Oddities II

A fine collection of weirdos and oddities we have here, for such a small place. It’s just like those colonial outposts of old, don’t you think? Like Tangiers…

Thus spake NL minutes ago. The funny thing is that I am sure she doesn’t read this blog.

Oddities

To be sure: it is not just that this place is so ugly and bizarre that makes it hard for us to live in; I mean, let’s face it: there is hardly anywhere where there is no element of oddity or unpleasantness. True, Outpost oddities are usually hardly quaint and picturesque, sometimes they are astoundingly cruel, resulting from / to harsh and unabated discrimination and suffering — violent even; but does that make it worse than, say, a parochial version of (parts of) LA? No way.

Of course, I would not live in LA, either. So, rather than its inherent oddities and its bizarre facts and attitudes, it is the Outpost’s rampant parochiality that makes it incompatible with the way we want to live. Well yes, I’ve said that time and again before: it’s us, not them. On top of that, we recently found out that it is the particular type of middle-eastern parochiality that makes it unsuitable for us.

Expanding on that last point, we are now suspecting that even Home City is incompatible with the way we want to go about our everyday lives, although hardly middle-eastern or parochial, as it is crap in its own special ways: people in it are constantly frowning and excessively rude (a little rudeness is fine), whereas everything is overpriced, horrifically noisy, unnecessarily unkempt and gratuitously chaotic (that is why us Home City-lovers always sing its praises at night time).

None of the above is a value judgement, obviously. Middle-eastern (ok, if you are an Outposter in geographical denial, call it something else, I dunno, ‘East Mediterranean’ or ‘non-Maltese small place-y’) works fine for millions of people, just like East Asian or Midwest or Scandinavian or East African, or what have you, do. Parochial or peasant is also fine for billions.

We were confronted with a number of instances of what I informally called middle-eastern parochialism last weekend, which we mostly spent in social gatherings of a more formal sort.

A christening
Last Saturday the loveable child of a Compatrido and an Outposter was christened. Most Outposters skipped the church bit (same with weddings, they only join the party later) and a lot of them were very active later in the restaurant tampering with the air conditioning as a means to kill time, while some of them were trying various combinations of keeping the air conditioner on (or turning it off) and opening or closing the windows in order to create an optimal microclimate in there. Hardly any of them danced, which the Compatridos present did ad bloody nauseam (some of them resembling seagulls on too much beer, too). The Outposters at my table asked me a series of questions about my job (as ever) and only stopped short from asking how much I make because of me cruelly giving them the Look. Fun with Dick and Jane.

A bachelor party
Later on Saturday, while Jod was taking care of the blockbuster called ‘Tot’s hen night’ (in an inexplicable turn of poetic justice, the place it was finally held in burnt down the day before yesterday), I was at her husband-to-be’s bachelor night. I spent six hours downing scotch and water and watching loads of excellent food going to waste in an underground place where they play the morose music they play in so many other places and where people dance only after 1 am, as they have by then got sufficiently drunk. No strippers for the groom, either. Pity: having undergone the humiliation of a lap dance / mock dry hump in full view of male family and friends (some of them gay) myself, I think that strippers would have provided the much needed focal point and highlight of the bachelor party. Whatever.

An 80s night
On the Friday before all that we went to a local club to dance at their celebrated 80s night. One of the Seven and us two did, hardly anyone else though, despite the club being full. In the end, our insistence prompted a bunch of people from what used to be called the ‘blond nation’ in these realms to join us. The nine of us had a smashing time. Then a gay-looking guy approached a girl who came with One of the Seven and chatted her up. His impeccable technique and quite imperative body language, coupled with an astounding sense of physical balance (he managed not to slip into her cleavage or anything) profoundly impressed me. He left with her getting his number (hmmm, now that hardly counts as a hit, does it?) and I had witnessed the first chatting-up event of my 4+ Outpost years. So, wow.
During Part Two of the hen night, the following night, Jod discovered where all the chatting up and pulling in the Capital City takes place; yes, in that club whose name improbably starts with the consonants m and b being adjacent. Sadly, it is also one of these places where they play that pop / mock-middle-eastern stuff intended to get mini skirts on tables, observed by glutei maximi and pecs flexing profusely.

