A thief in broad daylight.

With travelling momentarily on hold I’m sort of resigned to spending my weekends at home in London. Whilst it isn’t exactly my favourite activity, I’m not asking you to reach for your magnum box of Kleenex just yet; at the end of the day it’s not so bad to be waking in my own bed for a full week straight, savour a bit of boredom and enjoy the simple fact of living in a flat that, after years of mould-damp-mice-cold, is actually nice and comfortable. And I have to say that even my oh-so-middle-class West London borough can offer something unexpected.
Take, for instance, this morning. I was walking on High Road, whistling Rodriguez’s “Sugar Man” to myself, when a black SUV – one of those Chelsea tractors, you know the kind – stopped at the crossing immediately before me. The front window was rolled down, and the driver – the kind of guy a couple of years older and a lot wealthier than me – looked at yours truly as if he wanted to ask something and, before I could proffer a word, he shouted “That man is a thief!”.
After the briefest moment of puzzlement (I didn’t, and don’t, remember liberating anything bigger than a bag of laminating pouches in the last 10 years, and even that wasn’t really theft, I’d just simplified the supply chain of the company’s supply of stationary materials) when I realised that SUV man was pointing with his thumb towards the back of the SUV, where the Barclays bank and a man with a Sainsbury’s shopping bag stood.
In fairness to Bag man, his only visible sin was the fact of wearing Lycra leggings. SUV man stuck his head out of the window, shouted “Thief, thief, THIEF!” then screeched away, turning left at the junction. Lycra man grinned like Pennywise the clown and then disappeared in a side alley, leaving me standing by the side of the road, puzzled and suddenly aware of a handful of facts.
Firstly, it wasn’t yet nine and I’d seen enough oddity to last West London a weekend. Secondly that, despite the hour and the clouds and the snow the good West London burghers were already out en masse. Thirdly that all the good West London burghers had seen was SUV man shouting thief! at me, not at Lycra man – who was hidden from view, being as he was in the process of disappearing in a side alley – and that I was less than 100 meters away from the local Met police station. But, this being London, no one made eye contact and I could be spared the ignominy of a tour of the nick and a cavity search.
And that’s it. I’ll leave you in company of this troop of birds who were perched on the tree outside my window, undoubtedly bickering about the few timid snow flakes now falling over the city. “I told you, Archibald, that we had to migrate south when the Robinsons did, haven’t I? Now look at us, my arse is frozen!”

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Chicago people watching.

I have one camera – an old Olympus PEN – and two lenses. One long, and the other one a pancake. Yes, that’s as far as my technical knowledge will go and yes, two lenses is one set too many I feel like bringing with me, especially as they share a cap between them two. Every trip, every foray entails a choice. Long or short?
Being shy I’ve always preferred the long ones when attempting at street photography, since long lenses allow me to stay further away from my subjects and I’m always afraid that people might not want me taking pictures of them. This time, though, I chose to bring the pancake, because at the end of the day I’ve got to learn and improve. Here’s what I saw.
– § –
The North Side is undoubtedly a dapper part of the city. Regardless of your ethnicity, if you’re hanging out there you’ll need to look the part. That probably explains the sideway glances I seemed to get every time I stepped out of our hotel.

– § –
Anish Kapoor’s Cloud gate is probably the most photographed thing in town. There I found inspiration in photographing others taking photos of themselves. Makes sense, right?

– § –
The lakefront parade is delightfully shabby. A concrete walkway, trees, a boarded-up ice-cream kiosk and a few ducks looking quizzically at the ice slabs floating in the chrome waters of the Lake Michigan. I instantly liked it. It was almost deserted on Christmas day morning, apart from these three tourists. Five people had the whole waterfront at their disposal.

– § –
There’s a statue of Abraham Lincoln waving his top hat at another sculpture of rare ugliness, a George Bush-lookalike dressed in a white jumper and corduroy. I spend a little while trying to figure out the discussion that must’ve taken place at City Hall (“Mayor! I got an idea: how about we make a 20-feet tall Lincoln out of papier-mâché, we stick it on Michigan avenue and we make another one of my uncle Francis, the one who looks a bit like W. Waddayathink?” “Jones, you are an absolute genius! Have a cigar and help yourself to the drinks cabinet!”), then realise the young Asian guy braving the cold and the views, alone with his pianola.
– § –
High up in the John Hancock centre, as the city slowly drifts into the night and the Christmas lights flicker into life one after the other, there’s love and tenderness to be found. Or perhaps this is the only way for both of them to watch that Big Bang Theory episode on the iPhone.

