the h word.

friday night i went for a spontaneous dinner at thekla’s house.  we ended up being a group of four girls and the night got quite fun and more than a little raunchy for an evening without tequila. banter flew back and forth and at some point thekla shouted at me (yes, we even got to a shouting point without tequila) “oh my god, you are a total hipster!”

silence. that really hurt.

whether i am a hipster on the grand scheme of things or not, living in cape town and being called a hipster wasn’t okay for me. look, i don’t mind the concept of things organic, artisan, and authentic, but the hipster breed in this city is something else altogether. so i told thekla if she wanted to call me names, she had to call me an original hipster.

when i lived in williamsburg 10 years ago everybody was already a hipster, before the term and definition had even made its way over from portland.

skinny jeans? check.

skinny artist boys in skinny jeans? check.

charm bracelets and lockets? check thanks to inheritance from my mother.

vintage something? paisley blouses from a flea market in rome, ironic mickey mouse t-shirt from avenue b, old motorcycle boots worn with mini-skirt in august.

mexican peasant skirts and leather sandals? handmade on a mexican curb side.

check, check, check, and check.

farmers’ markets with ugly organic tomatoes and homemade lemonade? every sunday.

eating “gourmet” burgers in a little hole in the wall? that’s what the east village is for, check please!

in addition i smoked gauloises at that time, which was more hipster than growing your own tobacco in new york. gladys and ipek did the knitting, marie organized stripy socks for us at her job in the sock company.  we also had julian, the cat. he was awesome and liked to sleep in the rice cooker. if i would have had my way his name would have been norbert and i don’t think you can get a more hipster name than that. we took pictures of him constantly and while people liked our cat pictures, they did refuse to eat at our place after seeing him in the rice cooker.

before lomo and instagram we had the original old school camera – the polaroid. i must admit that i have been taking selfies long before the term was coined and pictures of my shoes too. there are already many unflattering pictures of me with a protruding nose due to the awkward selfie angle, so these days i try to limit their exposure on the internet. personally i think most people’s shoes are not that exciting and only warrant a picture if they are louboutin or dangle above a volcano.

we listened to the strokes when they were the first band with a the and saw them live when they were still playing in bars. the same went for a whole lot of indie bands that by now have come and gone or landed a gig at rocking the daisies.

no offense, or take it if you must, but south africa is lacking a bit behind with certain things or gives them a let’s call it interesting angle. it seems a bit like playing telephone. americans, those silly people, whisper hipster and south africans hears wears ugly jerseys and thinks their cat, overpriced craft beer and coffee makes them a better person. i don’t want to wear an ugly jersey with a horse head that was hand knit by someone else’s mother and pretend it is cool. an ugly jersey by any other name is still an ugly jersey. my uncle has been making moonshine in his basement since forever so i call moonshine the new craft beer. and when it comes to cats…well, i like cats. i also like dogs. i think bats are cool. and giraffes are the most awesome of all animals. cats were never my  thing to write home about. if you are a fan of origin, truth & co. rest assured i am too. however most days i am perfectly fine with instant and when i lived in new york filter coffee from the corner deli was my favourite. if you think cat poop coffee is thing to drink i may just silently applaud someone with brilliant marketing skills who turned that shit into gold.

the thing is that i grew up in the 80s and a lot of things considered hipster in this city tend to go back to this era of unfortunate style choices. so to almost anything you throw at me, i can say been there, worn that. i already wore jerseys in unfortunate colours and prints as a child, so i am very happy to stick to black cashmere these days.  i learned when i was 8 years old that to pull off bangs you need to have a certain shape of face. if you don’t have said shape you will look scary or scared. or both. if you had to wear big glasses as a child and were teased for it, you are happy for the advances of modern days and the contact lenses that come with it. you won’t go out and spend a fortune on a pair of xxl bamboo frames. call it whatever you like, but this was not a good look back then and it ain’t a good look now:

on a final, very personal note, love it or hate it: i have been wearing my hair up in a high, somewhat messy bun since 2001. it wasn’t chloë sevigny, it was me who did it first. 

that and my onesie make me an original hipster if you care to call me such.

peasant blouse home made and shovel for organic 

gardening in the sand pit. 

rocking my christmas onesie and my brother's vinyl.

the right shoes for travelling the world.

so today i have some exciting news and a champagne headache.

i'm going to be a contributor for travelettes.

that's the exciting news and you just don’t see me shrieking because of the headache. however i  am shrieking  and jumping up and down on the inside.

travelettes is a travel blog with a group of awesome girls who go out into the world and prove that backpacking in heels is not a contradiction. i like that premise and so i sent them an application and some stories. katja, the founder of the travelettes apparently liked my application letter so much that she already posted it on the blog and put my already fragile head into a slight overdrive.

reading important mail on my phone while still in bed with one eye closed is tricky business. i still gathered though that she really seemed to like my writing and since she is neither my mother nor am i paying her to say that, i was genuinely touched and happy and proud.

we may call a blog an online diary, but in the end we write to get read, don't we? a story told needs an audience. it's a bit like that thought experiment "if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" if we write and nobody reads it, does it matter that we write? we think that our words matter in one way or another and if someone else reads them it affirms this notion. 

at least that it is one of the main reasons why i write. i like writing, but i do write to be read. having someone tell me that they like what i write makes me happy, makes me want to write more, makes me want to write better, makes me even write in bed on sunday with a headache and it makes me grin silly.

now here is a little problem i have with this whole excitement though. i think i may have lied by omission in my application.

i don't wear heels and i certainly don't travel in them.

ups.

