Days of Being Mild

Yes, I now realize I’m holding a Lazio scarf (and that it is upside down)

It’s been a rigorous social calendar lately...

Thursday: Dinner/Movie Night

I had cooking duty this time

Globalization gone awry: Martin applies wasabi to his quesadilla

I made crispy won tons and soft tacos (sharing my precious Cholula hot sauce imported from the States!) for our weekly dinner and movie night. Sigrid baked a traditional Danish cake, topped with crème fraiche. We watched Flags of our Fathers afterwards since Martin, the guy with horrible movie tastes, left early for a party.

Friday: Party at Nielsenhaus

A very special beverage from Belarus

It was the “Dress like your favorite dictator—just kidding” party at the Kiwi’s spacious flat. If you have a themed party, you can’t make it optional. Nobody dressed up. It’s too bad I chucked my Hugo Chávez costume. I thought, “Why would I need this in Denmark?”

Daniel’s wife, Sara, sporting an interesting shirt dress

Jessica, an American, chats with Fuchun

Chetna is a good sport (and this shot had some accidental lighting/exposure effect)

Thousands of miles away from W’burg and the East Village, hipsters flourish.

Saturday: The Tour des Chambres

A sober start: farmer Sigrid dines with football ref Martin

The much-anticipated Tour des Chambres did not disappoint.

To refresh your memory: the Tour des Chambres involves all members of the suite. Each person picks a theme for her room and decorates it accordingly (costume optional). She also picks an alcoholic beverage to go with that theme. Individuals are assigned cooking, cleaning, or grocery duties. We eat dinner together, and then draw room numbers out of a hat. When your number comes up, you go to your room, prepare the drinks for all members, and invite everyone in. The party continues until we’ve visited all rooms.

Heidi in her goth/cutter outfit; pasta for dinner

This year, we only had six participants (a relief for me; if you know my tolerance level, the thought of my consuming twelve drinks is frightening). Since I have instituted fiscal austerity measures, I opted for something easy: a Brooklyn artist/photographer’s minimalist Williamsburg studio. I wore all black.

Sigrid dressed like a traditional Danish farmer; Fuchun chose a Chinese moon festival theme, complete with moon cakes and Chinese alcohol; Morten had a yuppie, colorful ‘80s room, outfit, and cocktails; Heidi slashed up a shirt and wore leather pants to promote her S&M, goth room (which had knives, scissors, candles, and Marilyn Manson music); and my favorite: Martin’s football room.

Room number 12

The ‘80s room (that blazer is even more horrible in person)

To create a little DIY fun with my lazy theme, I asked each person to use my point-and-shoot Canon to create MySpace-like self portraits. Then I had people pair up and asked them to “surprise me” with a photograph or series of photographs; we then left them alone in my room. The winning team would get some kind of prize. First, the self portraits (I forgot to do mine!):

Next, the team portrait competition:

Team 1: Sigrid & Heidi

Team 2: Fuchun and Martin

Team 3: Robin & Morten (the clear winners; I am wearing his blazer)

The evening’s unrelenting flow of booze pressed on, paused only by a brief midnight feeding frenzy. I almost lost it in the ‘80s room. The cream in the shots of the football room made me reel. I think I had close to nine drinks.

Unintended portrait of my neck

Danish beer

Soused

Welcome to the football room...

ARSENAL!!!!!!

Dancing to Danish music

In the last room (S&M), slurred speech filled the air as we crashed on the animal print blankets, dangerously placed near a tray of candles. Headbanger music raged on. I remember snapping some incriminating photographs of Heidi and Martin.

The final frontier

Playacting? You be the judge.

Martin kept removing my shoes and placing them near the candle flames. He muttered something about fire and velvet, and then stumbled into the hallway. That was his last appearance for the night. Fuchun passed out on the bed, his face obscured by a Dr. Seuss-like Silkeborg football hat. Heidi and Sigrid chatted in Danish.

You are getting veeerrrrrrry sleepy

Update: 6 October 2007
Faithful readers will notice I have removed the remaining portion of this post. It is a mea culpa to expunge from the public record any damning evidence that will surely be used against me for years to come about my already well-documented cluelessness. Much gratitude to the blog’s ombudsman, NP, for steering me straight. And, more importantly: apologies to the affected (and much adored) party, DL.

Ego Almost Full

The beauty of the EPL manager’s club just fell by 500 points

It’s curtains for the Chelsea FC drama starring José Mário dos Santos Mourinho Félix, or the man I like to call “The Hot One.”

The long-standing tension between Mourinho and Russian billionaire owner Roman Abramovich finally culminated in not a bang, but a whisper, on the horrid Chelsea FC Web site: “Chelsea Football Club and José Mourinho have agreed to part company today (Thursday) by mutual consent.”

The way the press has chronicled Abramovich’s lust for the Champions League title conjures up unflattering images of Golem pining away for his “precious.” The relationship survived whilst Mourinho delivered the silverware, but the demands for immediate gratification and the expectations of a feckless billionaire mobster can never be satisfied.

A favorite amongst many experts to reclaim the Premiership title this year, Chelsea FC now await a disruption much bigger than the departure of David Dein and Thierry Henry from Arsenal. How will new manager Avram Grant steer this off-course ship, full of egos big enough to fill ten Emirates stadiums? I look forward to seeing whether or not the age-old tale of blinding power, ego, and resulting hubris will return Chelsea FC to the ground on which it belongs.

Another Urban Chameleon

An impostor tries to challenge my authority!

During last night’s partner university reception, we enjoyed glasses of chilled cuvée with assorted appetizers whilst mingling with professors and administrators. There is a possibility I may spend two years in London instead of one (more on that much later).