Sebastian

or the ’70s revisited

Sebastian by Cockney Rebel had an iconic status in Compatridia for a while. It was covered by Old V in the 70s and became a huge hit with the frustrated post-’60s youth (the ’60s: 1967-1973). The words to the song make absolutely no sense in Compatridese and I found out tonight why: the lyrics for the Compatridese cover were translated from the English probably by ear (I would not think the league surrounding Old V would bother to acquire the rights to the lyrics back in the ’70s), leading to many misunderstandings. For instance, Steve Harley screams at some point in the song:

Now we all know you, yeah

The Compatrido team heard

No, no, no, yeah!

and translated verbatim accordingly, turning a hazy with god-knows-what decadent aesthete’s almost dandyish come-hither call into an existentialist yawp about getting in line to die, about the ‘cursed journey that brings love’ (a wonderful turn of phrase, no kidding) and about the prison cell (capitalist?) society is. Or maybe the Old V team freely adapted it. Who knows. It’s just that this ‘no, no, no, yeah’ translation sounds too telling. But then, maybe the righteous left-wing Old V team were at the time high on something themselves. Who knows.

I discovered the song, both versions, only a couple of years ago. Coming home from gym, there was only a low light and music left on by Jod to greet me. I wanted to think of New York, the balmy weather helps. I tried Rhapsody in Blue, to recall Woody Allen’s beatific vision of Manhattan in Manhattan. It didn’t work, as I’ve got the wrong version in mp3. The lyrics about a ‘Bowery saloon’ in ‘Sebastian’ brought me to it. Then the song, seven minutes of epic howling, finished. The breeze once more carried with it the muezzin’s call through the open windows.

David Høgsholt

While in Amsterdam, I visited the World Press Photo exhibition in Oude Kirk. There were a lot of genuinely thought-provoking and potent images there, some looking cinematically unreal — but all too real, like of Malawian jails, of Iraqi dead, of the Sierra Leone amputated or of New Orleans getting crushed between fire and water.

One image that captivated me was by David Høgsholt. It currently appears on the splash page of his under construction website.

Regio 020

My week-long Dutch tour is over. I had a wondeful time, but my pro-Dutch bias is well-known. Last Friday, Jod and Brother joined me, on a strictly non-professional basis. We had a grand time. Some textual (and photographic) snapshots follow.

Leiden
This was my third time there, the second on business. Both previous times I had really not appreciated what a pretty place it is, although I did this time.

I actually had a good time there, to which the fact that I had good company contributed a lot; one of them, a nonchalant (in the good sense) Dutchman, complained that what distinguishes Compatridos from everyone else is their constant discussing of what it means to be a Compatrido; still, he is blithe enough to be learning Compatridese for six months now and talented enough to already be speaking it fluently.

Athenaeum Bookhandel
Moving to Amsterdam, Athenaeum must be my favourite bookshop, although I can hardly read most of the stuff in there. What makes it so different (apart from its great atmosphere, artfully balancing between the cavernous academic and the supermarket sheer ends of the spectrum) is that it always looks like every single book in there has been carefully chosen. Far from having everything, Athenaeum stocks a lot of stuff that looks like it matters. Their magazine and comic section (not shown on the picture) is simply stellar.

Café Luxembourg
There is nothing fabulously unique about this café, except that it is not inundated with tourists, that it makes good cakes, that its inside is ideal to read a book or your paper in adverse weather and that its outdoor seating, facing the Spui (the picture above was actually taken from Luxembourg), gives a view to gorgeous Amsterdammers passing by, on foot or on their bikes, when they are not seated next to you.

