me the impression that it was a normal thing, that people there did much attention. Probably sitting around a table, seized by the smell of frying eggplant, were all too busy talking about arancine to call the Fire Department.

This existential extremism, this macabre taste for contrasts, this cult of the outburst, the last resort of the desperate, converted into artistic genre is finally visible in Favignana, otherwise too idyllic place, in the restored Tonnara or, more precisely, in the former premises of Florio Favignana tuna and Formica. Referring to Le Corbusier, who, from the Victorian, when asked what was the most beautiful monument that Rome offered his view, he answered without hesitation, and with good reason, the Gazometro, also Favignana Tuna fishery is one of the shows more suggestive that Sicily whole sell. I'm sorry for the Villa del Casale, the Theatre of Taormina, the Cathedral of Monreale, I'm sorry for Ragusa-Ibla, the oasis of Vendicari to Cefalù, Caltagirone and the whole Val di Noto, but a more beautiful place the tuna fishery has never seen. Almost put it back (and in that "almost" lurks a further touch of charm, imprisoned in the chipped tiles stacked in warehouses still dark in black and white), is a superb example of how the industry is actually archeleogia our modern humanism, a past whose lights were left on and are impossible to extinguish. Dazzles the majesty of the complex, situated on the sea and protected from the mountain, as the lion sleeps in the cage, the lion represented the entrance to the factory thirsty flora and tuna cans, with the arches of the boathouse, which illuminated the night, appear ready to open mouth the tuna that goes through Egadi distracted, thinking of being in an aquarium.

Saccardi I sleep in the trap and after lunch we go to get them to go bathe in transparent Preveto, or as a coating of clay in Cala d'Azur. It 's a pleasure to late-summer and late adolescence, as well as late afternoon, I heard about crazy things, crazy people, cities unlivable, of nights in Estonia. Locked without keys, in the gilded prison of tuna, wonderful as you want but at the same time scary as hell, with all those empty spaces, the constant noise of the waves, the tubs of cooking, the smokestacks mute, hooks " Wood "cages hanging from the rafters as they hang from the facade of the cathedral of Munster, elements of a hard and thankless as the skin of tuna fishermen, populated by esoteric characters like the old caretaker in his life has never left the island, the curator mystic, the head Satanist, musicians luciferin, tourists dall'abbronzatura grotesque, if they choose the theme of the installation with which to crown the residence, they only make the right choice most extreme, most of Sicily. Of all the stages of production of tuna, the slaughter of sea separating the corridor from Favignana Levanzo to cooking and canning, their eyes full of farce and tragedy, of oranges and religion, sicilianitudine butter, focuses on cruelest moment, what they call the "death chamber", which is also the watershed between the catching and cooking, of waiting room of heaven (or hell) of tuna, the last The residue remaining on the bottom lies the soul of tuna.

Saccardi of the death chamber is the cross of St. Peter, patron saint of fishermen, the cross on the contrary, that apparently meant to be blasphemous, there are demons who tend the nets waiting for the souls of visitors we end up in tuna as ignorant, there are the old original doors of tuna recovered in some dark warehouse, there are lions who drink, there are symbols and holy pictures, colors and shapes, eyes and the words, there are the jazz musicians playing experimental music, and visitors who do not understand contemporary art and Saccardi the dancing with their friends, there is a statue of a temple, the sea of \u200b\u200bslaughter, there is a God, there is room and there is death, there are tuna and the blood and the epiphany of a rite that goes back forever and ever, our fight, there is gold and there is wood, there is the end of summer, yet another summer (and they call it summer) and there's everything else, but lack the arancine. Maybe because you are not yet decided on what are the most good of all Palermo, and must be discussed a little more, 'till next summer at least.

Pcv Pipe From Freezing

Back to Arevalo, with Jaime Gil de Biedma

Avila For there is not much to see, nor much to do. The problem is not just the cold that is not enough of ' winter and tries to invade the seasons that are close. And 'that over the mighty medieval walls, to go along the perimeter, occasionally stopping to watch towers on the storks that nest in the spire of the cathedral and to contemplate the horizon to clear up snow-capped peaks of the Sierra de Gredos, there are just places souvenir of Santa Teresa-home, school, convent-and-heavy-flavored dishes of the most genuine castle kitchen. Like many other towns in Castilla y Leon, Avila has not developed a truly new wealth, a modern taste, offering contemporary restaurants, museums, theaters, shopping, and remained suspended in a timeless, without style, basically anodyne. Condemned to be always stage of transition and destination of a trip, the traveler has only dusty windows, people are silent, empty streets, shuttered, the elderly reading the newspaper. Luckily there was the magnificent Parador in which to spend an entire night to read poems in the lounge with a fireplace, without feeling even for a moment the temptation to go for a walk. Imagining all this, on Sunday morning I had already bought two train tickets to Arevalo. We had breakfast of bread and tomato, tortilla, manchego cheese and ham, washed down with milk, coffee and orange juice, and during the next forty minutes of track little uneven cooking regretting a lot of courage.