Hungry students know how to turn appetizers into dinner

Professor Henrik immediately sought me out by the grand piano. He’s Danish, but completed part of his studies in northern California. The very first day of introductions several weeks ago, I asked a question about the professor-to-student ratio. Afterwards, he introduced himself to me, wanting to know where I grew up. We formed a Californian bond. He is the sort of cool professor you always dreamt about in undergrad: articulate, knowledgeable, and stylish. He has messy blond hair, wears cowboy boots and not-too-ironic tees, and speaks with a devilish accent courtesy of his time spent in America. I challenged him to pick out the other three Americans in the crowd. Aside from choosing a Canadian, he did pretty well.

I had two glasses of wine—the most I’ve had my entire stay in Denmark. Fuchun crossed the room and interrupted my conversation. “You are…very rosy,” he remarked. “Oh no!” I said. “It’s already too late. How red am I?” I frowned. “No, it looks very attractive,” he said in accented English. Fuchun and I are suitemates, if you haven’t already gathered that from previous posts. We talked about Amsterdam and the housing situation.

I looked up and made eye contact with Jigme, who was clearly talking about me with his guest across the room. I walked over. “We were just talking about football and wondering whether or not you are a professional,” he said. “Oh good grief no,” I said. And then I snapped the photo above to get Cristina’s lovely sweater against the green chair backdrop.

We have formed a football team. So far, I am the only woman on the team. Daniel, who is part Danish and part Kiwi, serves as team manager, but he has selected a horrible name: Global United (we are now petitioning a name change). Practice began today; I missed both sessions. So far, we’ve got a Bhutanese, a Salvadoran, a Dutch guy, Daniel, a Nigerian, two Americans, and a Belarusian. My soccer boots are still lost in the post, thanks to the Confederacy of Dunces, a.k.a. the United States Postal Service.

Your tax dollars at work: the USPS marked my package for SWEDEN, not DENMARK (the Dane with the green pen probably had a good laugh).

Oh, and three cheers for RvP, C.Fab, and Eduardo! I am enjoying watching Champions League games at night, as they ought to be watched.

And earlier this week we had a huge vegetarian potluck. These kids can cook.

My stomach was probably shocked from all the great food

Giulia brought a traditional Italian dish: aubergines (yes, they call them that here), tomato, and cheese

Larissa slices into a delicious spinach lasagna

One of three men present, Ricardo understands the new world order: men (who know what’s good for them) cook and clean!

Summer Transfer (updated 24/8/07)

A walk to the Latin Quarter in Århus, Denmark

It’s been a summer of big transfers, with Thierry Henry leaving for Spain and Ryan Babel and Owen Hargreaves now making England their home. As for me, I have (almost properly) settled in Denmark.

Three days in, I’ve learned several key points about living in the land of fair, tall, and angular folk:

• Danes like their rooms hot. It can be a breezy 56º outside, but inside it will be a toasty 78º. I first noticed this when boarding my SAS flight. It was so hot, I had to remove my sweatshirt and fan myself with the plane safety manual for several minutes. This trend continued at the International Secretariat office, the Århus Kommune building (where one registers for a social security number and doctor), and various University buildings.
• Only enter from the back of the bus. Ticket stalls are in the back, and everyone exits from the front. That’s what the word “Udgang” would suggest (as opposed to “Indgang” (entrance). You can buy tickets in increments of ten. One ticket is good for rides within two hours. Nobody checks your ticket regularly, but if you are caught by one of the bus monitors, it’s an instant fine of 550 Danish kroners (~$91).
• Bag your own damn groceries! At the supermarket, avoid being yelled at by taking your basket to the checkout counter and placing the items onto the conveyor belt. Then bag your own groceries and follow the signs to “Udgang.” And...
  
• Plastic bags are not free (at least at grocery stores). This is how the Danish government actively encourages people to conserve. At grocery stores, you do not get a zillion double-bagged groceries that you can just chuck once you stock your refrigerator at home. You have to purchase each plastic bag. That’s why it makes sense to carry your own eco-friendly cloth bags, like the ones I use below.
  
  

• Those weird characters actually mean something. The “Å” creates an “O” sound, so Århus is pronounced “OAR-hus.” The “ø” creates an “oo” sound, as in the street name “Søndergade” or in my place of residence, “Skjoldhøj Kollegiet.” Try saying that quickly.
• Danes are pretty friendly. Follow my lead: smile and ask questions without fear, and you’ll be surprised how quickly people open up. From the airport bus driver to the folks at the University to my Danish flatmates, it’s been one big Help Fest of Fun. You meet more people this way, too.
  
• You will need a PIN with your NEW credit card.
  Yes, in order to making purchases with a credit card, you will need to assign it a PIN. I learned this the hard way when a clerk laughed at me. I made a collect call to my credit card company tonight to assign a PIN. Forget what I said yesterday. I went to Bilka today only to discover that my card still doesn’t work. Luckily I ran into Morten at the store, who saved my ass when the transaction failed to go through. Turns out that pretty much all of Europe and the developing world switched to the smart chip in credit cards, so our backward plastic won’t work in their new machines. I have to make another collect call to my company.
• Don’t pronounce “Copenhagen” like a German. Morten and Martin schooled me on my pronunciation, after declaring that I sounded like a German. The American way to pronounce their capital is “CopenHAIGen,” not “CopenHAHgen.”
• Danish water is fit to drink. Morten (or was it Martin?) told me that they tried to push Brita water filters in Denmark, but it failed. Studies showed that the Brita water was actually dirtier than water straight from the tap, due to the filter’s charcoal deposits. One less expense for me.
• “Open container” laws are for pussies. During our university tour today, we saw many students walking around with open bottles of beer. You will see people walking around in broad daylight carrying booze of all sorts. One guy saw someone get on a bus before 11 AM with a bottle of beer. In a society highly regulated in almost all other aspects, perhaps this one lapse helps explains the Danish fan who consumed twenty beers and attacked a referee during the match against Sweden earlier this year.