i dare say, i get shoes.  my taste in shoes is impeccable. i may not have many for women’s standards, but the ones i have are really, really good.  i have prada, dries van noten, vintage charles jourdan, pierre hardy, and repetto. however none of them have more than 2-inch heels. i hate to admit it, but i cannot walk in heels. it's not the pain, the pain usually one can drink away, but i simply cannot walk without looking odd and stumbling, sometimes i even add a full-on fall and/or ankle sprain. i don’t do it to myself when i go to work so why would i do it to myself when i go on vacation?

but now you probably wonder if i don't i want to be fancy sometimes and need shoes to go with it? the truth is, i don't think i am a very fancy person at heart. yes, i am sitting here with a champagne hangover but i also spilled a lot of said champagne very un-fancily all over my dress last night. truthfully as a girl it's usually enough to be fancy on top, most people don't care about the fanciness of your shoes. which i guess is a bit sad for the shoes, but also a reality of the world outside of fashion. years ago an ex visited me in new york before christmas. the visit didn't go very well so i was already in an unpleasant mood when our last evening finally came along. we had reservations at the rivercafe, the one truly fancy old school place where they still make men wear ties and stuff. i had already packed most of my wardrobe as i was leaving the next day and left with a choice of wearing strappy summer sandals or sneakers. they were light blue pumas and awesome as far as sneakers go, but obviously an odd choice for the rivercafe. since we were having a snow storm i didn't care and chose them over summer sandals. the ex wouldn't stop moaning and complaining about how they wouldn't let us in due to my shoe choice. he was right in that we didn't get in. however it was due to his lack of tie. because unlike they make it seem in the movies, restaurants like that don't keep a collection of spare clip-ons, they just give your table to some other dude who came without a reservation but wearing a tie.

so i’d say i am more cool (can i say that about myself without sounding like a complete ass?) than fancy and therefore my preferred choice of travel shoes have been my old vintage motorcycle boots. what can i say, unlike heels, they were actually made for walking. i have walked in them to fashion weeks in paris and new york, they have been to the vatican and the dome in milan, they have slept in five star resort in st. barth’s, park city and miami, and have ridden with me on a basotho pony in the lesotho highlands. they have lived by far a more exciting life than any heel that i ever bought, failed to walk in and which subsequently died alone and unworn in my closet.

having explained all of that, dear travelettes, i hope you won’t mind that i will therefore adhere to the credo of backpacking* suitcase-wheeling in vintage motorcycle boots.

*i did admit that i don’t even own a backpack and they didn’t seem to think that was a problem.

Seasonal change.

Sorry, I have been quiet…I blame the two little kittens and our two little interns. They are each exhausting in their own right and I find only the kittens cute. Add into the mix that I am not used to work full days anymore after this long winter and I am just tired all the time. On top of it I have just been missing and daydreaming of New York. Which seems a tad ungrateful considering that the wind has finally stopped howling and I am about to have sushi with bubbly on the beach for sunset. I know, I know…I just wish that maybe for a day or so I could wear my old motorcycle boots with thick socks again, my Alexander McQueen coat which makes me look like Sherlock Holmes with my matching cashmere newsboy cap, and drink what Starbuck’s calls African Redbush Tea. Fancy name for good, old rooibos, right? For some reason I always liked it better on the other side of the globe on a crisp, cool autumn’s day and for some reason that’s where I want to be right now. I’m craving change…

I was about to add a little cartoon of a Sherlock Holmes here, but I couldn’t find one with motorcycle boots or holding a teacup instead of a magnifying class. The only one I liked I found was a vampire version of Sherlock which is undoubtedly awesome and I could relate to it, but it came from a website of someone who seemed a little too disturbed for my liking to link. If you are really want to see it, google Vampire Sherlock Holmes Cartoon.

Holier than most.

Today I wore my new Djellaba while spring cleaning my closet. Why? I like to say you can take the girl out of the desert, but you can't take the desert out of the girl. But maybe that is pretentious. I think I just wore it because it is comfy, I don't have to pull my stomach in (which is still in much need of pulling in after my share of the average annual 16kg/person of Moroccan sugar consumption), and it makes me feel happily nostalgic.
I also got nostalgic when I started to sort through my tank tops. Or vests as the South African would say. Or wife beater as I once called one in unfortunate incident with a black sales woman in New York. Whatever. For me they are my life and holy as well as holey.

I blame my old boss GC for the obsession and so does my credit card. He impregnated on us – his devoted ants squad – that only a holey tank top was a worthy tank top and the holier, the worthier it became. The same went for stains as they may have met Mick Jagger over a late night spilled whiskey, or tears which screamed of adventure while trekking through deserts and crossing oceans, and in general any demise fabric could show that looked the excitement of sex, drugs & rock'n roll. We rummaged through flea markets in the country, secondhand shops downtown, fancy vintage stores uptown, and sometimes even our own little NYC closets, realizing we might be sitting on stinky, ripped goldmines ourselves. You would be surprised what some people pay for dirty, old scraps of fabric.
Eventually designers caught on and our job became somewhat easier. Everybody was doing fancy jeans and unfancy tanks and tees. Sweat and blood came out of a bottle and a machine cut the holes to match. Not to make it too easy for us, these pieces was never good enough for GC. They needed to be real. Authentic. I hate the word. It made me spent hours scrubbing and rubbing, dusting and staining. We had an entire special stain kit with different shades of mud, dust, and street gravel. I remember a few jobs sitting on the pavement rubbing jeans on concrete as this gets the most authentic results of wear and tear. Just to be clear – I was wearing the jeans while doing this! The other trick was washing. Over and over and then once more. One time as it was late and I wanted to speed up the process I added bleach to it. I went to set the next morning shamefaced and with a load full of sample jeans looking like the Milka cow. Talk about starting new trends.
But however much work and money it took to either find the holy jersey grail or to make it thus, I have loved clothes looking old, worn, and full of stories ever since. My most favorite pieces are my most torn. Little surprise there that once again I didn't throw out any today except for a new t-shirt I bought last year at H&M. It's still all shiny and new and I don't like it because of it.
I think most people will think me a slop; I think I like holes, stains, and their sentiment. So when I come to your next dinner party in a top with holes, don't just judge; I'm sharing my love and appreciation for you by wearing it as my plus one.