When he last exam to become a diplomat in the mid-fifties, Jaime Gil de Biedma probably already guessed that it would never come out the winner from the Escuela diplomacy. The article had just appeared in Paris, signed by Vicente Aleixandre, one of the protagonists, along with poets Alberti, Garcia Lorca, Cernuda-generation of '27, not exactly an intellectual pro-Franco, in which one could read the prophecy that Jaime Gil de Biedma would become the best English-language poet of the second half of the twentieth century, it was not a good business card in a way linked to the scheme. Ironically, Gil de Biedma was rejected in its composition and English culture - not bad for those who would actually become the most important poet of his generation. And so, come the last race, Gil de Biedma gave you a joke worthy of Dali. When asked him to explain in a theme attractions of that city, as aspiring diplomat, most embodied his ideals, while the other candidates praised the charm of the boulevards of Paris, 'elegance of the London parks, the sweetness of the ruins of Rome or the monumental buildings of Vienna, Gil de Biedma compose a thoughtful description of the country dedicated to Arevalo, insignificant town in the province of Avila. That place that, having read this story in his biography , more than any another wanted to know since I set foot in Madrid.

Gil de Biedma has always been a hybrid being, constantly straddling two (or more worlds). Son of the most chic urban bourgeoisie of Barcelona, \u200b\u200bdivided his time between dell'Exaimple the comforts and the great country house of Nava de la Asuncion, dispersed in a barren wasteland not far from Segovia and, of course , Avila. Above all, his childhood, the one branch of the spring when the memories settle before being brought to light, not without difficulty, with the verses of age (Gil de Biedma together Gabriel Ferrater, was the most polished exponent of poetry called the current experience), had as privileged scene, while all around was burning Spain in the Civil War, the retreat of Nava castellano . Among the many images of the past-the plaza mayor of Segovia, the Castle of Coca, the towns of Riofrio and Turégano be reached on horseback or with sand-colored mehari, Arevalo was one of the most popular. There was the window display of antique shops, the castle, the Plaza de la Villa, abbeys and churches. Looking at those Mudejar architecture rich in detail, the streets you could still easily imagine the presence of the ghosts of Muslim notables. Stopping at any of the inns in the center, we plunged into a gourmet feast, with cochinillo, cocido, nuts, cheese, cakes, whipped. A magical, surreal, melancholy, the only world he could understand a restless spirit like his. Too bad the intelligence of the academic authorities, snobbish and humorless, not could come to that.

The first sensation was that of being in one of the squares in Italy represented by Giorgio De Chirico. A large oval plaza, earthy, quiet, empty, eerie, surrounded by majestic red-brick churches of the fourteenth century, San Miguel, El Salvador, San Martín, the Twin Towers. The space is more metaphysical that has ever happened. It was only the dummies and the Mysterious Baths. That square was the emblem of a country that was once great, powerful, rich, who had given birth to Isabella of Castile and the most beautiful Mudejar architecture of the region, and is now reduced to abandonment, to oblivion, to be applied more stark condemnation of the past. The center is uninhabited, the churches are dreamy, the castle is closed with barricades, under the arcades of the square of buildings there are only old wooden shutters locked with padlocks on the course of the facades of the buildings are left baronial die under the weight of wrinkles, antique shops die with their owners. similar impression can be proved only in some villages of Sicily, Piazza Armerina, Caltagirone, Gangi, where gattopardeschi buildings reduced to rubble, where the baroque splendor of the interior, however, can see through some broken windows, as in that evocative installation Manfredi Beninati, or studying the pomposity of coats of arms on the doors, live quietly with the flagship building of the abuses of the Seventies, those olive-green plaster squalid buildings, chipped the terraces and on paraoble ; roof. While we were eating with Laura a chuletón sitting at a table outside a restaurant in the central square, with local couples who swarmed from the Mass to the vermouth aperitif, praising the sun for Arevalo Avila denied, I thought that this country In fact, there really, but it was just the scenario most famous poem in the Jaime Gil de Biedma, No volvere a ser joven :

Que la vida iba en

a serious

the empieza to comprehend Màs late

como todos los jovenes-

, yo vine a

llevarme la vida por Delante.

trace and then wanted to leave applause

-aging, dying, were only

the dimensions of the theater.

