In giving up espresso, I’ve taken up black tea now. Instead of drinking a double, three times daily, I now drink 15 cups of tea, or two pots. Never did I think the day would come, though I’ve always admired tea drinkers for choosing the more elegant afternoon ritual. But neurotics are not tea drinkers, neither are the hyper-sensitive, phobic, obsessive-compulsive, high-strung, or hysterical. Somehow, its diluted wood colour seems an inappropriate aesthetic for those with nervous disorders. Ask for tea in New York or Rome and experience the silent rebuke as you get pegged a vegan or a Californian. Conversely, ask for an espresso in Tokyo and experience that whiplash-like facial reproach from the Japanese. It has only been a week, but I must admit I am thoroughly enjoying the shift. Here I am presently taking a break, my pot of tea kept steamy on a brass warmer, and a gorgeous teacup from an early 19th century Westphalian home. Mind you, I can say the same thing about my former espresso rituals, with my beautiful Italian cups and snotty espresso machine. Anyhow, in letting go of my most beloved addiction⎯actually, my only one⎯I feel just a tad bit stronger. I’ve no patience for baby steps, but darn it, when I do they work.
Much too late in life did I learn many people are not given extra-stark espresso as children. In my homeland it is tradition, like a rite of passage. By the age of seven I had already learnt how much water to boil (yes, boil), how long to let the ground beans simmer, how to recognise the crema, that beautiful chestnut-red layer. I was already lactose intolerant so I could altogether forgo milk.
***
It is early evening now and the sky is as dark as a void. Winter darkness is officially on duty. Time to pull from the shelves the literary sagas no shorter than a thousand pages. Actually, what better with which to begin the cold season than Polish or Russian literature? I wish someone would tell me why both countries produce so many first-rate poets.
One remarkable Polish poet, whom I discovered much too late, is Julia Hartwig. In the April 27th, 2006 issue, the New York Review of Books printed her poem, Old Fashions:
I remember an old, meticulously executed print.
Swallowed by a whale, a small man with a frock coat sits inside its belly at a small table, lit by an oil lamp.
But from time to time the whale gets hungry. And here is the second print.
A powerful wave of seawater rushes through the throat to the belly, with a shoal of swallowed small fish.
The table with the lamp is knocked down; the small man, diving, nestles against the slick wall of the whale's massive bulk.
After the wave's retreat he sets up his table, hangs the lamp, and begins to work.
Perhaps he is studying the Old Testament? Perhaps he is studying maps?
What else could be of interest to a traveler miraculously saved from a shipwreck?
I often think of this print as I lay books down on my table for work, after tightly closing windows and doors.
(Translated from the Polish by John and Bogdana Carpenter)
I don’t know why the first line so absorbed me. Perhaps it is the clipped simplicity and the unspoken assurance in the tone of voice that promises a cleanly told and haunting story. Anyhow, since discovering Ms. Hartwig I’ve searched and searched for translations of her complete works. Sometime last week I accidentally learnt of her first English translation book: In Praise of the Unfinished. I am near certain it is a beauty, but I’ll just wait for the book to arrive before prematurely running my mouth.
In other worldwide news, New Yorker staff writer, Susan Orlean writes about her travel experiences in Bhutan with a fertility group, following the break-up of her marriage. As always, she is forthcoming, clear, and funny. She begins:
The second worst travel experience I ever had was on a misbegotten trip to a marvelous place that I had returned to for all the wrong reasons. The trip was a few years ago; the place was Bhutan; the reason was love, or what I mistakenly identified as love, which is probably, statistically speaking, the greatest and also the stupidest reason to ever go anywhere. It was not my first time in Bhutan. I had gone there about six months earlier for a story about couples who were attending Bhutanese fertility festivals in hopes of heading home with the ultimate family souvenir. The timing happened to be quite awkward for me – I was writing about happy families fulfilling their dream of having children, but the trip itself, coincidentally, marked the beginning of the end of my marriage. My then-husband had planned to come to Bhutan with me, and we figured a trip somewhere interesting and beautiful might extend the lease on our relationship; instead, I headed off with the fertility group, and he stayed back in New York to start clearing out his half of the apartment. I was pretty blue, but after a few days in Bhutan (where, by the way, most houses are decorated with large, celebratory paintings of penises) I fell in love with the tour guide and I started to enjoy the trip a whole lot more. When I returned to New York I was ecstatic. I was convinced that Tshering was my soul mate, notwithstanding the fact that he lived on the other side of the Earth, was somewhat age-inappropriate, and shared with me no cultural, social, intellectual, or religious common ground.
In stranger worldwide news, Australian poet and author, Peter Nicholson, reviews the Viennese television series, Inspector Rex, based on a super-sleuth German Shepherd, Kommissar Rex. In his column [“Gut Gemacht, Rex!”] Mr. Nicholson discusses the uses⎯rather, the usefulness⎯of popular culture versus the full-time occupation of “high art”.
It is mostly a poke at literary snobbery and how one needs plain ol’ trashy, silly, or unimportant entertainment added to one’s diet. What is even more interesting is how I’m inclined to agree, yet I know absolutely nothing about popular culture. I’m afraid I am one of “those” who reads and listens to what most call high art⎯on a full-time basis. It is nothing about which I feel snotty; it is simply my way. I’ll take Lowell, Brodsky, Milosz, and Stevens over X, Y, or Z. (I’m afraid I wouldn’t even know whom to include…) Anyhow, who’s to say high art equals snobbery? . . . Ich nicht.
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