Starstruck.

Some people get starstruck and others don't. I belong into the second category. The only time I got close to starstruckness was when I was about to teach a class and my teacher told me before that an actress was going to attend as her production company had called and made arrangements. That didn't really make me nervous since he didn't even know who she was and even if – who cared? Once he told me her name though, I got a bit excited – the girl with the dragon tattoo was coming to my class?? Mind you not the Swedish one, but the one from Hollywood, the one who had hot steamy onscreen sex with Daniel Craig. Which was probably why I got excited, because I pictured us becoming guru and disciple and she telling me all about filming the sex scenes with him. Have I mentioned that I like Daniel Craig so much that I even dated a lawyer for a couple of months in New York just because he had the same nose? A lawyer! The nose! And the nose is really not Daniel's best feature as we can all see.

In the end it was much ado about nothing. It was not the girl, but just a girl with a very similar name and a C class acting history behind her. Nevertheless she was lovely and we got on well, though there was no dirty dishing about Daniel.

So you can see that actors don't really do it for me. Neither do musicians. Definitely not models. I don't know...maybe one gets cool after living in New York and in the fashion industry for too long. I saw quite a few literally stripped naked in front of me and thus they lose facade and what's left is not necessarily pretty or even witty and entertaining. A friend of mine actually snatched a date with Jonathan Rhys Meyers after working with him and she still tells the tale of how he was so boring that she begged one of her favorite bartenders to get him high, so she would at least have some sort of a fun dinner companion.

But you know who gets me non-star-starstruck? Ballet dancers! When I worked on one of my very first shoots in St. Barth's I didn't care about Kate Moss and ignored her request for a Corona at 9am, I cared that we were shooting in Nureyev's house. I felt like I was walking on holy ground – the honor, the prevision that little me, was allowed to set foot into his holiday home!

I remembered that today, because the just recently retired prima ballerina of the Cape Town City Ballet comes to my yoga studio. Not only that, but I had her in the class I taught on Monday and apparently she loved it so much, that she not only told me after class, but again today. Then she chatted to me. Like a friend. I sat there with my mouth slightly open, thinking I must be the luckiest girl alive that a real prima ballerina was talking to me. I was completely starstruck. When we walked to our cars together, I quickly told her my Nureyev story, which let's be honest is little more than an anecdote, but there she was, now looking at me, well, starstruck.  

A strut and a skip.

Before I dive into a full  report of my recent experience with Cape Town Fashion Week you should know that I don’t like fashion week in general. Ever. It is not because I never got invited, because I usually did or could have, but because I don’t like most fashion people that crowd these shows. Especially the really important ones which make every self-respected designer start his show an hour late. I don’t care if you are the devil who wears Prada, my time is valuable too and I don’t care that you need to share a Diet Coke and chat with Mr Lagerfeld before gracing us with your presence.
Though I might get annoyed by these Anna Wintours of the world, those are exactly the people you put on a fashion show for. You don’t put it on for some ordinary girls who buy a ticket for R 150 to feel important for twenty minutes, but who can never afford to buy your clothes afterwards. Tell me international fashion peeps – is there any other country than South Africa that sells tickets to their fashion shows? I think there would be quite a few ecstatic New Yorker wannabe it-girls, paying a little fortune to sit front row at Marc Jacobs or some nouveau riche Parisians to get a close-up look at Dior. But they can’t. Because that is not what a fashion show is for. Unless you live in South Africa, but then there is no MJ or Dior or any worthwhile reason to see a show either. Except you have a teenage niece like myself and it’s her birthday.

Yes, one could say that I went into the whole experience already prejudiced. In addition to the selling tickets part, I don’t hold South African fashion in high regard in general and think they should just let it go and concentrate on making beautiful furniture and home accessories. But hey, that is just me…

My prejudice got confirmed however upon walking into the CTICC and seeing a display by a Kim Gush with her collection called The Immortality of Devine Rule, which was in her words inspired by what black South African women wear and New York City. And in case this didn’t make sense for someone like me, it further explained This is what I would wear as a South African woman, coming to New York, but wanting to keep my own identity*. Considering what just happened at the Batman premier I didn’t think it was a good idea to wear a muzzle, clad in black leather when out about in Soho, but what do I know? I snapped a picture for Julia and sent it with the comment And this is Cape Town Fashion week for you to what she replied Thanks for adding the explanation, I thought it a Darth Vader Zeitgeist contest.


Darth Vader hip and happening.