But time has passed

and unpleasant truth looms:

aging, dying,

is the sole argument of the work.

Passeggiare a domenica mattina per le strade di polverose Arevalo, sorprendendosi per l'eco della propria voce che tra le chiese rimbalza mute, AIUTA to ricordarsi piccola di verità che è a toujours opportun portarsi dietro, come il rest nella tasca della notte di anteriore a cappotto, and EEOC Quello che niente di che we can do in our lives make us younger. Gil de Biedma knew, and therefore, arrived at the threshold of maturity, he decided that there was nothing that was worth saying, and he stopped writing . He thought he wanted to be a poet, but, instead, what we basically wanted was to be a poem. In one way or another, in his adventurous life experience, day manager of the largest multinational corporation in his country, quell'esotica Compañía de Tabacos de Filipinas who opened the doors of the slums of the East and the moral and material eyes on bigotry prevailing in his country, in which men preferred the uninhibited and playful camaraderie between them piutosto to go with frigid women who get bored at the time, and at night unrepentant homosexual bon vivant of the demi-monde of Barcelona, \u200b\u200bdivided between the slopes Barrio Chino hell in that ghetto hustlers and rejected yesterday and today lined with fashionable minimalist lounge-bar, and lift the cool of the upper town, on the nights of alcohol, and records conversations with friends of the School of Barcelona, ; the publisher Barral, Goytisolo brothers, the writer Mars, perhaps he succeeded.

Even I, for Arevalo, I had the feeling of being inside one of his poems, Volver . Not surprisingly, the subject brought back from a youth spent the spring in Barcelona which are attached is an elegant beige book that collects the entire poetic production Jaime Gil de Biedma, Las personas of the verb . As you can imagine, is the parting gift of a person with whom I shared long walks through the streets of Gracia, starry night huddled on improvisation in the rooftop pool and inedible paellas university canteen. My memories are now pictures of her, taken in an instant: the expression of tender and a touch of the eyes, a certain sweetness nell'inflessione voice, yawns thieves who slept badly last night by bus. Re-read the verses of the poem today, with post-it notes inform me that I was not the only one to know certain emotions, I am consoled by the fact that one day, the years passed, it will return that sweet happiness of being and remember that I, as Arevalo, have changed.

What Is It For Quadriderme

Be Sr. Chinarro (Malaga, or wherever)

There are places that can only be defined as magnetic , because there comes a certain point in life when their attraction becomes irresistible, and the set of fragments that have marked our knowledge far comes together suddenly in a high-speed train ticket. Malaga is, for me, one of these places. In the beginning was the taste of ice cream with raisins, labeled during the 'childhood as bizarre and antiquated, halfway between the Smurf and trifle nell'espositore bar Peas, then the song was Fred Bongusto , recorded by my father with exotic (for the goal, which seemed so far away from the boy) and nostalgia (for past years), and there was Antonio Luque, who had decided to live there. What's more, while Madrid was lashed by the icy wind, I reached the last two signals: an article of the insert of the trips he told El Pais elegant "Malaga of the English" and, above all, the notes of my (future) friend Cristina for a weekend warmed by the sun, the beach and the anchovies to the fire, which began alla coltellata Schiena eats, ovvero di specchio what Quei miei giorni inutili e infreddoliti "leaves Madrid a snowy (or whatever), a cold milk and body so badly that hard to believe that unless a hour by plane (insufferable, yes) is a land of wind and sunny terraces full of fried fish friendly, paella y. .. people! . " Chiesi