Here are some photos from today, during our American trip to the Folk Registry, International Secretariat, and the Latin Quarter.

The main library (with a huge group of freshman)

An amphitheater of sorts (it looks better in person and is surrounded by greenery)

A group of freshman demonstrates the lack of an “open container” policy in Denmark

This cute Bernese mountain dog seemed to walk himself home, several trots ahead of his master. He would pause every now and again to look back (just to make sure).

We stopped at Cecilie’s flat in a cute neighborhood called the Trøjberg. It is in the north of the city near the forest.

The garden through the window

The five of us drank juice in the garden. We heard the sound of water running from a shower, hip-hop music coming from the top floor, a baby crying to the left, and a man singing opera to the right.

Look! I match.

It seems that the Latin Quarter of any city is always the coolest. The same is true here.

I went shopping at Fona for a hairdryer (the essentials were an internet cable, food, and a hair dryer in that order). As you can see, one Olsen twin represents “L.A. Style” (Ashley?), and the other gives props to “N.Y. Chic.” The horror, the horror.

View of the canal on the way back to the Banegårdspladsen

Other than that, I’ve been getting along well with my flatmates (although my confusion between Morten and Martin lasted longer than they deemed acceptable), who expected an “American guy” based on my name. Aside from subjecting me to the occasional ribbing against America, we’ve had good conversations about Danish politics, books, language, and television shows. They subjected me to a bad Bruce Willis movie (is there any other kind?) and we watched the “Daily Show” (five days delayed) whilst sharing pears, chocolates, and ice cream (not consumed in one night). We even talked about soccer, as I commandeered the telly to watch the England – Germany match. “I can’t believe I’m getting schooled about soccer by an American,” said Morten. He gives me a quizzical look to almost everything I say, as if he doesn’t quite believe I am telling the truth.

These late night chats are fun, and I am glad I chose communal living quarters. I will get into “The Commune” aspect in greater detail following our “Kitchen/House meeting” tomorrow night. One of the agenda items is “Heidi has something to say.” I like it.

City in Progress

Tonight I read the latest issue of The Economist (“The Riddle of Iran” cover story) over one of the best deals in Chinatown: a huge bowl of steaming, fragrant vegetable phở. Broadcast played on my iPod as I broke off pieces of Thai basil to throw into my soup. I thought about some of the strange experiences I’ve had this week:

• Today marked the second time in two days that I’ve approached a double-parked vehicle on the street to accept a wad of cash in exchange for a package. eBay sales are going well (even the fat Ronaldo jersey is selling). Police and onlookers, however, think differently.
• I sat across from a middle-aged, African-American woman on the F train the other day. Her round, soft face framed by short hair and spectacles seemed unaccustomed to furrowed brows as she pored over her reading material with much intensity. I strained to see the thin book’s title, and eventually made out the words. I summoned all of my will power to keep a straight face.
  
  
  This book, sadly, does exist.
  
  
  The book reminds me of an irritating ad that kept popping up with every single Guardian article I read last month. If this is target marketing, something’s broken.

(Men probably withdraw because you’re willing to read this tripe)

• In the LES today, I saw a guy ride by on a bike like this. Modded bicycles are all the rage.
  

How does one mount and even begin?

• A tall Asian chick in bright clothes did lunges on the subway platform.

This last one was me. Noting my vast improvement yesterday, my physical therapist gave me a more challenging exercise: facing a wall, I place my big toe about one inch away from the wall; I bend my knee until it touches the wall. As I improve, I am to increase my distance from the wall. He said I could do this exercise anywhere: at my desk, waiting for the subway, or while having dinner. So, I have.

Physical therapy is nice. I like telling people that I’m going to see “my therapist.” For most of the session, I lie on the bed as he massages my feet and ankle (hey, I'll take what I can get).

“So how quickly do you want to play soccer again?” he asked, interrupting my reverie. “As soon as possible,” I replied, perhaps a little too eagerly. He laughed. “I’m going to have you do some drills in the next session where you will have to mimic the movements on a soccer field. If you don’t feel comfortable doing that in an artificial environment, then you’re not ready to play. Hesitation and fear of injury make the likelihood for re-injury even greater,” he explained.

So it looks like my American soccer career is officially over. I’m now training for the fall season of European footy. Stay tuned…

Among the Thugs

Cyborgs, Inc.

The X-rays confirmed what I already knew: the accident on the soccer pitch hadn’t fractured my foot (a healthy dose of calcium and vitamin D all my life has certainly helped). But that didn’t stop my physical therapist from declaring, “You certainly did a good job of spraining your ankle badly.”

He wants me out of the aircast by Monday, when I’ll have my second session. “Muscles atrophy and grow dependent quickly, and to get them back to normal takes a long time,” he explained. Just yesterday, my regular doctor warned me that I’m done for the season, and that the ankle could still be aggravated six months from now. “You might be stepping off a curb six months from now and feel it wobble a bit.”

