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CRISIS - Nothing New

Being in Berlin I had a chance to visit the Jewish Museum, hosted inside the wonderful building designed by Daniel Liebeskind like an open wound in the soil and in the soul of a city made of scars and cuts that could never be healed. While in there I had a strange feeling of déjà-vu.

The museum seeks to tell the story of the people of Abraham since the very beginning, following their continuous migration until reaching what we today call Germany.

The most interesting section of this historic path is the one that's closer to us chronologically. The one that tells of the last century and of the attempts of the Jewish people to seek integration and acceptance in German society until National Socialism took control and led to the bursting of WWII. Narration in the museum does not stop there but goes on with describing new attempts to integration, to a new life after the Holocaust.

It seems that general conditions in Germany, in Europe and in the whole Western World, right before WWII, were not at their highest point (especially since the 1929 crisis had left deep wounds in those countries' economies) generating the obvious search for the responsible ones for such drop.

When things go wrong we have the tendency to easily point our finger, we need to identify the causes or, better said, blame someone. The simplest path in the process of distributing responsibility is always the witch hunt, that seems to repeatedly find new life in history, only through different forms or shapes. Witches this time would be the Jews, considered the cause of Germany's poverty and lack of jobs.

The different, the immigrant, the one who steals from the local, a global economic crisis, general unhappiness and fear of the future. To top all this a spreading ignorance and the consequent rising of extreme right wing political parties.

I am positive I am not the first one to think of this nor say anything about it but I believe it's not a bad idea to be repetitive when it comes to it.

My question is one and simple: does it ring a bell?

THE DAY STEVE JOBS SAVED MY LIFE

The day started with the wrong foot. And I have all the right to say so since that same foot, a few hours later, would be broken... this is how it went.


I am home trying to configurate my MobileMe application on my shiny iPhone 4. I am sure I am doing the right thing by taking one step ahead in the Apple world. While I play with my mobile and my MacBook to synchronize the two, the only one button of the former stops working. Relaxation techniques soon come in handy. Breathing deeply makes the whole shock lighter to bare. 


I try rebooting, re-installing the operative system, nothins works. I access google maps in search of the nearest Apple Store. Not really "nearest" but I find one. I arm myself with patience and take a metro ride to it. The journey seems to last hours but I take it as a test and start preparing myself for iPhoneless days.


I finally reach the giant shopping center where the Apple Store is and start looking for it. As in every respectable fairytale help only shows up at the end. So did the store, located at the furthest end of the mall.


As I see it from far away I have to refrain myself from running to it. I take control of my actions and calmly approach the Mecca.


It is all white and shiny. The color only cleanness has. It is a big open space. Sounds seem to soften or disappear. My attention focuses straight away on the Genius Bar, the help desk, at the end of the long path I need to walk to get to it.
The feelings that overwhelm me can only be expressed in white. 


I am attracted to the Genius Bar as if I were hypnotized. While I cross the store I cannot focus on what is around me but I perceive perfection in the forms of MacBook's, iPad's, iPod Touch's and their holy gadgets. I understand there are other people, many, but cannot fully see them.


I keep walking straight and head directly to the counter with the despair and hope of a truly devoted customer. I am stopped by a woman with a peace bringing device in her hands. She asks what I need and she checks me in for an appointment after only three minutes.


I don't have to wait very long before my name is called. I put the iPhone in the hand of a stranger that I am entrusting with a piece of my heart with the hope typical of the faithful.


"The phone is actually broken, he says, it'll be quicker for me to replace it rather than have you wait a long time before having it back. Your information will be lost".


I accept his words like a dogma.


In only 5 minutes I am already walking out of the store. I have my new device in my hands, a new iPhone without the bumps and scratches I caused on the other one, a second chance to perfectly shaped happiness.


I want to run out, I am afraid they will change their mind and realize what a mistake it was to entrust me again with such privilege. I am as excited as a baby on Christmas day.


Once I am home I connect it to my laptop to find out no information was lost and that everything was stored into iTunes. With one click all the info is back on my new phone.