in turn is was vero, Malaga is important meritava aspettative, and you Risposte dei miei amici unanimously implacabile Furono a getto d'acqua sul mio gelato lanciato enthusiasm città è brutta, modern charm senza , niente to do with the other Andalusian capital, Seville, Cordoba, Granaba, Cadiz, the better the charm of the little Mudejar then Ronda, Marbella or glamorous, but do not go to Malaga. Obviously, I did not believe any of them. It could not be a place so sad. I felt it. My Malaga raisin ice cream knew, of whispered sweet "in that old house from the patio, the atmosphere of Chinarro Sr., beaches and pescaìtos fritos. So Tired to turn around, while I was calle Zurbano back and forth four times a day, and to confine to immaginare, per Dirl with her parole di Cristina, " the infinite strip bars and beach, boats steaming skewers and paella always freshly made, fried fish and dogs rested is El Palo," arrivasse Pasqua che aspettai e che arrivasse Laura, and finally, with the Sahara, the flax Camicia di spirito e il mio miglior colonialist Salii high velocità sul treno ad (che anche per me è più che l'aereo "insufferable") , in picchiata paese verso il sud of, arso di scoprire curiosità dalla ragione chi AVEVA is i miei amici or Fred Bongusto.

In reality, there is no need to exit the station to Malaga for an answer. Just off the train. The sea air we breathe already in April. Light. The heat. The pace of life. The smiles. Signs. The rest is a sweet confirmation. The focus of the driver. The ruined buildings with plaster. The shops ultramarinos. Nazarenos The cap in hand to meet for the journey, to busy to reach the start of the procession. The plaza de toros of Malagueta, suffocated by skyscrapers cheesy. The houses perched on Mount Victoria, protected highest Gibralfaro, simple but chic houses with bougainvillea-style caprese. The grand Alcazaba Arab. The scent of jasmine. The terrace of the hotel room decadent family. The wisteria. The pleasure of sitting waiting for the sunset, with wet hair, the sea breeze, and the whole town lying on the eyes.

And 'there are two kinds of travelers: those who travel for tourism, and those who travel and just, and Malaga, thank goodness, tourism is subject to Indian pale northern Europeans. And then we, beautiful, educated and tanned, fit colored espadrilles descended on foot toward the center, cutting to the steps "that seem to be at Via Tragara", intoxicated by the scent of flowers and led by one of the candles, and the layer of wax left on the ground. As Tom Thumb, retracing the path of the Nazarene with the purple robe, and around a corner, coming in the middle of a procession, We crouched on the edge and waited for the passage of the great throne of wood and gold, with the suffering Christ or the Virgin merciful, accompanied steps by hooded men, followed by the shy smiles of children, while the audience crowded in front of us at the bar by the roadside chatting, laughing, waiting for the brotherhood of Antonio Banderas, nibbling pipas and drank tintos de verano, mixing the sacred and the profane with the same nonchalance with which the counter of the bar in Malaga, anise and brandy are mixed to create the most divine Andalusian drink, the sun y sombra. Anyway, it is Easter, and I ask for a loan-to large-Clerici could not be there, in our youthful adventures in our sporting life , the season of the processions.

Incense dissolves and the sea approaches, and the smell is left overwhelmed by anchovies on grilled toasts that obtained in an abandoned wooden boat on the beach. The old decaying structure of baños del Carmen, with its columns now only decorative spike on the rocks, welcomes us with a beer on the table in red plastic to rest, after walking for hours along the sea, through the neighborhoods of Palo and Pedregalejo their humble colored houses with a plan close to the sea "as Italy sixties", the fish restaurants with waiters vintage men chiringuitos with deck chairs, dogs without leashes, people relaxed, with shirt pants, belly and short hair slicked. We drink a manzanilla with Piglet, the symbol of the city bodega, fainting in creamy salmorejo, a symbol of quality of life without equal. We stopped to buy pistachios, raisins and olives into the huge grocery store without an old age, he and groceries, and olives the fish one by one in a plastic barattolone full of brine, and are very good, fleshy, like a kiss after a race. Exhausted, we arrived at the end of the walk was over as if the world dies the beach in front of a wall, a bar with its peeling walls extends to the water tables, a drink you at all hours, a boat passing on the horizon, the sunlight reflecting off the water and lying on the bench, a couple of hours asleep, I look to escape from under the book by Ray Lorimer, and your neck, to put it with Chinarro Sr., is the mirror of the fairies.