Someone who shall remain nameless remarked that I was “one step closer to being a cyborg” with my new black aircast. This same person also inadvertently caused my second injury tonight. I explained to him why I wasn’t too keen on telephone conversations. My phone manner, I revealed, had been described as “rude and abrupt” by several people. “What’s your point? You’re rude and abrupt in person,” he retorted. I made a quick movement near a wall and busted my hand as pictured.

Fresh blood

I’m falling apart.

Day 3 (on crutches)

Today I took a cab to a sports doctor on W. 21^st Street. The doctor wanted a detailed account of how I got the injury, including a history of injuries to the area (I had a bad sprain in the same area when I missed a flight of stairs at an old Penn frat house and landed on my ankle). I described the snapping sound I heard and what followed.

Then he asked me to remove the bandage as he seated himself on a stool before me. He started feeling my foot and pressing into it. “Does this hurt?” he asked whilst jabbing his thumb deep into the swollen and purple area near my ankle bone. “YES,” I grimaced, somewhat angrily. “How about this?” He did the same thing for another area. He started to pull my foot to feel its placement in the socket. This did not feel good. Feeling my foot tense up, he asked me to relax. There were several spots that didn’t hurt at all, though, and he seemed 95% certain that I didn’t have a fracture.

“However,” he paused. “In order for me to be 100% confident that you’re fracture-free, you have to pass several checkpoints. And one of them is being able to walk within fifteen minutes of the injury. Since you couldn’t do that, I want you to get an X-ray.” He also described an ankle stirrup aircast I would have to get. Then he asked me to form the alphabet by moving my foot around. He demonstrated first. I struggled to draw an “A” but he wasn’t satisfied. “You need to make a big ‘A,’ like this.” He demonstrated again. I remember disliking his socks, an argyle pattern in a dubious color scheme. After watching me struggle for several minutes, he suggested I begin physical therapy next week. I asked when I might expect to be back out on the pitch. He estimated at least a couple of weeks. I frowned.

The doctor showed me how to walk with my crutches whilst putting more weight on the injured foot. It made walking with crutches easier. My ankle felt much better today, so I hobbled over to Union Square to pick up an ankle brace at Paragon. The guy who helped me with the ankle stirrup smiled broadly when I stood up and walked without crutches for the first time in three days. “It’s a miracle!” he shouted. “I hope you at least scored the goal.” “I did,” I replied. As I waited in the queue, an older woman walked up to me and said, “Wow, I like the look of yours better than mine.” She pointed to her left foot, the size of a small cast iron soup pot, which had a pale blue plastic molding around it. We exchanged brief injury stories and said good-bye. Meeting people (with casts/crutches) is easy.

I went to a nearby café for a quiche, salad, and French lemonade; I hadn’t eaten all day. Hobbling is hard work. Then I limped over to Beth Israel Medical Center for Ambulatory Care across the park for my X-ray. Everything checked out fine, although I had wasted the entire day. My foot looked swollen from walking around in 90-degree weather. I went home and unwrapped my bandages. It did look worse than before (but I am getting better).

A deeper shade of eggplant

Swelling has migrated to other parts of my feet (granted, I was on my feet all day prior to this photo)

Bruising now shows up on the other side of my foot

I know there's nothing sexier than looking at my bruised and disgusting feet. For a good time, call me at 555-BRUZ.

Lucky Number Seven

7/7/07 marked a propitious day for thousands of brides and grooms (including Tony Parker and Eva Longoria in Paris) and Vegas high rollers—anyone playing the odds. But I think I had better luck on 6/6/06.

I arrived late to the weekly Prospect Park pickup game, which had recently moved from Sunday afternoons to Saturday mornings. Four games were already in full swing, with shirts v. orange pinnies in each quadrant. I decided to rest in the shade until the break.

I joined the pinnie team in Quadrant 2. The sweltering heat quickly turned my water bottle into a mini-greenhouse, as I chugged mouthfuls of warm liquid between plays. The sun was bright. People ran lethargically in the heat as blurry as desert mirages, united each week by the love of the game.

I exchanged playful trash-talk with this big, brawny guy called Jason. He and I had played together on the same team two weeks ago. He kept stepping on my feet and bumping into me. Eventually I scored an easy goal as we took advantage of our opponent’s weak defense. Jason joked that he had only allowed the goal to “give me something to talk about” when I got home. I laughed.

The euphoria was short-lived. I moved back to play defense. We had switched players with our opponents because they felt our side was too strong. They took one of our good players, who immediately began creating goal-scoring plays. One of their quicker players kept taking advantage of the center as our defense moved to the wings, leaving the guy completely open. I yelled, “Watch the guy in red!”

After they scored two successive goals, I decided to watch the guy in red. And that’s when it happened. I made a move to abruptly change direction. I heard something snap in my right foot. I went down in a flash. I remember a searing pain in my ankle and knew I couldn’t stand up. The game stopped. Everyone surrounded me, obscuring the bright sun as I looked up and saw silhouettes, not unlike the view from an operation table. It hurt. One guy told me not to touch it and not to move. Jason picked me up and carried me to the sidelines. Everyone followed.

I started to take off my sock, but felt a sharp pain. Alex tried to help me remove the sock. “This is hurting me more than it’s hurting you,” he said, as he watched me cringe. My ankle felt limp. The blood vessels in my foot surged as if my heart had relocated to my ankle. I removed the sock after gritting my teeth and feeling pain as something shifted in my ankle that probably shouldn’t have shifted. The tough part, though, would be removing the ankle strap. Maria suggested removing the stirrup and pulling it up on my calf instead. My eyes watered up from the sun, the sweat, and the pain. I didn’t look down, but I could tell by the crowd’s reaction that it wasn’t pretty.