Later the same day I would go performe in one of Barcelona's most central theatres. One hour before the show I would mark a jump, land, slip, and crack a bone in my foot. The morning after I would get surgery to my right foot and be given lots of "still" days. Thanks to my Apple devices time has flown by since and I have not had time to be bored or have terribly depressing thoughts about being a dancer with a broken foot.


I thank Steve Jobs's genius for this and his bars all over the world.
And forgive me Steve for I have sinned, because I have not stood in line the day the iPad2 came out in stores. But that is only because I actually cannot stand, yet.

WELCOME HOME

About 300 years ago writers, philosophers and artists from all over Europe travelled to Italy to discover its beauty and live and breathe centuries of art and culture. With their slow carriages they crossed an entire continent, riding for many weeks, facing the unexpected with the goal of being repaid by southern treasures.


I travel regularly to Italy, to go back home. I turn on my Mac, I connect to the internet, I visit a couple of websites to search for the lowest fare and puff when once again Ryanair beats any other company when it comes to cheap fares.


We all agree. The initial enthusiasm for the company that introduced low-cost flights in Europe has died long time ago. Today Ryan means stricked rules and insidious footnotes that hide behind every contract line. I would not be surprised to find out that a team of psychologists are already studying the typical travel stress caused by flying with the yellow and blue airline.


My trip to Italy begins with the preparation of a hand baggage which must be strictly 20x40x55 with a maximum weight of 10Kg. Unfortunately I do not own Ryanair officially approved suitcases. I pray that my 24x24x50 hand-bag does not raise suspicions at the boarding gate.
The night before the flight I dream of airport controls comparable to Nazi inspections.


I fortunately remember to print my boarding pass at home and avoid paying a mandatory fine of €40 for last minute check-in. Courtesy of Ryanair.


At the airport I do everything possible to disguise my luggage while I carefully scan the equipment of the other passengers. I watch the flight attendants while determining who can pass the luggage test and embark without paying surcharges.
I pass.


The flight is a continuous sale: duty free products, lottery tickets, car rentals, shuttle transfers to and from the airport and much more. A hostess draws the attention of distracted and bored passengers by promising her colleague Paul will demonstrate the use of the aircraft's sauna and jacuzzi. A moment of silence is followed by general laughter, followed by new chatting indicating loss of attention during the instructions for emergency conduct code.


We get to Rome later than scheduled. Luckily I spare myself the 45 minute wait at the luggage belt. Courtesy of Italian Airports.
By the time to I get out the police closes Ciampino airport for unknown reasons. The arrival of firefighters and ambulance follows. I am just glad I am not trapped inside.


I miss the bus to Rome city centre because of my flight's delay and dare to go look for another one. I am assaulted by Roman ticket sellers who lie about the departure time of their bus to Rome.
When the bus finally arrives about 70 passangers rush towards the entrance of the vehicle. With a little wrestling (Al Cogan style) I get on board.There's still a couple of empty seats. We are not moving till the bus is filled like an egg.
Meanwhile, competitor lines arrive. The three cars are parked and now filled with paying passengers.
Everybody checks out the window to make sure their vehicle will be the first to leave the airport.


I am exhausted, frustrated, in Italy since half hour and already wanting to leave. I hate Rome, Romans, Italians.


The bus finally leaves. We get out of Ciampino Airport. On my left side I can see some Roman ruins in the fields. They stand out in the night, lit up in warm orange lights. Above them a few stars. I am calm again. Suddenly I remember why I'm in Italy, what Italy means. I feel like Goethe, like Ingres. I feel good.


At least until I get to Termini where I hop on bus 105 and the inhuman stench pervading my lungs makes it impossible to breathe until my destinantion.


Welcome home. Welcome Home.

MAD CAT - Reality vs. Fiction

A.S.: this post has nothing to do with TV series. I was so exhausted after this experience I couldn't watch any.


Insisting. I think I have learned that stressing does not always bring the result we wish for. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. Last night I wanted to know how to meow to explain a few things to my friend's cat.


The first thing I would have told him is that I'm allergic to cats. This means that over time not only have I learned to keep them at bay to prevent asthma attacks but I also developed a kind of hatred towards the category.