Yeah, Sr. Chinarro. I was convinced that Antonio Luque lived in Seville, where he was born and where he recorded all his records until the recent turn of pop de El fuego amigo , and instead a couple of months before losing to Malaga I'm lucky to know the Circulo de Bellas Artes, the Gran Via madrileña glorious building, during a concert Darren Hayman, the legendary Jesús Llorente, with its unmistakable appearance (more on that hipster nerd) shaving-glasses, plaid shirt. Llorente has for me the stigmata the saint and the faith of the missionary because it was he, in 1993, to fall in love so much of Sr. Chinarro who decided to found a tiny label, Acuarela , only to publish his first obscure, cryptic, beautiful work. Today Acuarela is a musical reality affirmed and Sr. Chinarro refuge record has changed, but Jesus and Antonio continue to be friends, and when I approach the first to ask the second, he tells me who called in the afternoon to tell him that his new apartment in Malaga, a few steps from the sea, is so small that when the neighbors Cut the onions to him crying.

New Sr. Chinarro label, Mushroom pillow , has recently re-released all their old records, Antonio Luque those who no longer wants to sing, because, as explained during the program Mapa beautiful sound (when in Italy something?) while he cut hair in peluquera Pepe (the purest in Malaga), "when a director makes a movie at the cinema you go to see just that, and not a collage with his older movies, and I wish it were that even at my concerts, I play only the new record. "buy, listen and read the texts is not only a pleasure, but a real moral imperative. It 'Sr. Chinarro that you do not listen, or at least not only that, Sr. Chinarro because you , Malaga, Rome or wherever, why is nothing but a way of life. He is wrong also a famous journalist and writer, normally lit, which had no little weight in my literary education, when I wrote " resize it: Sr. Chinarro mind helping me, but I do not think like you do the new Bach-Wagner-Puccini-Beethoveen ." The point is not that is, the point is naturally the inevitable losses in its mysterious phrases, elliptical, seemingly unrelated, covertly ironic, bitter, poetic, imaginative, and redundant references popular costumbrista words magic buying new meanings, related by the disenchantment of the memories and the passing daily.

Moreover, Luque worked in a factory for snacks, was a painting, with its sullen expression, his manners clumsy, and it was unbearable to accept to live a second life an artist in the shadow of reality, or vice versa, with the employees to blame who recognize and confess fans. The discs come so hard, difficult and lonely in the first years of this decade, La primera obra envasada to vacío , ventrilocuo El mismo de yes and Cobre cuanto antes , which displace and disappoint the critics after the small successes of the previous albums ( El por qué de mis peinados and Nosèquè noseècuàntos ) waiver because Luque dell'acordeòn colors, keyboards, melodies of his Belmonte and female choirs, to return to do it all alone, filling the guitar melodies rough stony, bare essentials, which you and chase dissipate like the smoke of candles on the move, as the smell of incense in the aisles of Manquita , the Cathedral of Malaga, such as horses in the rain, and adorned with his prose elusive. Those are hard to start, because they are the most sincere. Disintegrates the concept of the song (as well as in his recent literary debut, with two stories Socorro , Antonio Luque ha ha fato what you Regole della stesso with narrative), only frasi che sono senza susseguono if a logical, if susseguono brani senza che a ritornello, dischi senza che if a singolo susseguono radio.

E 'interiors Percorso conosco che l'ironia (" misses will not know the answer / Prussia is a territory or a beacon of free taxis? "), l'amore (" on the trampoline to the pool, June from left, your neck is the mirror of the fairy "), nostalgia (" have no idea of \u200b\u200bthe wind blowing "), l'assurdo (" Sundays in the field, paella passed to the other side of forest drama / I did nothing, I keep llena el coche de Latas de Fanta machacadas "), the daily visions, that make sense or not (an oil-stained clothes, a la plancha chipirones, dogs that are lost in parks or parking lots of Burger King, houses buried by vegetation, lost the final songs, pineapple falling on the beach ..) and is transformed, sublimated into a universal language which, once it is recognized as their own, you can not go back. And then I have the Chinarro Sr., as are Aki Kaurismaki, as are Robert Rauschenberg, because their works are my way of dealing with life and my life is in their works, and this I Did I Antonio Luque told, in the bathroom of a club minimalist Pamplona, \u200b\u200bafter a concert, but who knows if the will understand, while washing his hands, and gave me a sheet with the text of a new song.

At the end of games, then, is right Peruvian writer Sergio Galarza, said that when his girlfriend calls him "el Sr. Tristarro says Tío que no hay que cante sad más como él, "while he, in fact," es más que otra melancholy thing, "because it teaches Nikolas, melancholy is the happiness of being sad, and nothing is Sr. Chinarro over more than Malaga, most of this life. Even Fred Bongusto had understood everything, since 1963: "My love and 'born in Malaga Malaga Malaga / My heart remains in Malaga Malaga Malaga / In that old house from the patio / how many sweets I whispered / In that night big fiesta / I have given you my heart all the love . It took me a little longer, but the result was the same, just because I knew Malaga, even my heart is still there and one day when I will know what to do with it, I'll take it back, maybe ; in a song by Mr. Chinarro.