Someone brought an ice pack; Alex placed it against my ankle and used my sock to create a makeshift bandage. I put my arms around Jason’s neck as he carried me the full width of the pitch and placed me gently on a bench in the shade. I felt terrible that he had to carry me. “It’s all right. You’re making me look good,” he said with a grin. Soon the other three games ended and everyone wanted to know what happened. I wasn’t sure how I’d get home. Walking was out of the question.

A nice Brazilian guy (the “guy in red,” in fact) offered to drive us to the LES. I made it home and Natalie went to the store to get me an ice pack, a bandage, and apples. After she left, I fell asleep with my ankle iced and elevated. I read up on ankle sprains and learned the best way to care for a sprain is called the PRINCE method: Protection, Rest, Ice, N (the technical name for the thing in Advil and Ibuprofen), Compression, and Elevation.

Day 1: A lovely swelling

Day 1: Ankle size comparison

Day 1: Since playing soccer, my feet have never looked more attractive

Day 2: Swelling gives way to bruising

Day 2: The swelling has reduced

Day 2: On a positive note, I do like the color purple

I decided to ignore the “R” component. I had tickets for the premiere of the spiegeltent at South Street Seaport and wasn’t about to miss it. After obtaining a pair of adjustable crutches, I donned a dress, wrapped my ankle, and took a cab to Pier 17. The spiegeltent, translated as “tent of mirrors” (and pronounced “SHPEE-gull-tent”), is a European phenomenon dating back to the 1900s; there are fewer than 20 antique spiegeltents left in the world. They’re made of mahogany, teak, stained glass, beads, brocade, velvet, and history (Marlene Dietrich supposedly performed in the particular tent we sat in that night). They seat a bit more than 300 people, thereby offering an intimate and oftentimes interactive theatrical experience. Our particular spiegeltent, shipped from Holland and pieced together in one day, was also air-conditioned.

Spiegeltent at South Street Seaport

A friend of a friend knows one of the producers, so I had free tickets. It was a hot item, with respectable standers-by asking repeatedly for extra tickets. When Dave brought over four tickets and two wristbands to me, a nosy WASPish woman walked over asking if he had any spare tickets. He said no. She said, “But it looks like you’re holding so many tickets.” I interjected and informed her that we had two tickets for each show, and then hobbled on.

New York City is not handicap-friendly. There are stairs for everything—the subway, those hidden basement restaurants and bars, that fifth-floor walk-up. With crutches, everything became a struggle: people blocking the sidewalks or entrance ways, the elevator that was all the way on the other side of the mall at the seaport (for the bathroom), and the precarious wood-paneled floor of the tent, not to mention its dark corners and crevices.

Inside the spiegeltent

The mixed crowd had a lot of critics and press, along with friends of the producers

Stained glass above our booth

I received some sympathy. The first show, called “Absinthe,” began at 7:30 PM. When the hosts saw me hobble through the entrance, they immediately suggested I sit at one of the private booths for comfort. We chose a booth near the changing room. A trim, older man in a French-cuffed shirt sat there alone. I smiled at him; he smiled back. Dave went to get some drinks (I was so thirsty—walking with crutches is hard work). The man and I began to talk. He had an accent. It sounded French or Belgian.

He insisted I sit on the other side so I could prop my leg up. “It will be more comfortable and you can see better.” I said, “But then you won’t be able to see as well.” He told me he’d be moving in and out anyway, and stood up. I moved over. Dave returned with drinks and the man departed. I commented at how nice he had been. The man returned and we chatted some more. “I am the director of the second show, ‘La Vie,’ so I’m kind of nervous. We are from Montreal. This is the world premiere—the first time it will be shown in this setting. ‘La Vie’ has more of a story line than ‘Absinthe’ so I am curious to see how it works in this small space. I hope you will stay for the second show.”

The lights dimmed and “Absinthe” began. It’s a bit of a cabaret/circus, with different specialty acts: acrobatics, contortionists, two strip teases (which were absolutely brilliant and funny), juggling, and rollerskating (on the smallest surface possible). There’s quite a bit of nudity, comedy, and cussing. As a friend of mine said, “It’s like a debauched Cirque du Soleil on speed.”

The bawdy emcee, called The Gazillionaire, took cracks at people in the audience. He called one woman a bitch, and singled out NY Daily News' Ben Widdicombe as a potential gay. [lifted from Gawker, also present at the premiere]

Circus acts can be mundane and boring, especially with the glut of Cirque du Soleil shows out there. But the performers of “Absinthe” were so finely tuned for each specialty, it was mesmerizing. And some of these people were so fit and sublimely beautiful, it was enough to make everyone hot and bothered, even in the air-conditioned atmosphere. The music, unlike Cirque, was fantastic. They sampled songs from Portishead, Marlene Dietrich, and Donny Hathaway.

An acrobat drops in. I will mention the two women to the left later on (a.k.a. cleavage woman and Kim Cattrall doppelgänger) [again lifted from Gawker; photography was not allowed]

In one act, a woman in a clingy, barely-there sparkly dress and high heels appeared to the right with a giant pink bubble held over her head. She gracefully walked onto the stage and glided along, moving the bubble in swirling motions to the nostalgic tune of “Moon River.” I thought, “That dress is about to fall off.” The right strap barely covered her breast. Still, her costume and body managed to suggest a 1920s flapper girl, simultaneously demure and seductive, hailing from a glamorous, bygone era, rather than the tawdriness that can be found at Scores or in any lad mag. As she moved about the stage with the giant balloon, I began to wonder, “What’s her specialty? Where is this going? Dancing around a bubble can’t be it.” She removed something from the balloon and tossed it to a member of the audience.