– § –
That’s it. Time to go, now.

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E.R., towers and life on the streets. Notes from Chicago.

When I was a teenager, activists from both ends of the political spectrum – the far left and the neo-Fascists – used to hand out leaflets outside my school. There was only one refrain that could have been copied from the fliers printed by one and pasted on the others’: a profound, organic, deep-rooted malaise for the “American cultural imperialism” which took shape, to quote freely, under the form of boy bands, individualistic literature, films and TV series.
You could rubbish 99.9% of their claims on anything, but couldn’t fault them on the TV series front. With the exception of Japanese cartoons, everyone had his or her own favourite American TV series and yet those were the days before The O.C., when you either surfed the Internet or called someone and when the inventor of Netflix hadn’t downloaded his first video yet.
My show of choice was, without a shadow of a doubt, E.R. It shaped my understanding of the medical profession so deeply that, on my first visit to my hospital’s A&E, I was mildly disappointed to see that its doors didn’t open with a theatrical slam and that paramedics wouldn’t be rushing in yelling some poor sod’s blood pressure.

Through E.R. I came to learn a new cliché for America, a vision far different from other TV shows I’d so far seen, such as Baywatch or Miami Vice. Actors had interesting personalities and weren’t just pneumatically-enhanced lumps of muscle. Snow and blizzard dominated the landscape, together with a phenomenon called black ice that conjured Tolkenian images in my mind. But the most lasting legacy of all those E.R. series was, oddly enough, the elevated rail. Every now and then one character would step off a silver train, descending on to street level towards the hospital, a cup of coffee and the first emergency of the shift. The notion of riding trains above ground rather than underneath was as surprising as discovering that the neighbours were Russian dormant spies (they weren’t, but you get the idea).
Years have passed since the last episode of E.R., yet the elevated train, or L for short, is my first stop in town. Feeling giddy with the excitement that only trainspotters know I arrive to the Loop, the noose of steel that has been latched around the business district. Built in the XIX century by a magnate who, in classic robber baron style, made sure to lay the tracks especially by the properties of those who tried to obstruct him, for me it is a sight to behold. I can see the E.R. doctors here, but I can also see Blade Runner. Just add rain and an extra bit of neon.
The silvery train, gliding like a snake through a man-made canyon made of steel, stone and glass, cliffs whose edges lie hidden in the clouds, is a souvenir from a distant future imagined in a distant past. “Future memory”. This description of Ray Bradbury’s books, attributed to Bradbury himself, all of a sudden seems to me to describe perfectly the L train in Chicago. Granted, some aspects – the austere wood planks, the salt and grit, the incongruous LED panels, the billboards in English and Spanish and Polish – are matter-of-fact, even low-key, mundane. But the view of a convoy advancing perched on metal poles, meters above the traffic, striding confidently besides sleek cliffs of the buildings, is as modern and avant-gardist as it gets. It’s “Metropolis” in Technicolor.
– § –
A synthetic voice announces that Clinton – Clin’n – is next. No it’s not we think. How many more must’ve played this joke?
A woman walks on Michigan Avenue, face sunk to the nose in the collar of her coat. Several metal pins are gleaming from above the breast pocket, the largest reading Love trumps hate. I stare at her in surprise, for I’d so far thought that this slogan had only been used by Lady Gaga. Her eyes flash back at me, thinking of me what I can only image, and then she walks away.
There’s a modern light-blue monolith closing the perspective of Wabash Avenue if you look to the north. It’s sleek and strikingly contemporary, so different from the other buildings huddled in small clumps around it. It’s got no stone, no boxy features, no flourishing, no gargoyles, no gold inserts; rather, it’s smooth and sinuous, elegant with its alternation of greys and shades of light blue, growing thinner and thinner as it gets higher, culminating with a silver pole. It’s as sleek as Apple’s latest product at a Cupertino showcase.