Matters of taste
A thing that once more became clear to me during my trip to Holland was that taste goes a very long way. Let me explain.
On the second day of my trip I met a Norwegian colleague hailing from Tromsø, home of the northernmost brewery (unless the one in Murmansk finally beat them), university, launderette etc. in the world. He was extolling his home town, of a population of 60,000 but “as vibrant and as dynamic as New York”, as everyone is into some creative enterprise or another — an antidote to long winter nights, endless summer days and the general absence of clemency in the weather. I rhetorically wondered whether alcohol substitutes for ‘creativity’ in the case of most Tromsøers and what good is a New York of 60,000 on the edge of the world. It became obvious in a while that the discussion would not be going anywhere, as it was a conflict in tastes, and de gustibus non disputantur; because neither of us had any intention to appear too contentious, we eventually switched topic.
The issue of taste popped up again and again during the trip. Another example can be drawn from looking at the women behind the (in)famous windows. Many of those on display looked just right to me for the kind of work they were engaged in but a lot of them made me wonder how someone could have sex with them there and then: not necessarily because they were scary or ugly, but because they looked like the kind of person you would probably like to get to know a bit before having sex with. I am obviously one of those who believe that there are people to have one-night stands with (for exposition, let’s equate prostitution to a one night stand, although, um, well, more on this below) and people to get to know a bit before getting in bed with. This is incomprehensible for some, either the very feeling or the precise kind of women that create it in me: but then, what turns you on and how is surely a matter of taste.

Violence and rowdiness
Prostitution is nothing like one-night stands, of course. I witnessed a trio of butt-ugly Englishmen harrassing and verbally abusing a sex worker. Why? Because they could. Not only was she a woman (i.e. a by definition soft target), but also an “immoral” one, so their asinine behaviour was justified on the basis of their standing on higher moral ground, too. They were rude to her, made her open the window pretending they were punters and then called her names and went on to sneer at her. When she told them to get the hell out of there, one of them assumed a mock-righteous tone and reminded her to watch her language as she had not known him for that long, and so on.
Slightly more terrifying was the case of a Latin American who got a sex worker to open the window. Once, probably from her accent, he realised they both came from Ecuador (that’s the bit of conversation I got), he produced a camera and started shooting pictures of her. The poor woman started wailing and went for his left hand, this being by far the most disturbing incident I witnessed while I was in Amsterdam, but the Ecuadorian guy would go on laughing and shooting with his free hand.
Speaking of rowdy foreigners, Amsterdam is a good specimen of how orderly a free place can be, when individual freedoms are compounded with (mostly) effective protection of individual rights. It is most telling that in a city attracting more tourists than its population, tourists going there to get drunk and laid and high or stoned (again, a matter of taste), only a handful of them get away with being pigs. Amsterdammers believe most of these pigs are English, they are mainly right: I witnessed the Dutch celebrating the World Cup victory of the Oranje against Serbia-Montenegro: it was a jubilant and pretty party-like affair.

The equivalent English reactions are considerably more thuggish and distinctly smell of piss and vomit. Which made me wonder: with all this drinking and smoking, why is central Amsterdam on a Saturday night such a better-smelling place than central London? Anyway.

Freedom
Diversity and freedom make Amsterdam a more fascinating place than the other pretty Dutch towns and cities. Speaking of (my) tastes again, I would move to Amsterdam, the Regio 20 of this post’s title, any time. Where can you find a place where there is a Capoeira street contest on one pavement

while the street and the opposite pavement is crammed with military police, waiting outside a University building while the Queen is inside attending a graduation ceremony?

