Hmm, what to read? What to read?

I have just uncharacteristically drunk an entire bottle of Spanish Rioja wine (the quantity being uncustomary and not the type of grape) and finished mentally chastising myself for not writing more frequently. Besides the wine it is also reading and the thought of being read that motivates me the most to add new entries. Realizing that my literary “endurance” is more that of a sprinter than a marathoner and the pressure to create long prose with meaning has become a stressful barrier I’ve decided to alter the format a bit to include more “Blog-like” snapshots more often.

I’ve also realized that many times throughout the day my emotional analysis of the world here in Europe snaps frames in mind like a photographer obsessed with beauty. My “photographic” eye can be quite keen at times, I believe, and since many of my presumed readers are not familiar with Europe and the life and culture here these mental “photos” may hopefully be of some interest.

Of course, when the mood strikes me I will still compose my longer prose and observations, which I’ve previously so passionately compiled.

In honor of those who inspire me the most I will present a list of “must read” authors and books that come from outside the great U.S. of A that many in my homeland may not be aware of and which in my humble opinion contribute much to the development of an international literary culture and a sharing of Man’s common experience which serves much to bring us all closer together. I take no credit in discovery of these works myself but rather accept the gift of my own international awakening though the assistance of the Italians, Swiss, Hungarians, Russians, Belarusians and other varied nationalities that I’ve had the pleasure to share some part of my life with here. Trust me, not only are these selections entertaining but they will make you think.

To name the “greatest hits” in no particular order:

Milan Kundera: The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Milan Kundera: Ignorance
Mikhail Bulgakov: The Master and Margarita (great Russian/Ukrainian early Soviet era dissident writer that well, didn't last that long)
Andre Gide: The Immoralist
Paulo Coelho: Eleven Minutes
Paulo Coelho: Veronika Decides to Die
Patrick Suskind: Perfume
Cervantes: Don Quixote (if only so you will learn what the adjective "quixotic" means)
Niccolò Machiavelli: The Prince (same as adjective reference above)
Gabriel Garcia Marquez: 100 Years of Solitude
Alessandro Baricco: Seta (Silk)- Maybe only available in Italian
Paul Auster: In the Country of Last Things
Viktor Frankl: Man’s Search for Meaning (Non-fiction)
Primo Levi: The Search for Roots (Non-fiction)

I’ll add more to the list as my journey and enlightenment continues…..

Starting Over

I met Katya at her new flat. It was only three minutes from the Frankfurt main train station past the African dope dealers, eastern European prostitutes and ethic food stores and nestled in a small oasis of hotels, trendy restaurants and new construction. I found her last name on the silver plated index next to the glass door among the list of fifty or so, an unpronounceable Russian “Dzhourinskaja” and rang her. The lift blasted me upwards like a small space capsule, completely modern with glass and mirrors, polished chrome and red glowing buttons of light. The long corridor to her flat reminded me of a cross between a hotel and hospital with that sterile smell of new paint and cleanser and a neutral beige carpet with the names of the tenants in black letters on a white label next to the door. What were they all suffering from inside I wondered?

When I reached her door I knocked lightly instead of using the bell, an old habit that I can’t explain where I acquired. She opened promptly towering in the doorway in her high heal black books, black tights, red tartan mini skirt and tight sweater. It’s hard for a woman with such long legs and imposing height to not be attractive in some sense and it always unnerves me a bit to stand directly next to her like she’s supposed to protect me from harm or something.

I walked inside. The room was almost completely empty. She had lived there for only two days and was one of the first tenants. Moved in after a month staying with friends and reeling from a very recent divorce and a million other life changes, her spirit and outward optimism were undaunted. She offered with a smile, “Care for some white wine?”

I took the glass grasping by the stem and began to nose around her small flat as she proudly explained to me her future decorating vision. There were only two rooms, and a small kitchen and bath. The main room was to be done in oriental style she said. Paper lanterns, a simple black wood table low to the ground for dining were one would sit directly on the floor and a sofa bed where she would sleep. At the present she had only a blanket on the floor and next to it two wood candlesticks with scented vanilla candles which were undoubtably awaiting the right moment to be lit. There was also a small blue plastic kids play table with two tiny plastic stools standing a mere foot off the ground. We sat comically on those seats our legs sprawling out diagonally from each other eating almonds and raisins from plastic bags sipping our wine and talking of the future.

Argentinean tango music was playing from her laptop and I remarked how lovely it was. She got excited and burst into one of her frequent 30-minute soliloquies on how it will all work out and other plans to rebuild her life both practical and fantastic. Desperation can be the mistress of hope.

After her enthusiasm wore itself out she showed me the other small room where her 3 year old son and the 50 year old Lithuanian nanny would live once she fetched him back from Volgograd which used to be Stalingrad after it was Tsaritsyn once before. Even cities live their lives in cycles: birth, prominence, ruin, re-birth, change, starting over, decline, and death. She had a picture of her son as the wallpaper for her desktop the same way I had of my daughter who was also thousands of miles away. It was his birthday today and we drank a toast to the life and happiness of Adrian.

It was getting late, she finally noticed, and the movie would start soon. I’m always too polite to say anything not wanting to interrupt people’s momentum and trains of thought and excited conversation. The pause would come naturally and she would realize. It always does.

“Can you switch off the music while I finish getting ready?” she asked disappearing into the bathroom, shutting the door taking with her most of the remaining light. I sprawled out on the soft blanket with the full moon now shining in the room through the patio glass door. I laughed at the unfinished game of solitaire on her laptop marveling at the cryptic Russian words where I was used to seeing familiar titles. Even though it was the same game we all know it just seemed harder and I stared at it for a few minutes longer trying to figure out why.

She emerged from the bathroom with new lipstick shiny and colorful as I finished navigating the Russian version of the Windows shut down sequence from memory of those shinny, colored icons. As she opened her front door she told me, “Switch off the lamp. I never used to care about such things but now I have to watch every cent.” Such is the essence of starting over. We’ve all been there. She smiled at me nervously, wanting acceptance and validation that she will find her normal life again. I told her, “OK, I’m ready”, put my hand on the small of her back and led us out into the night.

Reflections off a shiny glass disco ball

Tonight I'm back from a Frankfurt Disco named "Living XXL" with my young Iranian friend Simin. She was the most beautiful thing in the place on many levels. Her innocence and unpretentiousness shown through the dark club warming me. In between the soothing base lines and snap shutter strobe lights something has changed. All that was once supposed to be beautiful has turned ugly. The feminine pouting puffed lips with glitter gloss sucking a cigarette or a straw drawing vodka and Red Bull into their young bodies waiting for the chemical thrill to keep them dancing. The pierced cocaine noses, the sweaty supple breasts thinly veiled behind tight t-shirts or blouses calling out to our genetic sense of maleness. The giant two level hall shook with the repetitive house music beat and the synchronistic gyration of hundreds of hips. Mass, simulated fucking. I stood on an upper level, arms around the waist of Simin and watched the mass orgy. But I was not aroused. I was sickened and all the efforts of beauty and sensuality were completely lost on me. Something has occurred this night and I'm not certain what. There will be another change in my life soon and it will be significant.

(Simin, the "Anti-Iranian". Ones who have escaped the most oppressive regimes know how to take every precious breath of life and enjoy it. Oh, and she's in Medical School too!)