Covering Letter For Dealership

Death in Murcia (it is very shoegaze)

(Klaus & Kinski)

The event always takes a hand and so the causality is due to the fact that I discovered the existence of Murcia, capital of the community English Autonomous overlooking the Mediterranean. Causality in question are the English teachers that I had to Cervantes, almost all coming from there, and mythological love of their city as only migrants can be, so all of us to infuse students with the irrepressible curiosity to visit Murcia, painted in our eyes nor more nor less than heaven on earth. That time coincided with the time to choose the destination of Erasmus, delicate decision because unique, and I, on the one hand, imbued with the gourmets speeches of my teachers and other naturally attracted by things that no one knows, not I had no hesitation in pointing Murcia as a favorite, and it was only for bureaucratic insistence of the head of which pointed to half-heartedly, as Barcelona's best-known reserve. But then, I wondered, who else will ever ask to go to Murcia? And so I spent the fall to imagine the Spring in a decaying house in Murcia, including patios, tiles, decorative Mudejar and interior gardens, palm trees dried by the scorching sun, the sand lifted from the south-east Africa, the fish sold at two cents from the market and the endless walks along the seafront, the lazy afternoons on the beach, in short, my personal Death in Venice, until I received the university's response: I had won inter-envy-General to go to , Barcelona. The thing seemed impossible, inexplicable and disappointing, the result of a mistake, and instead was the reality: my good wishes, I had driven to the Catalonia, the most sought after destination, frustrating my dreams of glory on the bohemian and pauperistic Manga Menor-knows-where someone else would have landed. Needless to say, in Barcelona I enjoyed it so much, and while I was there I also discovered that Murcia is anything but a pleasant place: paesone agriculture without history, without Andalusian patios, and even without a sea ! Another misconception that I told myself walking through the streets of Gracia, this was a real danger escaped. Therefore, even for revenge against the lies of my old teachers, having toured extensively in Spain in Murcia I've never set foot, or I was left with no residual curiosity.

Even now that I've found that Murcia is home to the best shoegaze Iberian group, the formidable & Klaus Kinski . Not even to visit the places from Spain which runs deep in the video Nunca estas to the hill, the best song from their debut album ( You Hoguera està Ardiano ), because an anonymous commentator indicates that on youtube it is really of Elche, a town of the sea surrounding the province of Alicante, and then, if they decide not to set their video to Murcia, I why should I spend a weekend? Yet, Klaus & Kinski are fantastic, impossible to remove from the head, as well as proof that it is better to have subcultures cut with a hatchet (to them) that have not at all (by us), better to have hipster jamon y queso bori rather than with the radical chic or down size bonsai. Impastato the melancholy of My Bloody Valentine , tones of Yo La Tengo and the sweetness of Camera Obscura, and stained bolero acoustic guitars, pop heterogeneous group of Murcia-electric rather than electronic-found consistency in the voice of its singer, who appears in his deadpan irony disenchanted (starting from the initial El Cristo del Perdon ) but under the helmet, the look still and the vintage dress, trembling with romance, shyness and fear (and it touches you in Lo que no mata care ).

If you imagine a shoegaze scene Murcia takes me a lot of imagination (but still less than what I need to figure in Rome ..), is even greater effort to think Thomas Mann in Extremadura, when I listen to their relentless Muerte en Plasencia , perhaps the only song that brings them closer musically to the label Elefant , the Mecca of pop naive English, which distributes them (a publican is Jabalina ). Will Laura with us because we were in Plasencia, Jerte coming from the bridge over the river, thus having to face the same background that the great Joaquin Sorolla used almost a century ago to paint the pig market in the city , one of the great resources Extremeña (from there, still, comes perhaps the best jamon de bellota the country), and there seemed to be a highly spiritual place. The majestic building that now houses the luxurious parador a handful of baronial palaces, churches and convents, the twist of the typical arcade plaza mayor, more that stand out as vestiges of a glorious past, a Catholic and aristocratic, they seem caught up in the modern context, anonymous and poor, rather than to question the meaning of life and death, the shops of salami, cheese and oil to push 'unbridled hedonism, at least one gourmet.

