panache

Tonight, I had a most pleasurable evening. Leslie and I went to a lounge in Cambridge, on Massachusetts Avenue. It was an upstairs affair, literally and figuratively. It is the first lounge bar in Boston that in my experience would justify the term 'panache'. This lounge had panache in multiples of many.

We started in Prospect Street with Field, a rather abortive attempt cut short by the utterly boring sprinkle of locals on the wrong side of interesting populating the pub. Phoenix Landing offered no improvement and thus the Middle Eastern was our first stop.

One beer later, we strolled into this upstairs lounge of which the name has slipped my mind. First impressions last and mine resulted in a gasp of approval. A bare brick interior finish, with hard-wood floors, dim lighting, comfortable and ample furniture set the decor. The population was interesting, casual yet stylish. The restrained classiness of the ambience was a rare experience in Boston.

Leslie and I had exquisite Martini's while we engaged in eternal talks over life experiences. The music was refreshing - progressive techno, jungle and house.

Overall this was an evening worth remembering and a venue worth revisiting.

I let the music speak

Saturday afternoon I broke down and sobbed for the first time in a long time. And then I got up and played my heart out on the piano. The trigger was the awful events that had been playing out in Lebanon for a month. The brutalities left me feeling gutted and devastated.

Music takes me on untold journeys through unchartered territories. Sometimes, I let the music speak. ABBA says it best:

Let it be a tear
let it be a sigh
coming from a heart
speaking to a heart
let it be a cry

Let it be the joy
of each new sunrise
or the moment
when a day dies
I surrender without reservation
no explanations
no questions why
I take it to me
and let it flow through me
yes, I let the music speak
I let the music speak

A change of wind

This past Saturday evening I had dinner in Cambridge. The chef was German, from Hamburg. The menu started with a cucumber salad, followed by a salmon and vegetable soup. The main course, to use the proper term, was chicken souté with rice and red peppers. On the point of terminology, entrée is an American misnomer for the main course and what the French instead call the first dish of the meal. Hors d'Oeuvre is another American misnomer which means a side dish outside of the formal meal, therefore, a starter and neither an entrée (French) nor the main course. But then the American public has never shown much understanding for the French.

Desert was mixed, fresh, tropical fruit presented without any adornments. Before you rush off to your Google to find this restaurant in Cambridge, let me dash your hopes. The dinner was private and so was the chef. In fact, I received a lot more personal attention for the rest of the evening from the chef, post desert. Call it cigars and coffee in the study if you will.

We met the previous week in a club in Boston. He caused me to forget what I was about to order at the bar. We spent the rest of that evening talking about German politics. The connection was evident. This past Saturday night moved the connection a whole phase forward.

It is somewhat staggering how unexpected people may meet. For me there has never been a string of social successes with dating. For whatever reason, it would seem to happen rarely, distinctly punctuated by long spells of absolutely zero activity. It takes a lone event of astronomic proportions to bring about any dating in my life.

As fortune will have it, this chap not only is German, which history shows plays to my benefit, but he also spent eight weeks in Stellenbosch at the Wine Research facility of the University of Stellenbosch. Add my favourable disposition towards German culture and we have many points of commonality.

But I have to get my own demons cast out first. Many years of zero success with dating leaves scars and takes a toll. My lack of contention in the physical contest does not add to any sense of self confidence.

All in all, it is a development that leaves a positive imprint on my mind. Where it will lead is yet unclear but I shall give it my best shot for what it is worth.

Levels of indirection

Stellenbosser comes from Stellenbosch, as the name implies, which is a lovely little enclave of relative peace and quiet in an otherwise quite violent country. Perhaps it helps to be situated at the foot of lofty mountains in the heart of the wine district. Or perhaps it is the quintessential university town culture that is the catalyst. But maybe, it is just the rich community and high prices of property that filters out the uncouth. Whatever the reason, Stellenbosch seems a bit like Alice's Wonderland when compared to some parts of South Africa. We hear about intense crime, but we seldom experience it, at least in the wealthy neighbourhoods.

But sometimes fate strikes, like when my sister left me an SMS on my cell phone to call my mother. Now, my sister has a habit of only sending me messages under extraordinary circumstances, such as when the VHS recorder plays up or the car has shed its coolant on the road between school and home. Or, when SA wins a medal in the Olympic games. This time, the cryptic nature of the message did not bide well.

My sister, who does not count patience amongst her virtues, then went forth and sent me a further message to the effect that the house had been broken into but they were OK. Right, my house in SA, 17000 km away, had fallen prey to the common thieve. I was not sure what I was supposed to do about it. Get on the first aeroplane, with a big stick in my bag and go and clobber the thieve upon landing at Cape Town International? That's why we have police in SA. Of course, one has to phone them about three times to report the burglary before they would make an appearance at the crime scene. And the SAP will send out the forensic team after two days since the crime, very optimistic to find good forensic evidence of any kind.

To put crime in SA in perspective, according to statistics published in IOL, a person living in SA is 12 times more likely to be murdered than a person living in the USA and 50 times more likely to be murdered than a person living in Europe. Only Colombia has a higher prevalence of murder outside war regions. The reason for this level of violence baffles crime analysts in South Africa.

My dear mother and sister came off lightly. Only a few tools were stolen from the garage and nothing from the house that they could notice.

So, the government is now getting a little concerned. 2010 is 4 years away. World Cup fans will not want to worry about their safety. So, according to the SABC, the Minister of Safety and Security declared that the "Cabinet has endorsed a recommendation to commission a study on the matter by the Institute for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation." Great. I notice three levels of indirection here. How many do you spot?

1. The Cabinet endorsed --- nothing more than voting for something... No action yet. Level 1.
2. A recommendation --- super! More words. No action yet. Level 2.
3. To commission a study -- oh dear. Here we have levels 3 and 4. I have lost count. Save a nation with such a government.

Then followed the clincher: "Draft terms of reference are being formulated for presentation to Cabinet," he said. Draft terms of reference? My word, this man is the paramount of indirections.
If he were a pointer in a C program the poor compiler would quit in a fit of exasperation.

Reading that, I had enough. What a waffler. This is the twit who two months ago declared very arrogantly that those whiners over safety should pack and leave the country. Then followed the Jeppe shoot-out with police, which left the Minister of rather dark complexion, somewhat bleak around the ears.

It is his type that leaves my country bleeding itself dry of skilled manpower as the brain drain continues.