At a pedestrian crossing I can finally look at it better, but a sign above distracts me. Church of Christ, scientist. A splendid oxymoron, because how can the religious entity who forced Galileo – the inventor of the scientific method – to recant his beliefs to be scientific?
The traffic sign is still clicking, the light is still red. On the other side a throng of people is waiting to cross in my opposite direction, going to where I’m moving away from. It’s as if they want to put distance between themselves and my destination, walking away from the blue-and-grey tower with its large T R U M P sign on the side.
– § –
One of the advantages of being a visitor in an unfamiliar place, I found, is that it is easy to cross the social boundaries that separate one community from another, seeing strata of the society that wouldn’t be seen in one’s hometown. It can be awkward and dangerous at times – it may happen to step, inadvertently, in some no-go areas – but it’s also a way to see a place come alive before one’s eyes. In Chicago, all it takes to jump from the milieu of the haves to the one of the have-nots is to walk its streets.
We walk by a palisade of hotels in the North Side. Live jazz oozes from the lobbies whilst patrons sit comfortably in armchairs and on stools, drinks in hand. A couple of punters slip out of the revolving door of one establishment, headed for the one just before us. They both wear tweed blazers, chinos and Lumberjack loafers, wool scarves knotted around the neck. “So he moved out of Chicago because their piano instructor also worked for the Obama family” one says. They pop into another bar, the laughter generated by this inside joke still hanging in mid-air.
“Merry Christmas” says a voice. She’s the driver of the Red Line train we’ve just got off from, peeking out of the side window of her cab to greet us as we are about to take the steps of Lake station. “To you as well”. Her smile is the only display of happiness in this drab station.
Homeless men and women patrol every street corner. Asleep beneath bundles of rags and plastic bags, waving rhythmically the loose change in their paper cups, the flotsam of the city hangs on in the cold. They have placards made of torn cardboard and the stories they convey – PTSD, mental health issues, disability, joblessness – suggest that either they all went to the same marketing agency or that something’s amiss in this society.
I can’t get my head around this city. The buildings ooze opulence, prestige, even swagger. There’s polished marble, crystal, gold and stainless steel. Rococo details, brass statues, shiny chrome flagpoles. Grand entrances with doormen waiting outside, under the warmth of electric fires. Shiny cars, restaurants and cafes with comfortable booths, polished wood, ample portions and free coffee refills.
Yet the majority of pedestrians I encounter – on the sidewalks, or on the L – seem to belong from somewhere else. Someplace dustier, poorer, gloomier. Men and women wrapped up in bulky clothes, defeated expressions on their faces. Perhaps it’s an impression, perhaps that’s how commuters on Christmas day look everywhere in the world – family’s home with the turkey and here I am beginning the shift – but I suspect that for most of the Chicagoans I meet the advert Bankruptcy help is a lot more relevant than the Macy’s sales it shares space with on the rolling billboards scattered all around the Loop.

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Wine, London and fireworks.

A few years ago I tried, together with some friends, to head downtown to see the fireworks. In a word, it was awful. Pissing with rain, the centre was a mess of angry people, mounted police who’d clearly lost their Christmas mood and, more importantly, not a single shop where to buy booze. Long story short we retreated in somebody’s house and watched them on the Beeb.
Fast forward to yesterday, I am now older, wiser and in possess – well, in rent – of a balcony which, if you stand exactly at one edge and ignore the uppermost branches of the tree, has a direct view of the London Eye, the Shard and even Canary Wharf, all neatly lined up. Here’s what we saw.
8PM and, in true Italian style, some are already throwing fireworks.

At midnight the Mayor hit the anti-aircraft guns, or at least so it seemed. Here’s what we saw as we stood sipping wine next to the clicking camera.

Then, after some ten minutes, it all ended. Happy New Year everyone, let’s hope it’s going to be better than 2016 even though it seems unlikely.
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The world from above. Steppe, mountains and the Caspian sea.