At least the display of Dark Age appropriate dressing for New York kept us entertained enough till the actual show started. I had left the choice to Gabi as one designer means as little as the next to me and she selected Spero Vilioti. I thought he at least looked like the best of the bad options with puffiness, sparkles, and drama, so I expected to see a show in the true sense of the word. That was till the curtain opened to … a Resort show. Bummer. At this point I already wanted my money back.
To me resort shows are in their concept the pinnacle of decadence. If the idea that you buy a whole separate beach wardrobe to go on holiday somewhere warm when the rest of the country is freezing is not decadent, I don’t know what is. Unfortunately these shows never reflect this decadence as they are usually just an array of bikinis, beach cover-ups, and ugly sunhats in either tropical print or nautical themed colours. This show was no exception minus the tropical print, which may have just brightened the whole sombre affair.
What can I say? The clothes were mainly plain and boring themselves, but I giggled at the thought of what would happen if the guys actually got wet in their white, tight spandex swim shorts and I giggled a bit more at the sunhats that came in wagon wheel size only. I thought for a collection lacking any attitude at all, the models should have worn killer heels or at least skipped and danced in their generic, white flip flops. Nope, they didn’t. It made me giggle a bit more that most slumped across the runway in their flats, sporting a strange back arch as if they were walking against strong winds. One wonders why some designers haven’t realized yet that a fashion show is not real life and most outfits look a bit drab without a heel and a strut.
Luckily fashion shows are short and the finale look came quickly. I kind of respected the designer for being so old school that he showed wedding look to close the show. Of course here this meant a white bikini, a veil, and choice of groom. Then the model turned around and I felt more than giggly. Now I know that in the South African fashion world you can have a flabby ass, but still be chosen to walk down the runway in a bikini and show the world your inner beauty. And what is not to love about that for an ordinary girl like myself?

*Yes, I am paraphrasing as didn’t have a pen to write it down and I can’t find it online anywhere. Just in case you wonder if such a thing could be actually true, it is - I am good at paraphrasing!

Little things.

For the last few days I have been feeling very defleated. The word just got stuck in my head somehow, but was nagging me a bit so I finally looked it up. No such word exists, surprise surprise. I now had the choice between defeated and deflated and though neither is a really nice one to describe one’s feelings. Luckily for me though it is the latter, which seems the better of bad options. So here I am, feeling deflated at the moment for various reasons, real or imagined.
Thekla posted a story about soup a few days ago and during a chat conversation about the post, I told her that I felt like a little bowl of soup right now. The obvious question was asked i.e. how does a little bowl of soup feel. The answer is obviously a tricky one and one mustn’t get stuck on the word soup as it is much more about the word little to me. I remember when I first went to New York for a visit. The whole trip had been quite momentous as I was not only visiting the most exciting city in the world, but was also trying to decide whether I could build a life there. On my final day I had put my last bit of cash into a breakfast which turned out not to be fancy, but just very expensive. Since the only other money I had left, I needed to put aside for my taxi to the airport, I asked the snotty waitress to give me a doggy bag for my fruit salad so I would have some form of lunch.
I walked through the city and when it started raining I continued walking as I had no $1.50 left to take the subway. I still remember the corner of Lafayette and Houston when I looked down at my at the doggie bag I was holding and thought Oh no, my little bag is already wet. 

I’m not sure what it is, but something about the use of the word little in both instances seem significant to me. It appears to be a reflection of me in both cases, feeling somehow little and insignificant to the world. It’s hard to describe and sometimes even harder to get out of. In New York it was just the case of me using my emergency credit card and instead of having wet fruit salad lunch, going to a really nice Soho restaurant for pasta.

For right now I am following the advice of my aunt: If you can’t muster enthusiasm or joy for your life i.e. feeling like a little bowl of soup; practise acceptance of the way things are i.e. soup is not so bad.
In addition I like to turn it around a bit and look at the little things that actually bring beauty to life and can make a huge difference. These past few days there were these:

Julia “recovering” my birthday balloons which I lost due to a gale force wind in Gardens. Or so she says…

Gooseberries growing thanks to Ian and against my better judgement and yes, he is looking quite smug every time he checks on them now…

Delivery of good fortune in the best form possible: dipped in white chocolate and decorated with a star.

My newest book obsession: Q – A love story. What can be better?

Last but not least my new favourite website which makes everything just better just by looking at it: www.intrepidtravel.com , which leaves only one question: India or Morocco first?

C'est la fucking vie.*

*excuse my language.

I know I am supposed to tell funny stories. I guess that's why I am here, because that's why you are here. The wind is howling though and I do not feel funny at all. I am hormonal and emotional and I wish I was in New York. Chrisp air and sunshine, Mudtruck coffee in the morning and on a special day a raspberry scone from Dean & Deluca, and with all of it the clicking of high heels on the sidewalk. The fact that my spell check for mysterious reasons has changed the word sidewalk to pavement 3 times in a row and once more in this sentence isn't helping. I'm listening to a song talking about Africa and all I want is home. As in New York. Though my heart cringes in a good way when I hear the words about Africa. I am in Africa. And miss New York; silly me. There I would sit at Bua, having a Corona. After having a steak with thin fries at Mogador. Or a delivery of arepas from Caracas and Friends with my friends and Julian, the stinky cat.

I do know that even if I was there, all would be different. Two of my friends married with a little baby boy. A friend, my Mum wanted me to marry, living with his boyfriend. My bestest friend ever far away, back in Germany. So it is just me. Still dreaming of the same stuff. Everybody else has already arrived.

I was recently praised for my honesty. Praised from a guy who in the end wasn't all that interested in me. C'est la vie. So there I am with my honesty. I can't bear the thought of leaving Cape Town, I miss New York, and I don't know if I will ever … finish this sentence.  

Poor me.

