claude and power

I’m a pretty impressionable person. I read a book, I want to write one. I watch a show about the White House and I want to become American and campaign for the top job (or at least be CJ). I eat at a restaurant, and I want to make one just like it. Traveling around I’ve become in awe of the communities that form around vegan eateries, and the pride taken in cooking with boundaries. In New York it was babycakes, PUKK, Bliss, Angelica’s kitchen, Curly’s, the amazing cheesecake at Pennylicks, and pretty much everywhere, in Barcelona it was Sesamo, Organic and Juicy Jones. Geneva, predictably, was a no-go-zone which is kind of what I expected from São Paulo. Because of that fear I’ve been living off snacks and snow peas for the last four days, but a good google search has changed my life, at least for the next four.

Maybe longer. I completely want to set up a vegan restaurant.

If I did, it might be a bit like Satya Mandir Bistrô.

Located in the helicopter frequented area of Jardim Paulista its aiming very clearly at the health conscious, middle class, new age yogi. I loathe to include myself in that category, but am conscious my ability to be vegan is part of my privilege, and the burst of animal/environmental awareness that’s come hand in hand with the stretched out yogi bourgeois has benefited my tastebuds to no end.

At the back of a yoga studio this place is like stumbling across utopia. With only 16 places (of which mine was the only taken throughout my whole meal there) it’s tiny, and a little intimidating. The language also poses a problem - my ordering was done through the receptionist at the yoga studio calling her friend who could speak some english to translate for me. Why couldn’t I just point at the menu? There was no menu. Here you go in and say what you can’t eat - everything being vegan so there were no can’t eats for me - and the chef has a go at making something for you, according to what you like and what s/he has. I told the yogi’s friend I would eat anything so super amazing friendly awesome chef had a relatively broad scope for his pan.

So sitting in this tiny restaurant built so that the 16 seats are placed all in the sightline of the kitchen, anonymous brazilian vegan man makes my meal.

First - he asks what I’d like. I stare blankly, until I hear the word “fumar” and I try and tell him I don’t smoke. Lucky, because the whole place is non smoking. Obviously. It’s a bistro attached to a yoga studio! He meant smoked tofu which - when repeated - was quite obvious. Ten minutes and some eager sizzling later he brings out a plate that to my carbohydrate overloaded digestive system looks like heaven: sauteed spinach with baked tofu and something similar to polenta (okay, it was probably polenta, just done way better than I’ve ever had) with some capsicum happening in there. It came accompanied with two glasses of “watermelon and gingembre zumo.” Yes, the only words this guy knew in English were watermelon and ice cream. I can’t say those things in Portuguese so I was impressed.

Full after this meal, I could tell that there was still stuff in the kitchen happening. Out comes a salad which, after five minutes of charades and lots of “desculpas”, I work out is a Carribean recipe of an uncooked dish that isn’t technically a salad. It’s awesome - cabbage, lemon and a mystery friend in there, I’m not quite sure what the extra bit was.

Full beyond full and lo and behold out comes the third course. Eggplant cooked perfectly, accompanied by a ginger, capsicum and finely sliced celery salsa, and some cereal bread, with a soy and ginger dressing. Amazing. I’m too full to finish it, and to even think about the vegan ice cream, chocolate tarts, baked peaches and general eagerness the chef offers me, but he tells me lunch is a better time to come and makes me promise I will.

So sitting here, post eating perfection, I wonder why the best vegan offering Sydney has is Iku. In the battle that’s playing out in my head between Sydney and everywhere else I think the everywhere else is winning. And I haven’t even been to the vegan pizza shop yet.

I’m totally dreaming of smoked tofu tonight.

And probably never making a restaurant.

From here

So São Paulo’s pretty grey, right? A megalopolis of 17 million people and the buildings they work and live in is pretty, errrr, city on the eye. By city I mean grey.

This isn’t the case everywhere. In subtle ways you’ll find Paulistas decorating Sampa with snippets of themselves. Like these guys - 6emeia.

All throughout the bairro of Bom Retiro and Barra Funda, Sao Paulo you’ll find the art work of Leonardo Delafuente and Anderson Augusto decorating pavements, gutters and street scapes.

From their website (translated):

“Part of the project comes from the desire for change and improvements to the neighborhood and the city itself, thus improving the way aesthetically and path of passersby and residents, coloring it, changing and proposing a series of new ideas and also stimulating put into practice the he has to improve itself in favour of mutual benefit.”

Cruising around what are often unfriendly streets its a nice interruption to the day.

PS. Also, while not aesthetically my thing, how great is this guy and his reverse grafitti?