Again, anyway. A last picture is of people dressed up as superheroes (and Scooby Doo, who is not super-anything), waiting for the tram: probably of the Super Dad movement

Re: lack of supply of male strippers

Tot is getting married and Jod has been assigned the task to organise the hen night. Now, hen nights, I am told, are tame and slightly pedestrian affairs here. Jod wanted to make a difference, so she came up with a Plan: organise the hen night in the local recently renovated (with EU, UN and US money) Turkish baths! They would provide snacks, drinks, a masseur, use of facilities and a male stripper until late! We consulted Tot and an ad hoc committee of friends and decided against it, though: the good girls to take part (all 23 of them) would be offended by the Oriental(ist) languor suggested by the location, they would anyway be lost in “the maze the Old City is” on their way there, they would be taken aback by the proximity of the place to a mosque and some run-down areas where Pakistanis live; finally, there is nowhere to park for free around there.

Jod was still very keen on the stripper business — Turkish baths or no Turkish baths. However, Tot’s future husband rang her and sternly warned her that he would call off the wedding should a stripper thing go on. He urged Jod not to destroy his life and relationship for a capricious whim. I fail to understand any of that: would it be an option for 22 women to stand by in a public place while the bride-to-be gets off with the stripper? Isn’t there so much more to see on Outpost beaches fleshwise? Maybe the future husband wished to firmly assert his authority? In any case Jod asked him why he resents a professional toned male arse ornamenting the eating, drinking and (maybe) dancing of a bunch of happy females. He said it is a matter of upbringing and principles. Anyway — I can divulge no more.

So, no stripper. Still, knowing where to get a male one in the Outpost is a useful piece of information, either in case we get to organise another hen night for a bride to some ruthless, lax and decadent man, or in the futuristic eventuality we organise a gay wedding bachelor party here. So, we asked around and this is what we came across:

“I think I know of one male stripper, yes.”
“Hang on, not the one that was murdered, right?”
(I choke on my drink, the discussion is interrupted. I recuperate, the discussion resumes)
“No, no: he was not murdered. He is actually alive and well — he is doing time.”
“Why?”
“Well, he stabbed someone he had a quarrel with.”
“The stripper?”
“Yes, a pretty boy he is, too — both him and his brother. But now he’s in prison.”
“Anyone else — preferably not in prison?”
“Er, oh, no, not that I know of. There might be male strippers in Aerosol, though.”

Navel gazing

My Adoptive Sister (in reality my oldest friend), who travelled all the way to the Outpost to see us last weekend, reminded me on the phone half an hour ago we have known each other for 21 years. This is a long time. Walking back from the gym, a whiff of jasmin flowers caught my nose (rather than the other way round) and I remembered Jorge’s One Girlfriend, the night she became Jorge’s girlfriend after having been diverted to him by yours truly: I helped her make up her mind by suggesting it was Jorge who was really interested in her; also, I was back then madly in love with the Unstable Ballerina — but this is material for a novel of mad passions, immature characters, lots of embarrassment and some improbable sex, not for this enlightened forum of Truth and Freedom :-p

In trying to persuade me to be her man, Jorge’s One Girlfriend talked to me about me as a darkly attractive guy; as someone who looks ordinary until he opens his mouth (not to yawn, but to speak) to immediately become a spider that ensnares by the mere charm of his words; as a mysterious creature who is even more so by hiding this ‘mystery thing’. No, we were not on serious drugs — just a little wine, if I remember correctly

If the above sounds weird, whether you know me or not, imagine how weird it sounded to me — and still does. Dark? Mysterious? Charming? Me? Nevertheless, it came from someone who knew me fairly well (Jorge being, well, in the closet back then, it would take him months of vacillation and endless discussions and hanging out with me and his One Girlfriend before he would propose to her — well, he never did, she did at that very night and they stayed together until he made up his mind).

Ever since I have been continually preoccupied with what people see in me, how they see me, but maybe in a fashion slightly more intense than this happens for most people. I usually feel misunderstood, although sometimes I am up for pleasant surprises. Ever since Being John Malkovich I have wondered how it would be like to be someone else for a little while, just enough to know how they really see me.