Yesterday was Bastille Day and I read a comment on Twitter that said 'The French invented kissing and toast.' The toast reference struck me as a bit odd (I thought toast was a truly American invention) and the kissing of course reminded me of the Frenchman, which was no good. I was also having quite a busy and productive day so to make it all better I decided to treat myself with the epiphany of comfort food: The Poor Man's Meal. As you will without a doubt already know, it is pasta. It manages to be even more comforting than all the other kind of pasta dishes as it originated from my Mum, with a bit of help from Jamie Oliver I think, and then made its way to New York, where it became a staple amongst Gladys, Marie, and I. It not only tastes great, but has a double amount of good memories attached.
My Mum started the craze years back and has slightly altered the recipe over time to suit her tastes, but whenever I go home, I know it is the first meal I will get and I get it in the original version.
Once I introduced it to the girls in New York, they loved it so much, that we started making it all the time. It quickly became known as ‘The Poor Man’s Meal’ as we would especially make it towards the end of the month when money was tight. WhenI tell you now what is in it, you will think us the most decadent college students ever. You cannot get any further from Ramen Noodles (Two minute noodles for the South Africans) than that.
Zucchinis are drenched and fried in lots of virgin olive oil with crushed chillies. Pasta is tossed into that and than topped with mountains of Parmesan. My mother would add a bit of saffron to it as well, which I remember because I have managed to mess up quite a few of her good fabric napkins over time. Last night I used Turmeric instead, but even without the saffron it is by no means close to Ramen or any other student budget appropriate meal. Why? Well, as you can tell by my end-result picture – I am and always was incapable of not covering my entire plate with real Parmesan.

P.S. In case you wonder, the picture above represents amounts of cheese appropriate for picture taking and was tripled right afterwards for eating.

The Devil Smells Baies.

Amongst other things I do have a bit of an obsession with candles. Not candlelight, just candles. I couldn’t care less whether they are lit or not. Proving my point, my favourite picture of my newest acquisition from Country Road on my recent winter splurge:

One might quite rightly object now and say - But why? Candlelight is so romantic and such. Here is why I find it completely unnecessary:

Scenario A – Taking a bath.
When I take a bath I’m usually in and out in ten minutes and it would take longer to set candles up than I could enjoy them. Plus I usually read in the bath so I would need to leave the lights on anyhow.

Scenario B – Dinner.
I think Gladys spoiled that one for me as she says candles on the table always shine directly in her eyes and hurt her. Therefore any candle wouldn’t survive on our table. I must have adapted the habit. Plus I like to see what’s on my plate.

Scenario C – Sex.
I’m very much a lights on person, but whether there is candlelight or not doesn’t really do anything for my mood. Good sex is good sex with or without and bad sex unlike facial complexions doesn’t get better in candlelight. The only exception here are the massage candles from Kiki de Montparnasse which turn into oil when poured on skin. But obviously they are burnt for a different kind of mood setting purpose than to make everything and everyone look pretty.

Having that said, I do love Carols at Candlelight at Kirstenbosch, which is the only scenario I can think of when lighting them is kind of essential. Though I love buying all kind of candles, I have a special fondness for the scented kind. Proving my point again, it is not about the candlelight, but the smell when you walk into your home. In New York I developed an unhealthy habit of buying only the most exclusive = expensive kind. Diptyque. When you worked in fashion it was mandatory to burn their Baies candles in your office and home. If like me you worked as a mere little assistant, you had the choice to either steal one from your boss (NO, never! I'd be to scared to get caught...) or to not eat for a week and save the money to buy one.
Baies is to this day one of the most delicious smells ever to me. Yet I was a bit shamefaced at times, when people asked me how much I must have spent on a candle, which I would only burn to the most special of all occasions. Of course this question would only come from non-fashion people and for a good while I got away by saying that cheap scented candles gave me a headache. Which is sort of true.
Since moving to Cape Town I had to give up on them as they are not being sold here and would probably force me to not eat for 2 weeks considering the exchange rate. Luckily my wonderful friend Sam agreed to bring me two when he came for a visit from New York. Unfortunately South African airport thieves seemed to have the same taste as me: his Prada jacket was untouched, yet my Diptyque candles got stolen out of his suitcase. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for Sam, but to this day I’m still wondering about the thief’s motives and if there is a shack now somewhere that smells like Baies.

The land before time.

Last August in New York I went to the Museum of Natural History. It was amazing. I have a tendency to sneak up to guided tours and listen in, so that way I learned all about the fossilized dinosaur eggs and I got to touch them too. I like dinosaurs lots and I do one day want to own a Night Fury. I think it’s Jacob’s doing. In case you don’t know, my little nephew Jakob has a slight obsession with dinosaurs and even when he was only 4 years old he could tell you exactly the difference between a dinosaur and a dragon and would tell you off if you mixed them up. So no surprise that he was very happy when I got him a walking and roaring dinosaur, one of those presents parents will never buy for their own kids. I’m surely going to be paid back for it in singing toy ponies once I have a child.
When carnival came along a few years ago Jacob to everybody’s surprise decided not to be Jack Sparrow, but a T-Rex. Actually that might not be accurate, but is the only dinosaur I can think of and spell. Xenia bought some fancy felt fabric and sewed him an outfit, which of course ended in tears because last minute he wanted to be some other kind of dinosaur and now the fabric wasn’t the right kind.
I was overjoyed when I found cameras at the museum that film you and you can send a video message to people via email. The best part of it? It puts you in a New York taxi which is being chased by a T-Rex. Unfortunately I don’t have the email anymore otherwise I would have posted it here. I think I looked quite heroic in the eyes of such danger. And my imaginary cabbie was cool too.
My most exciting part however was a stint at the South Sea exhibit all put together by the late Margaret Mead, cultural anthropologist. In addition to articles by her and things she had collected, they also showed films about her life and I became utterly fascinated. So fascinated that back in Cape Town I decided I had to read her autobiography. Only problem was, it had been out of print for years. I started my research and finally located it at Strand in NYC, sent Gladys the details and was now apparently responsible for my poor pregnant friend to walk all over town in the snow heaps to get my book. Not only that, but she had to climb up a ladder to get to it once there.
Though she gave it to me when she was here in February, I hadn’t yet opened it. It had just been lying on my ‘to read’ pile of books. I think sometimes I feel anxious to actually open a book that I have so looked forward to as it may just disappoint.