And then—as if to answer my questions—in a swift and elegant move, her head was inside the bubble! The audience gasped and laughed. Her levity and playfulness filled the room. That clingy dress fell to the floor with ease, exposing her perfectly pert, unsurgically-enhanced breasts and sparkly-thonged bottom. Then half her body was in the bubble. She kicked off her shoes. She wiggled even more as the music approached its climax. Soon the bubble enveloped her entirely. She writhed in the bubble as it began to fog up and turn opaque. The audience struggled to see what was happening inside the bubble. As the music reached its climax, the woman reached up to the top of the bubble as it stretched to an oval shape. And then “POP!”—the bubble burst, revealing her body fully to us. It was ingenious and titillating.

What’s hotter than thrusting yourself in a balloon and removing your clothes? I don’t know. [lifted from Gawker]

In the next act, as if to reward the ladies in the audience, a man wearing pajamas approached the stage. He lifted himself gracefully onto a set of iron rods with pads on them, jumping up into handstands and arches using one hand only. As he did so, his pajama top gave way to reveal one of the fittest bodies I have ever seen. Dave and I laughed as we watched the older women in the front row gasp, smile, and whisper to one another. The aforementioned Kim Cattrall look-alike in a green dress just couldn’t wipe a huge grin off her face. Her friend, sporting much cleavage in a short black number, put her hand over her open mouth during the entire performance. And yes—in case you were wondering—he was worth it.

Olaf Triebel has a body built for one thing. That’s right: balancing

The striptease woman did another comical, genius number that I’ll keep to myself. A comedy routine consisting of a man, who looked like Borat with long hair, and a woman in a huge 80s hair frosted wig danced onto the stage. The announcer described them as “La Petite Merde” (yes, “Little Shit”), ex Cirque du Soleil performers from Reno. And then there were the two female acrobats. They moved in unison, showing incredible strength and graceful movements that almost seemed inhuman. Impossible to describe justly, it’s something that has to be seen to be believed, an artwork of the human form that can never be completely replicated or sustained.

A scary striptease; again, pure genius

Moulin Rouge in living color; the two amazing acrobats are to the left in white

Dave snaps a photo with his Canon SLR

Intermission for “Absinthe”

The break between shows meant a laborious journey to the loo on the second floor of the Seaport Mall. I had to hop up and down some stairs on my left leg. It took a good fifteen minutes to get back to the tent, when I felt someone’s hand rest upon my back as I hobbled by. “What on earth happened to you?” said a man in a familiar Scottish accent. It was Mark, one of the producers, whom I had met on the Federer shoot in Los Angeles. I gave him a quick rundown of my footy accident, and then he shuttled me along quickly since the next show was about to start.

“La Vie” took us on a trip to purgatory. Each person received a lottery ticket as he entered the tent. The audience is transported on a flight through the afterlife, where we feel no pleasure or pain (I wished, as I looked down at my throbbing ankle). Our guide, a bald, supercilious Frenchman, guided us through the files of several case studies, not unlike the Japanese film “After Life.” As one of the creators described it, “La Vie” is “dark” but also “life-affirming.” The characters interact with audience members during and between each performance. There’s a bendy girl who gives an intriguing performance in a straitjacket, set to the tune of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” There’s an incredibly attractive and fit man who performs out of a wheelchair (which I was tempted to steal so I wouldn’t have to use crutches anymore). He was so good-looking that I saw several women AND men whisper to each other in astonishment. We are told he was the young CEO of an airline company, and that in order to increase profit margins, he approved the use of substandard materials to build his fleet. 154 passengers died in a plane crash as a result.

The acrobatics in “La Vie” aren’t as dazzling as “Absinthe,” but the eight performers are much more versatile. The wheelchair man put “Dancing with the Stars” to shame as he performed an acrobatic tango with three different women. Our French guide, who looked a bit tubby, surprised us all in some of the most athletically challenging numbers of the evening.

In the end, I’m not sure what the departing message was about the afterlife and our earthly passions and foibles, but we were thoroughly entertained. The shows made me contemplate the range of possibilities that make the human body so wonderful, especially in the light of my injury. After exiting the biergarten, I noticed a lighted sign across the water showing it was 76 degrees. The night was perfectly still and beautiful—the price to pay, I guess, for dreadfully hot summer days. The bad balances out the good, and sometimes making the joyful stuff possible. There is no pleasure without pain; the alternative is a purgatory here on earth, in which one feels nothing and therefore knows nothing worthwhile. Or, maybe I was just high on painkillers and absinthe.

We took a cab to Blue Ribbon and enjoyed a very late night meal. I was famished from my day’s whirlwind adventures—the highs and lows—which began at 8:30 AM. Was it worth hobbling around around on crutches to see the shows? You bet. Life is indeed a cabaret.

Soccer Scars

My first soccer scrape: tumble on the turf

Crikey. I’ve started to put theory to practice by playing o jogo bonito (used loosely in this context) at the East River Park and in Brooklyn. This is what I have learned so far:

• Running around on a pitch is tiring. This may sound obvious, but I have newfound respect for professionals who run for 90+ minutes on a full-sized pitch (which begs the question: How does Ronaldo still manage to gain weight under these conditions?)
  