Has anyone seen a clip for the new Mamma Mia film? A Pierce Brosnan and Merryl Streep duet surely has the effect of ipecac. Still, a little part of me is hoping its showing on the way home.

On Friday morning I awoke to the realisation I had no money. Well, I had money but no currency, no hard cash, nothing to engage in the Paulistan way of spend spend spend unless I was to grab a heli like the 1% tend to and flash my cards at every shop I encountered. I literally spent 5 hours going from bank to bank with fractured Spanish and a portuguese phrasebook seeing if I could withdraw money from my bank account or get an advance on my credit card. Unh-uhhhhh. One thing I’ve realised while being away is that my brain jogs an awful lot, and is pretty good at conclusion jumping too (I always knew there was some athleticism buried within me). So on this particularly extended brainjog excursion I started thinking about what I would do, in Brazil, with no money. Order room service every night? Only spend big ie Bette Midler, Lily Tomlin twin styles? I came up with so many parallels universes for my touring self I felt like I could be anyone in Brazil.

Of course this is just a giant, unnecessary brain spew to get to this end point, where I tell you HSBC are amazing and gave me all the Brazilian Reals I needed, and that they look amazing, and are aesthetically my favourite currency.

I’m one day out of my fourth time to Europe and this departure was the hardest. There are obvious things, like the amazingness that Europe holds within in its many countries and cultures, but this time I didn’t really see too much of that. 7 weeks there and the majority of it was people rather than places.

The hardest person to leave, without a doubt, was my Granny. At 74 years old she’s been the second most admired person by me in my life (hi Mum, #1). At 74 she’s also been reduced to an absolute shell of herself, frail bones and body walking around a retirement village, or not walking but being rolled as it was more often than not.

It’s made me utterly depressed. What happens when we get old? If you’ll excuse me while I get momentarily existential, but why do we live through so much to end like we end?

While visiting her daily I often thought about what our last encounter would be like. Not only our last encounter, but my last encounter with everyone at Maison de Retraite du Petit-Saconnex who, despite our language difficulties, I feel like our “bonjours” drew us closer and closer daily. I imagined walking in there with homemade cakes and flowers for everyone. I imagined becoming instantly fluent in French, speaking with them in detail about their lives and forgetting that they hadn’t come to this place to die. I imagined them all getting up and leaving with me. Most of all I imagined my Granny walking, with no help, out of there and onto a plane with me to Australia (via Sao Paulo, natch).

None of this happened. It ended with me not being able to leave. It ended with me giving multiple kisses, I love yous, thank yous and false “it’s going to be alright”s to my Granny. And with me crying. To a room full of people not understanding me, the majority because of the language, but my Granny because of the Parkinson’s.

I don’t think I’m allowed to talk about life being cruel while typing on my laptop in my sauna and swimming pool equipped hotel in Sao Paulo, following 11 weeks of travel. But I am going to. I would give everything to have things different. To have been there and still be there to care for my Granny. For her to not die while not being able to do anything. For her last days to have dignity and depth, and comprehension.

In my cosy abode on Carrer de Sepúlveda I’m located well for shops, Spanish school, Bon Jovi, the centre of town, Sonar etc etc, but the most peculiar happening so far has been that every time I visit the fruit and vegetable shop across the road REM beams from the stereo. Every time. For the last three weeks. And it’s not like it’s a CD they have on repeat, it’s the radio station they listen to. Why on earth is ‘Losing My Religion’ on high rotation anywhere?

I forgot about Hugh Hughes until Anna put up a timely reminder on her blog.

She says its the best thing she’s seen in London, having moved there four months ago. For me that statement holds little worth, having seen pretty much one performance in London, and this being it. I guess that means London is 100% when it comes to theatre and me. That, or I got super lucky.

Building a show out of self-reflexive theatre and well displayed emotion isn’t something that, I imagine, is easy, nor is it something you’d think would be widely enjoyed. With the help of cups of tea but really the most considered and effective writing and performance Hugh Hughes managed it, transforming the construct of theatre into an engaging and enthralling world of human emotion and fear. I’m pretty sure even the six year old in the crowd enjoyed it.

Ostensibly a piece about death this two man show (Hugh being Hugh Hughes and the story teller of the piece, Story of a Rabbit, and his pal Aled Williams making music but also doing the best job of endearing I’ve seen since Geoff O’Connor on any stage, anywhere)

The media release from Hoipolloi, the theatre company Hughes is a part of, says of Rabbit

“A comic and curiously uplifting new show celebrating the complexities of death.”