yet, up the valley of Jerte from Plasencia to the west, towards the Castilla, existentialism of Klaus Kinski & returns immediately to mind. It tells sincerely the rural atmosphere of a bell ' article Travel insert that comes out on Friday with El Pais, El Viajero, who read a day before a Berenjena rellena in my second home in Madrid (the eternal Guitarrista Communist , restaurant more Castizo the city), led me to rent the car and make two hundred kilometers to the east, to see live is the effect that the fall in Extremadura, a region abandoned at the border with Portugal. And so we slept in the castle that houses the Parador de la Vera Jarandilla, reading the newspaper in the same rooms where Charles V had stopped to rest, along the carretera joining as dots in a forgotten puzzles all the villages in the valley, with chilies hanging from the balconies resting on rickety wooden columns, and walls covered dall'eternit workshops filled with canned tomatoes, jams, honey, cheese, chestnuts, paprika and black pudding patateras; through small waterfalls (they call gargantas , gorges), carpets wet leaves, stretches of cherry trees (which in the spring color of white hills, and far seems to have just snowed), visited the German cemetery of Cuacos de Yuste, hidden in a nook between the bends, where German soldiers are buried who died in two world wars on the coasts and lands in English cause of the sinking of their ship or killing of their aircraft, remember all without distinction un'asutera with dark granite cross, and as a spiritual climax, and then contemplate the serene perfection of the view that dominates the monastery of Yuste, where Charles V decided to retire in the last years of his life and especially death. If this is not a death in Plasencia, a little (way) we missing.

What then, has always struck me that the interpretation of Death in Venice (or at Plasencia, is the same) has given Alejandro Rossi in a chapter of his Manual of distraìdo . He writes that when the Mexican philosopher Gustav von Aschenbach, collapsed-after-supper in his chair on the terrace, looking at the horrible, blatant, grotesque spectacle offered by the street musicians came unexpectedly in the hotel, decided not to stand , not to leave, because they see adverts in a universe messy and ambiguous. Contemplates them, and realize that Venice, wonderful and putrid, are actually those actors beggars, those clowns, which in turn is the "desire", the other bank, denied the reality (namely, his love for the young Tadzio). According to Smith, when Aschenbach asks the player if Venice is now plagued, what if they want to know is symbolic of his desire-are sick you està pregunta es necesaria para satisfacerse acept the Destruction, maquillarse dear, a de convertirse en ellos. The answer is ambiguous, however, Aschenbach captures the sense and when he decides, as in a dream, to enter that area you dye your hair and turns her face was transformed into a fictional character. To see how anything the matter in the end, after the cathartic laughter with guests, the musicians take off their masks and "expose" the farce, the comedy that had personified, why Aschenbach finally receives the gaze of Tadzio and it remains to only on the terrace, and this is the only thing that counts for him.

Death, or at least his image, to be a recurring thought among hispter Murcian (as was the bible for hipster in Glasgow, according to Stuart Murdoch), if also the legendary Lydia Damunt , compatriot Klaus & Kinski and most Western character of the English indie scene can not fail to wear their shoes when interpreting his songs chapped. In addition to bringing the tuba on his head, neck harmonica, guitar in hand, pandereta ankle, also the lead singer of Hello Cuca often sports a carnival costume skeleton, from which emerge only lost his eyes and his messy fringe, as in Bergman (chess game included) video Echo begin to run, shot in the incredible scenery of the desert that lies between Murcia and Almeria, so dusty, desolate and full of agave as to echo the words of Sr. Chinarro ("no acudieron Buitres, pues también habìan muertos"). Perhaps then it is no coincidence that death is always linked to a geographic south as well as metaphysical, and now that I think if all those years ago I did not end in Murcia, it is only because-obviously-for me it was not yet time to die. The day that I feel ready, the day when I can no longer bear (to put it in the words of visionary Alfred Kubin) Anti-expressing the forces of attraction and repulsion, the poles of the earth with their currents, the changing of the seasons, day and night, the white and black, that "hell is that that this double game is stretched out heard us, "I'll know where to go, rent a car, put the disk & Klaus Kinski, and without air conditioning, will head south towards Murcia, and I will not be (the) only.

American Tourister Openen

PRADA FRAGRANCE

http://www.prada.com/fragrances
clicking on the link you can request a sample of the perfume PRADA:
menu, select "l'eau amber, select item, try it on.