• It is very easy to get injured. Today I sprained my right knee and took a tumble, eating turf. I also have a bruised heel and toe. I rammed into two guys shoulder first when we were both going after the ball.
• Tackling and defense is difficult. We learned both the “poke” and “block” method, and I have the bruises to prove it.
• Communication with teammates is key. Half the people aren’t paying attention to open space and teammates’ placement, and the result is not good. One must be quick in learning your teammates’ names and shouting at them.
• Passing and controlling the ball is difficult. In addition to that, one also has to be aware of movement and shifting placement on the pitch.
• Football is like chess. One must anticipate a move several steps ahead, running into open space, anticipating the pass, and seeing the play.
• Playing striker and/or attacking midfielder is fun.
• If you’re going to fall, just tumble and roll. It’s actually somewhat fun.
• It’s okay to get scrapes and bruises. I feel like I’m eight years old again, and it is glorious. I must buy a bottle of Bactine.

I also received a crash course on football equipment. Francois at the Soccer Supply Store on the UES tried to hide his laughter during my visit. Brimming with questions, I challenged him as to why certain balls cost $17.95 and others cost $130. When I pointed to a ball I fancied, he smiled and turned away, and then said, “You need a size 5.” “They come in different sizes?” I asked. I also wanted to know the difference between sleeve and ankle strap shin guards (he explained that professionals use the former). With the store’s largely international, male client base, I blushed when Francois decided to just put the ankle strap and shin guard on me after 30 frustrating seconds of my awkward, amateur attempt. I’m sure it was a first for him. But I walked out of the store triumphant, with Nike turf shoes, T90 Air Maximus ankle strap shin guards, a training ball, and two pairs of socks.

The words from The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup have been on my mind ever since I started playing:

That’s what you learn, as soon as you start to play and watch football: that football is difficult and beautiful, and that the two are related. Players kick the ball to one another, pass into empty space which is suddenly filled by a player who wasn’t there two seconds ago and who is running at full pelt and who without looking or breaking stride knocks the ball back to a third player who he surely can’t have seen who then, also at full pelt and without breaking stride, crosses the ball at sixty miles an hour to land on the head of a fourth player who has run seventy meters to get there and who, again all in stride, jumps and heads the ball with, once you realize how hard this is, unbelievable power and accuracy toward a corner of the goal just exactly where the goalkeeper, executing some complex physics entirely without conscious thought and through muscle-memory, has expected it to be, so that all this grace and speed and muscle and athleticism and attention to detail and power and precision passion comes to nothing, will never appear on a score-sheet or match report and will likely be forgotten a day later by everybody who saw it or took part in it. This is the beauty and also the strange fragility, the evanescence of football.

The author drew up a beauty-success chart on Brazilian World Cup performances, measuring how beautifully each team played the game in relation to how successful they were in the tournament. So 1970 represents the apogee of Brazilian soccer with both beauty and success (winning the World Cup) realized.

Rating Brazil’s World Cup performances

As for me, I will sleep soundly tonight.

Meeeeeelan FTW!

Feel it: Kaka Mania!

Showdown in Athens. If you're stuck in the office or away from the telly, here's a tip: free, live webcasting here (must be on a broadband server through an ESPN-affiliated provider).

With the match three hours away, what do we have? Two Liverpool supporters fought over one ticket, drunken rounds of "You'll Never Walk Alone" sung in Syntagma Square, and the Greek police handling more than 12,000 scousers.

I am, indeed, hoping the Neckless Wonder (whose theme song to teammate John Arne Riise might as well have been "You'll Never Walk Again") gets covered by Kaka.

The Midfield “Maestro”

Arsenal midfield “maestro” Cesc Fabregas and me (I have no intention of ending up on random Fabregas fan sites, thank you).

How to mar a good photo? Put Wayne Rooney's ugly mug in the background.

Cesc turns 20 today, and to celebrate the occasion, I will pick up where I last left off in London. I had just finished watching the Arsenal youth team beat Manchester United at the Emirates. My hands smelled faintly of oranges after eating the fruit plucked from a sculpture at Tate Britain.

As soon as the game ended, several kids in track suits ran onto the pitch, only to be trailed by overweight, middle-aged men who struggled to maintain a semblance of a chase. It became more of a suggested jog, as the lanky lads raced around in circles on the green, laughing their heads off and flashing victory signs at the crowd. Out of breath, the “security” waged a war of attrition, eventually cornering the kids, one by one, just in time for the start of the automated sprinkler system (perhaps—one would think—a more effective way of clearing the field).

The next day, I took the Tube to Knightsbridge to do some recon at Harrods. I didn’t believe the clerk’s assessment that arriving an hour early would suffice, so I showed up three hours ahead of schedule. Stepping off the escalator at the fifth floor sporting goods department, I casually walked past a colorful display of trainers and glanced down the football corridor. Not a soul, except for one clerk. What to do for three more hours?

I went to the ground floor food market and took a seat at the charcuterie station. Two years ago, I had had afternoon tea there with a friend. I whiled away an hour reading a book and sipping my tea slowly. I decided to assess the situation upstairs once more.

As I took the escalators up, Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor, Op. 64 filled the large hall, filtered through the elaborate and expensive sound system on display. Suddenly, the music paused. An automated message delivered in a proper, British accent announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, Arsenal and Spain midfield maestro Cesc Fabregas will be upstairs meeting customers and signing merchandise at 3:15.”

I tried to suppress a laugh, glancing around at the other shoppers. Nobody seemed to notice or care. They were either serious female shoppers who hadn’t a clue about football, or tourists snapping photos of garish Egyptian décor.

After another hour of dawdling—examining accoutrements for horseback riding, looking at the Sweaty Betty yoga line, and trying out an £8,000 exercise machine—I wandered back to the football section. Now they had set up a red velvet rope, indicating the queue starting point. And there were several conspicuous lurkers surveying the room, almost daring someone to make the first move.