For me death is just about the scariest thing ever, but this was so inspiring, imaginative, amazing and funny it somehow made everything seem alright, and I started re-imagining the deaths of everyone I’ve known and loved that has died, and being okay with it. Total must see, should the occasion arise.

Former main lady from the Organ new incarnation: still high in the emotion stakes, but this time not so Morrissey-esque. Good for her.

Gigs so far (please forgive the overuse of total, disappointing, personal opinion, over-generalisation, that I got tired of linking less than halfway through, and the mass punctuation):

Andrew WK: Awe inspiring and super white. Also starring Matthew Sweeney.
Animal Collective: Best band on planet. Too drunk to properly appreciate.
Atlas Sound: Superb. Much better than on record. Bradford is awesome.
Autolux: Very throwback but kinda great. Made me want MBV.
Blood on the Wall: Tres B O R I N G. Very disappointing.
Boris: Much better than the Sydney show. Still way overrated.
Caribou: Mindblowing, as I’ve come to expect from Caribou’s shows.
Cause Co-Motion: Bad frat indie. Bad frat indie. Bad frat indie.
Cometgain: Nostalgiacentral - Huggy Bear, anyone? Pretty average though. Still, nostalgia.
De La Soul - 3ft high megamix + rollerskating jam +crowd interaction. So good.
Deerhunter - Bradford Cox is close to god. Huge and anthemic.
Dirty Projectors - Total highlight. Pop math rock that surpasses record’s merits.
El Guincho (Barcelona) - Super huge 3AM party. Photo pit. Party on repeat.
El Guincho (Paris) - Afternoon show made it a little sedated, still excellent.
Eric’s Trip - Julie Doiron = amazing. So much better than anticipated nostalgia.
Ex - Models - Totally okay. Highlight was playing spot the Oneida members.
Fuck Buttons - THE BEST SHOW OF PRIMAVERA. SEE THEM. BRING EARPLUGS.
High Places - Absolutely beautiful and everything I thought they would be.
Holy Fuck - Best way to close a festival night. Huge fun.
Les Savy Fav - See every other review of them ever. Great, though.
Lucky Dragons - Beautiful communal collaborations and intricate sounds. Great dancers too.
Mary Weiss from the Shangri Las - Hilarious and kind of amazing, complete with “Leader” finale.
Mates of State - Sweet marriage pop n’ songs, no more, no less.
MEN (djs) - Nostalgia credits and merit, although I did expect better.
Mission of Burma - Huge and genuinely amazing. Really great song choices too.
No Age - High expectations lead to disappointment. Not a stadium band
Oneida - Way more psych than I thought they’d be. Excellent.
Pissed Jeans - Machismo garagey sound that wasn’t as gutsy as expected
Polvo - Was a set of nostalgia and napping for me.
Portishead - See above. Also, think Stealing Beauty and early nineties.
Public Enemy - Really disappointing and devoid of any relevant political thought.
Rufus Wainwright - Saw him fleetingly, but he’s Rufy so great - obvs.
Sebadoh - They had Sebadonut Oh Ate t-shirts. Also, tres nostalgia.
Shellac - MY NECK HURT HEAPS THE NEXT DAY. “Mosh Pit.”
Simian Mobile Disco - I have a photo of them but can’t remember.
Six Organs of Admittance - I love Chasny so much but this was boring.
Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks - Jesus Malkmus still has so much on anyone, ever.
The Notwist - Short term nostalgia, which - for me - faded mid set.
The Sonics - 1960s pioneering doesn’t travel so well. Total Dad rock.
Tindersticks - So many people on stage, including future pseudo rellie.
Trad Gräs Och Stenär - Played amazing but to zero crowd. 1970s travels well.
Voxtrot - Not even worth walking down stairs for.
White Williams - There are at least 20 better bands in Australia.
Yo La Tengo - Que la tienen. Best show ever. See previous post.
Young Marble Giants - I sat near the families + was also teary eyed.

A recent trip to London had me, like any self-reflecting tourist, upload my pics on the meganet the day after getting back to my computer. One such pic was the above, of my dear and darling expat Soph.

Literally seconds after uploading it some guy “favourites” the shot on flickr and writes “Very cute :-)” (emoticon incl.).

This, to me, is a bit weird because I’m sure I don’t know this crutis77. And while the subject is stellar, I don’t think the shot is compelling enough to be a favourite. I check his profile, just in case I do know him or somehow he knows Soph, and browse his list of other favourited shots. It’s like a never ending litany of cute girls which to me is weird and a little creepy. Plus there are 39 pages of these photos.

Someone please confirm this isn’t normal, I’m not a (super) neurotic freak, and this dude is kind of scary?