This Saturday I decided it was time, so I took my iced coffee and Blackberry Winter out on the balcony just to fall in love with it: To read someone describing home away from home for the first time exactly how I felt about it all my life was mesmerizing. How it doesn’t matter how long you spend in a place, but what you make of it and who you meet. Her notion of how you always take certain things with you that instantly make you feel home. I too, have the oddest assortment of things, useful and not, that I have been dragging around with me for years. Just to make home away from home...Will take some pictures tonight and show you tomorrow. I might also tell you the story of the home I shared with the little bellboy whom I watched gymnastics at the summer Olympics with. Or write about his flatmate who wrote his emails while wearing a black g-string. All for the sake of anthropoligical research of course.

Quizzing the teacher.

Here my answers to the questions any Bikram Yoga teacher should ask themself:

1. Why do you like it hot?It reminds me of August in New York – the best month in the whole world!

2. As a child, what did you want to be “when you grew up?”
A dentist, a hairstylist, a secret agent, a princess and funny enough a woman in Africa.

3. Tell us about your first kiss: who, when, where?
Kim Roth, 20 years ago, in a tent at a family party

4. What’s your most prized possession?
These days my sheep wool slippers. In general my scarves.

5. What is your most embarrassing moment on the teacher’s box?
I don’t have a box. Kind of sad now that I think about it. If I had one, it would probably have been the time when I said “And now bring your weight into your balls.”

6. What’s the best/worst thing about being a Bikram Yoga teacher?
Best: The way people smile at you when they leave the studio.
Worst: Lots of sweaty laundry.

7. Describe your perfect yoga shorts.
Indestructible cotton shorts from the GAP.

8. What’s the first thing you think of when you wake up in the morning?
I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go, can I stay in bed please?

9. Have you ever been in love?
Yes, I think so.

10. Say one nice thing about the person who first told you about Bikram Yoga.
My lovely, wonderfully crazy sister-in-law. She is lovely and wonderfully crazy.

11. Words or phrases you overuse:
What not.
And then ...

12. Do you remember what your first Bikram class was like?
Uncomfortable due to the floppy, polyester running shorts I was wearing.

13. What’s your guilty pleasure?
Pinot Noir and pasta.

14. Do you have a “most memorable Bikram moment”? First class I ever taught. I walked in, stood in front of the class and felt a very profound sense of purpose.

15. If you could have any job, what would it be?
Travelling writer or writing traveller.

16. What’s your favourite smell? Coconut.

Fashion Chronicles - part 4.

Dedicated to all (my) fashion lovers & haters from all times and places.

Bad Hersfeld

The one distinct fashion item I can remember was also one of high embarrassment: Buffalo shoes. The platform heels went high and higher and everyone was wearing them. At some point even I couldn’t resist and bought a pair of ankle boots with 10cm heels, 2 sizes too big as per usual since I needed them in time for a party. My outfit and the party was a smashing success and made me go a bit crazy since I felt the need for a second pair afterwards. This time the fashion police should have been on my high, high heels as I got a pair of mint coloured, suede clogs. I have nothing to say in my defence.

New York

The devil wears Prada and so did we. If you had the honour to work at Vogue as a fashion assistant, you would manage to walk around wearing little Chloe dresses with some very fashionable high, high heels. Why? Because you work at Vogue and it’s not too hard to walk in heels if you have a town car at your disposal to get you around. I didn’t work for Vogue and had to use the subway – therefore Old Navy flip flops or vintage motorcycle boots with the Chloe dresses. The one time I attempted to walk in heels on a New York sidewalk, I literally ended up flat on my face and deep in humiliation.

Cape Town

I am waiting for a guy to show up not wearing shorts and slops on a date and girl to say to me at the supermarket “Wow, what a beautiful bag. Is that Pucci?” I have been waiting for a long time. I haven’t given up yet. I’m still waiting. In the meanwhile I hope that the guy who stole one of my Pucci bags, was in fact one of the ignorant ones, threw it out so now some old lady, who found it at the side of the road, is walking around with a funny coloured bag in Gugulethu.

More tomorrow – what should it be? I’m thinking food, art&culture, sex, and favourite pets. What are you guys thinking?

Part 3: Tales of coffee.

Bad Hersfeld

I spent half my waking teenage years at Zanella’s Eiscafe. Every single day my friends and I would go there for hours after school. I think most of my pocket money went towards ‘Schinken- Käse-Toast Spezial’.  It’s the kind of place where they still ask you whether you want your cappuccino with whipped cream or the Italian way (which is what you get when you order just a cappuccino anywhere else in the world).

New York

There is only one way to drink iced coffee to me: espresso in a glass, ice cubes, cold water – no questions asked and very barista in NYC knows it.

Cape Town

As long as I don’t expect the above without being asked whether they should use hot or cold water (really??), I am quite happy with the choices here: Instant coffee culture at my office, Deluxe for vacation feeling and Vida with a slab of Lindt for everyday joy. Oh joy!

Part 2: Tales of the weather.

Bad Hersfeld

Your average mid-Germany mix of sun, snow and everything in between. Mind you, one time it snowed so much that I managed to lose my neon pink gym bag on my way to school in a snowstorm and it was never seen again after. I must ask my mother some time: What was she thinking to let me walk in this weather?

New York

The time of the big black out comes to mind when my friend was doing Bikram yoga in our lounge as it was about 40 degrees without air conditioning. Or the time I was stuck in crazy cat guy’s flat, because there was so much snow. Or how August in NYC is still the best smelling month ever to me, though everyone who has been will call me crazy for it.

Cape Town

You know these rainy days when you just want to cuddle up in bed, watch movies, eat chocolate and not leave the house at all? In Cape Town they are usually spoiled by some sunshine coming out sooner or later making you feel guilty for not spending the day outside. When my aunt has a day like that she will refer to the sunshine as the yellow piggy, I will simply be thankful for my heavy, dark curtains and the knowledge that there is never a shortage of more sunny days just around the corner.