I decided to try on some hoodies, and then flipped through a massive £3,000 book covering the history of Manchester United (not worth the price). “Whatever you do,” I thought, “you don’t want to be first in line. Give the guy some time to warm up and get comfortable meeting us, but don’t wait too long, either. Eventually, his hand is going to cramp and he’ll become a signing, smiling automaton.”

When I returned, a little boy carrying a poster stood by the red velvet rope with his father. The “midfield maestro” announcement came through the loudspeakers again, and I heard the clerk behind me snigger. “Maestro?” he said incredulously to a coworker. “I’d call him bloody all right, maybe. Not maestro.” Then a young woman inched her way over to the queue. It had begun. I heard one man say in an exasperated tone, “I'm just here for some cricket whites, not to see this footballer!” as a Harrods employee tried to block his passage.

I waited for more people to queue up before joining the line behind a young blonde woman. I would come to regret this placement, for soon thereafter, two men got in line behind me. I couldn’t place their background, but they spoke a language I did not recognize, and had dark, tanned skin. My guess was some sort of south Asian origin.

The two stood about five inches behind me. Each time I moved up a little to maintain my personal space, they followed, as if someone might take advantage of those precious five inches and cut in line. Worse: one stood unbearably close, in prime position to talk to my left ear in acoustic perfection; the other mirrored his stance to my right. They spoke loudly, in guttural tones, so I heard their conversation in stereo. The guy to my right seemed to have no understanding of voice modulation, like that Will Ferrell SNL character, Jacob Silj. And his speech pattern resembled Norm MacDonald imitating Bob Dole. Except it wasn’t funny, and it hurt my ears.

But that’s not all. Both men had the most rank, foul breath imaginable. The kind that becomes its own entity—a third presence, shouting unrelentingly in your face, “I’m HERE and I’m not going away! Aiyayayayaya!” The kind that renders breath mints impotent whilst traveling in all directions across large, airy spaces, undiluted and menacing in its virulent power. It was as if they had been feasting on rotted, maggot-infested carcasses for days, and then nonchalantly said, “Hey, let’s go meet Cesc Fabregas.”

So there I stood, in a line that didn’t move for an hour. What did I do? I dabbed some perfumed lotion on my upper lip. I did the reverse triangle pose to impose distance between us. Whenever a passer-by brought a draft of perfumed air with her movements, I inhaled deeply, grateful for the momentary reprieve. I coughed frequently and loudly, hoping the distant memory of Asians and SARS might raise alarm bells. Nothing worked. Soon, one of the men’s wives joined them, creating a swirling cesspool of smells.

Cesc Fabregas arrived through the main entrance near the display of trainers. A large crowd had gathered by now, including photographers with telephoto lenses (despite the fact that he was only about ten feet away). Everyone strained to look over the person in front of him to catch a glimpse of the Spanish teenager. He waved at the crowd. The Harrods emcee made a few dull remarks. Cesc posed for photographs, and then it was time to meet and greet.

The line started to move briskly. I needed to figure out a plan to get a photograph taken of Cesc and me. The natural and unfortunate option: asking the Death Eaters behind me for a wee favor. I decided to target the woman, seeing as she was the least offensive of the lot.

“Would you mind snapping a quick photo of me with him when we get up there?” I asked politely. The request seemed within reason. I expected no resistance, but the Land of Death Eaters breeds curious creatures. She gave me the once-over, her eyes filled with disdain and impatience. “Well, I’m not sure if that’s possible. The line is moving quickly and I don’t think there’s time.” “Are you serious?” I asked incredulously. She looked away. I laughed out loud, embarrassed for her existence.

Desperate, I made the same request to the blonde in front of me. “Oh, no problem,” she said easily. I then explained quickly what had transpired. Having stood in the same queue, she had intimate knowledge of the grating voices carrying forth noxious fumes behind me. “Really?” she asked. “Some people have no manners.”

Cesc signs away

As we inched closer to the signing table, I noticed one of the Harrods clerks offering to take photos for customers. I walked up to Cesc, who smiled and said hello quietly. I was immediately struck by his accent. I’ve been watching him play for months now, and it never occurred to me what he must sound like. I had almost forgotten his Catalan roots. “How would you like me to sign this?” he asked. “Oh, don’t address it to anyone,” I said. He signed my jersey carefully and then added “C.FAB.” at the bottom, demystifying his looping scrawl. I asked if he would take a photo with me; he nodded. And then it was over.

My impressions? He seemed young—that is, he acted his age. There is a bit of shyness and slight hesitation present in all teenagers that I found endearing in him. When he’s on the pitch, he moves with such speed, agility, and confidence that it’s easy to forget he’s still a young man who has time to develop into a great player. I also noticed that we’re about the same height, and that he has terrible taste in clothes (if he chose that outfit). Look at that shirt. What is that? It’s like Fat Albert jogging or something (although several friends have now inquired as to where they might be able to acquire a Fat Albert shirt). I didn’t notice it until after examining my photos onscreen. It’s like a modern-day version of Antonioni’s Blow-Up, in which the crime committed only becomes apparent when captured through the lens of a camera.

The Blow-Up

Eventually the excitement wore down, and I took the Tube to Green Park for afternoon tea at the Wolseley, amongst adults once again.

London (in pictures)

It’s been a watershed week for Arsenal, with yet another beautiful goal by Cesc Fabregas yesterday against Manchester City. I’m resting up for the early morning game Saturday against rival Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane. In less happier news, rumors still abound about an American takeover by billionaire Stan Kroenke.

And now: pictures from London. Again, let’s start with the food.