The second thing I would have explained to him is that I locked the room during the night just to avoid he might approach me during my sleep.


And the third thing I wanted to say is that it is useless to try to knock down the living-room's door. Because the animal tried to enter all night and judging by the noise he generated he was at least throwing himself with a cat-catapult. Even meowing pitifully did not work. Because the chair I placed  behind the door as you only see in horror movies and the many other weights I put to counterbalance the brute force of a cat as pissed off as King Kong on top of the Empire State Building had long been designed by my being an animal equipped with opposable thumbs, a brain larger than a walnut, soul and knowledge of the bon-ton (of which the mad cat is definitely unprovided but I have some doubts about the opposable claws).


Add to this that I went to bed at 02:00am because my flight had been delayed and shortly after we got stuck on the highway due to an accident and that at 7.30am I was up and running, the temptation to throw the cat out the window was immense. So insisting did not work this time. 
Actually it does not work with me at all. Because some doctor of the mind with well exposed certificaton said I'm not very spontaneous but actually very methodical, so if I put into my head that I should be asleep and a cat ruins my rest I am victim of significant menthal imbalances. 


The second match is expected tonight. It is rumored that Curry - this is the name of my infamous arch enemy - is getting ready with chemical weapons (about that: once home today I found a smelling gift on the bed as if to say "be very careful ..."). 


I know that I'll lose, my horoscope of the week began like this: "Saturn returns". AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH !!!!!!

AUDITIONING IN ROME - From Naples to the Circus

What I am about to tell does not refer to any TV series or film. Simply because what I saw today was never represented through such media. Maybe James Cameron will arrive there in ten years after inventing advanced technologies and XYZ generation cameras but till today my story could not find representation. 


This morning I had my first audition in Rome. Warned at the last minute about this job opportunity and encouraged by friends who know my laziness when it comes to work hard to get a contract, I showed up at 10.00am on Good Friday of the Easter Holidays of the year 2010 at a gym in Appia Nuova in Rome. 


Although disturbed by the idea of competing in a space not designed for dance but for body conditioning, abs abs abs, aerobics, step and other manic calory burning disciplines I arrive with my not very fashionable jumper to find out, already by the entrance of the building, that I am totally out of place. 


I take a deep breath and pretend not to notice that nobody has a hair out of place, or showed up makeupless or that the new must-have piece of clothing for dancing is a checkered shirt as if we have to dance for Madonna in "Do not Tell Me". Anywy I sign in: No. 65 .

[Non-dancers may not know that the dancers are usually provided at auditions with a little number to be put in a visible place. (Locations chosen by the participants to show the serial number and the support chosen by the organizers to hold such numbers could be subjects to many other posts on this blog)]. Just know that the green Post-it is no better than the yellow Post-it: they just do not stick to fabric, especially if you plan to move with that thing on. And... dance is supposed to be movement. 


However low my spirit is I take this audition as exercise for future ones and decide to try to do well and enter the dance room to warm up. Only ten minutes after I realize that the space, supposed to accommodate up to fifty people, is reaching 200 participants. 


I take another deep breath (the air is lacking) and concentrate. The combination is interesting. I put effort in it despite the fact that from my position I can only see heads and arms of the choreographers. I am confident they will soon announce the exchange of rows so that we would all be able to benefit from a complete picture but I understand straight away that no one will give away the pole position. When I try to take a few steps front I am bounced back by a wall of checkered shirts. 


I begin to get an idea of how it works. While marking (technical term for the action of rehearsing with little effort) I get kicked and punched by the ones around me who are dancing as if it was the premiere.


I am about to give up but then decide that I owe it to myself to learn the combination before going to my doctor's appointement booked in the afternoon. As time goes by I begin to see more clearly. What in Rome people call an audition is very similar to a fight at the fruit market in Naples. You might not raise your voice but you make noises by clapping at anthing that happens around you.


I continue trying while a bunch of breakers do never before seen things and ballerinas are going around with the usual expression of the people who do not want to get on the stilts for the day. Suddenly I realize I am no longer in Naples, but in a circus! But no wait! Wait... look at that one and that one! and that one! and that too! This is Gay Pride!