Tales of men.

I will break this up a bit as I’m quite busy today and my attention span can’t deal with more than a paragraph at the time. Shall you have a request for a category, feel free to ask. For the time being I will start with something for the girls:

Part 1: Tales of men.

Bad Hersfeld

Back in my day there was a small, but nice selection on the menu: preppy doctor’s sons, local celebrity offsprings and the annual addition of yummy actors from the summer theatre. I shall report on the current situation when I go back in August.

New York

“No one has breakfast at Tiffany’s and no one has affairs to remember.” Yet, the tide might be changing as my list of friends getting married, having babies and generally living happily ever after in NYC seems to be growing over the last couple of years.

Cape Town

In the words of my favourite new wine:  “Western Cape – Where the winemakers surf and the surfers make wine.” What’s not to love?

The tale of how the tales came along.

This story was inspired by something you can call a dare from my Jo’burg writer pen pal. I have been trying to get him to come to Cape Town and finally suggested he pitch a story about Bikram yoga and get his boss to pay him to fly down. Apparently this won’t work as they have studios there as well. (Pah! Not with me teaching and saying silly things like “And now smile!” Yes, I actually said that in class and almost wanted to bite my tongue off to make up for it afterwards. Silly, silly phrase when you are standing on one leg, trying to stretch in opposite directions. I walked out of class once when a teacher said it.)

No good reason for him to travel for this, so he told me I should come up with better pitches. Last night I took to the task and started thinking and up I came with Tales of 3 Cities. A story only I could tell as only me has lived in the cities in question. Or least I am the only one he knows. So an interview would have to be set up and I pretending to be a diva would have him fly down.  That was the plan. 

Then I looked at my beautiful writer desk du jour, having everything one needs to write – candles, wine, ancient eMac, cigarettes, notepad. All of a sudden my inner me got a bit feisty and thought screw that, he can come up with his own pitches to come see me, I will make it my own story. Sorry, man!

So here we go…Tales of 3 Cities. The tales part might be misleading though. Consider it more a guide to cities, which had and still have a big significance in my life: my home town Bad Hersfeld, my heart city New York, and my current favourite Cape Town. All rated on things I find important when visiting a city like coffee, fashion, weather, men...stay tuned...

P.S. For anyone who thinks I screwed myself now, by not giving him the story – I pitched an even better one to him last night via email. Involving hotels and tooth brushing and sexy strangers. If his boss doesn’t pick that one up, then I don’t know what’s wrong with the world. It will be genius.

Of cat women and kitten guys.

So here is what I also did while hibernating:


http://seedsthoughts.blogspot.com/2011/05/10-things-10-scarves-10-moods-annika.html

I thought it would be a nice opportunity for my scarves to shine. I must admit though that the biography she included was a couple of weeks old (I did not know it would be included in all its’ glory at all to be true). I feel I must make this a point because after this weekend I am at ease with the world in general and the male population in particular for a change. Here is one reason why:

Delivered by a man in suit. For anyone who knows a bit about me – I am a sucker for men in suits and since everyone knows that Cape Town is a desert when it comes to suits this was a special and unexpected treat. Mind you, I like Irises too and thought it was quite endearing that he did not know their name, just that they were pretty and purple. Smiling me.

As I mentioned before the kittens will get one more write up here and then I will stop and hope that they will outgrow their cuteness. As godmother I was happily kitten sitting for the weekend. I probably have not mentioned that I do really want a cat myself and name her MiuMiu. The only reason I haven’t gotten one is that I’m afraid it will make me the old, single lady with the cat. Mind you I don’t consider myself old yet and if I had a cat the being single might not be so dreadful on rainy Sunday afternoons either. But for some reason I haven’t done the step yet – it seems to be seen as a step of desperation especially by guys. I think in this day and age most men like dogs. I also think if they do prefer cats that something is wrong with them. I know this assumption isn’t fair and bares all logic. I may have to blame Josh, a  guy I briefly dated in New York. He lived by himself with his big fluffy white cat called ‘Boo’. First I was delighted to have met a fellow cat lover, but after spending the night I realized there was something too strange about a man carrying a fluffy, white cat around the bedroom naked. With or without cat, it ended when he told he was moving to Houston. Funny enough in true Murphy’s law fashion I ran into him in a store two months later. We both mouthed the words ‘What the fuck?’ at the same time. Then he told me, no really, he was moving to Houston this week. I wasn’t sad to see him go – or not- and do blame him for my men with cats aversion.

I don’t think I need to explain anymore and will just say that for my world I don’t want a man who likes cats, but would like a man who likes me with a cat. That seems to be a bit tricky though. Kitten sitting was a good test run for things to come if I were to get a cat. The result – all is well in the world of cat girls and dog guys. Instead of kittens being kicked out of bed for being too squirmy, I was told off that it was my fault since I brought them into bed to begin with. Neither were the kittens reprimanded for watching R rated things, but me for not realizing what they were watching. The biggest surprise was probably that they had their pictures taken too and not by me.

What did I learn this weekend? I shouldn’t have to worry. Men, even if they love dogs, cannot resist kitten charm. Or me. Either way will work out fine for MiuMiu and me.

Randomness reversed.

The mood has not improved by much and on top I had dreams so weird last night they actually make me dread teaching class tonight, which has never happened before. Except maybe the time when I was supposed to teach my first class ever and I wasn’t feeling ready and my teacher told me right before I went in “I want to see you cry!”. Gotta love him. So I’m not feeling very inspired either to write something clever. I would rather sit in a corner wearing the briefs which Gladys’ owned before she got married that say ‘boys are stupid, throw rocks at them’. There was a lot of wisdom in that.


Wisdom or not, since that is not an option, I am trying to think of ways to make myself cheerful and thus inspired. Nothing comes to mind. Quite the contrary. I thought I should make another list. A list of all my favourite things to do in New York, which would inspire me more than this life right now. Luckily I heard a little warning sound in the back of my head and yup, I wrote that list already. Even published it. Here you go, people. It has not changed a bit. The only thing I would add at his point, because Lula Cat reminded me with her Brooklyn thoughts, is to go to that little cheese shop in Williamsburg and buy that amazing Pecorino (?) we had one night last August (Gladys’ and I made sure it didn’t last longer and Rez was only allowed an allocated small slice).


I could be happy about the fact that I booked my flight for winter/summer – depending on where you are – vacation to go back home. But announcing the dates like the true rock star, which I’m not, to friends and family, I am now faced with the usual dilemma: People asking me to also go to XYZ and telling me no, I must change dates as they are on vacation, and anyhow why am I only coming for 5 days I may as well stay in Africa then... I know I’m exaggerating and it’s all done with love and people just want to see me, which is flattering and overall lovely. BUT it is also exhausting especially after coming up with a tour plan that had no flaw as I thought. I guess I am also not quite over the fact that there will be no other adventure vacation this year unless that millionaire does come along, marries me, tells me to quit my job for I should rather travel the world with him.
I do tend to scare millionaires and men in general off, so that will be no good. Still no inspiration. I could tell lamb tongue story which involves Cruella de Vil, lamb tongues (obviously) and a BALLY handbag and is quite awesome, but it may make a good post on its own and I could also show my pictures of the lamb tongue and scallop dish at Test Kitchen, which becomes even greater if you read the lamb tongue story before. Another time ... not feeling it today. Too hot for food and that reminds me to complain: what is up with the weather? I ordered fall and hot chocolate and my down duvet and curry and rain and soppy movies and a reunion with my cashmere poncho.


And then...


Just when I wanted to bitch some more did I have a little chat with a friend of mine. She started a chain of Facebook comments as long as someone announcing the birth of a firstborn by her remark of leaving NY. She is a bit upset to say the least and hearing about it breaks my heart, because she is so stunning, talented (check her out Grace Koo), beautiful, funny, I could gush about her for a long time. Chatting to her just reminded me of something important I should do: I must stop writing now, go and fetch my bikini and enjoy a last summer’s weekend on my cousin’s pool deck. Quickly. There may not be many more and one must go with the flow and enjoy them as they come. And if everything else fails, doing what I always tell my pretzel students to do: just breathe.

We live here.

My recent work project which included coming up with a cool pop-up card for our next mailing introduced some much needed entertainment to my daily routine. It also reminded me last time I made a pop-up card for a friend of mine. Shamefully I must admit that the card was never sent as it became part of a too-big-to-finish project, which I frequently indulge in. It was a card showing the layout of our first apartment in New York which Gladys, Marie and I shared.

The grand tour:


Bottom left
The bathroom. If you need the fax machine explained, please contact Marie directly as it is all her fault and I won’t say no more.


Top left
Marie’s room. The clothes are a bit misleading as we all worked in fashion, but her fashion job rocked the most that’s why her room gets represented by clothes.
It was at Roy’s Hosiery and each Friday was called ‘Sock Friday’ as she would bring left over sample socks for us. I don’t think I have bought a single pair of socks since Marie left college. When she came to visit Cape Town she lived up to the true spirit of Sock Friday and brought me about 30 pairs and it wasn’t even Friday. I love visitors!


Top Middle
Gladys’ room. Yes it did have a pop-up wall for real. That’s how you convert a 2 bedroom to a 3 bedroom in New York and charge 50% more rent. It also had the only TV and Thursday was Friends night. Marie and Gladys would sit on her twin bed, I was crouched in the corner of the window sill and we would watch the new episodes of Friends together. Who needs a La-Z-Boy or even a living room?


Top Right
My room. I had an original red iMac and a liking for Internet dating. Also did I become a professional on how-to-make-the-most-of-a-4m2-room in this room.


Middle Bottom
Kitchen/Living Room/Dining Room/Foyer/Gladys’ walk-in closet. Equally inhabited by Coronas, Enchiladas or other Mexican treats and mice.
The mice became a bit of a problem. In an attempt to be PETA friendly I not only decided to go Vegan for a week (I stopped after trying to eat soy parmesan cheese), but also asked them for a mice friendly way to dispose of mice. The answer is simple: One buys a little cage (preferably with handle), puts bait inside (preferably of the soy kind) and waits for the mouse to run inside (hoping the mouse unlike you will like soy cheese). The cage should be one where the mouse runs in, but can’t run out yet remains unharmed. Then you have a cage with a mouse and you can take the mouse to Central Park and release it. Someone explained that to me while keeping a straight face. To my question why I would do such a thing and surely the mouse would manage to run the 4 blocks back to my street and up the stairs into the apartment and how this would defy the whole purpose, I just got blank stares.
I am not proud to admit that we then decided on the least humane way: glue traps. Bad idea for both parties involved. For the mice for obvious reasons and for us as we underestimated how much a mouse can wiggle when glued to a trap. She can wiggle herself from her discreet trap hiding spot under the stove into the middle of the kitchen with the trap. By doing this it will cause the first person getting up in the morning to shriek loudly and the other two to wake up and know immediately that we caught one.
I will spare you the details of how we got rid of any mouse on trap, but it usually involved our trash shoot and the Yellow Pages.


Far Right
The zebra van which you already know.


Top Far Right
The address we would give the cabbies and then shout in unison: “We live here.”
Go figure, Mr. Cab Driver.