Looking at out planet from above is a profound experience. Michael Collins, Apollo 11’s resident philosopher, famously said that looking at Earth from a great distance was the strongest memory of his epic voyage, going on to add that Earth was “blue and white, not capitalist or Communist; blue and white, not rich or poor; blue and white, not envious or envied. Small, shiny, serene, blue and white, fragile“. My perspective, at some thousands of kilometres lower, is certainly humbler and a lot less complete – you can hardly see the planet’s curvature at 33,000 feet up – but were I to be asked, I’d certainly agree with this stalwart of human exploration.
The commoditization of my flying, and the fact that most of it happens overnight, has been the major factor for my shift from window to aisle seats. There are, however, a few occasions when nothing could drag me out my chair by the transparent Perspex: a morning flight over Central Asia is precisely one such event.
Watching the world from above is a way, for me, to get closer to parts of our planet that have always exerted an irresistible pull over my imagination but that, whatever reason – money, visas, time, money and visas and time – I haven’t been able to visit. The Putorana plateau in Siberia. Greenland. The Sahara desert. The Amazon rainforest. The Congo basin. Baffin Island. The Caspian sea. Even the remote chance of seeing one such place would be enough to make me choose one flight over another and to ponder for ages on which side of the plane to sit.
Take off from Almaty is at silly o’clock. Outside, a few flurries fluctuate to the ground, rear guard of the snowstorm that has engulfed the city for the whole time I’ve been there. We take off and it’s still pitch black, with only the faintest ribbon of red light peeking from the East, announcing the new day.
My plan for an early morning flight backfires. Despite a record snowfall in November, we left on time and, flying westwards, we are losing the race against the Earth’s rotation with, seemingly, the slightest time difference. The bottom line, I realise after noticing that the ribbon of red light hasn’t grown at all, is that we’ll be treated to the longest dawn possible; beautiful, but would it allow me to see the Caspian sea?
Barely. We are cruising in the sweetest of dawns – the sky bathed in red, the vapour of the clouds a kaleidoscope of gold, orange and crimson – and the dance of colours is so intense that I almost miss it. First a small lake, frozen solid, dark against the livid steppe. Then, it’s the Caspian.
The dark inland sea, ice-free thanks to its salinity, laps shores so barren that they could be from another world. Wavelets lap the foreshore and, as far as the eye goes, no one seems to be there to witness it. There are no roads, towns, villages, beach resorts shut down for the season, marinas or fishing ports. It seems that the only ones looking at this stretch of Turkmen shore are myself and the handful of passengers who haven’t succumbed to sleep yet.
The sun eventually rises through the sky, but clouds thicken and the waters of this great sea return, once again, to mystery. But it isn’t over yet; this flight has still another present to give.
Foreign politics, despite Collins’ convincing argument, have reached us even here, in the upper troposphere. Our Ukrainian airliner is skirting around the Russian bear’s airspace, overflying Azerbaijan and Georgia in lieu of the northern side of the Caucasus watershed. As if on cue, jagged peaks pop out of the pea sup that seems to have taken the place of the world. Cliffs of pure rock and ice gleam in the morning light while, further down below, valleys remain in the dark.
We bank to the south. An impalpable haze, blown upwards from the clouds, blurs the white peaks disappearing in the distance. I cast a last glance and spot an unexpected prize: a giant massif, rising head and shoulders above the other mountains, so large and wide to seem the stump of an incredibly tall tree, long gone. It’s Elbrus, Europe’s real highest mountain. We bank further south and, with a final wink, Elbrus disappears. Clouds span in every direction.
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A tent, a poplar tree and the Dubai of the steppe.

An ever-helpful airshow runs on a loop on my seat’s in-flight entertainment system as we fly high above the steppe towards Astana. A tiny Air Astana airplane flies above a map of the world painted in greens, blues and tans, whilst a ticker-tape message informs me of how many knots we are clocking, how many kilometres of air separate us from the frozen grassland below and, crucially, the air temperature.
We begin our descent over Karaganda, whose power station is busy creating a new cloud system suspended 150 meters above the ground. As our nose points down, the temperature reading remains firmly anchored at -50C. I follow the succession of numbers until we hit the ground and the system is switched off. Before flickering off, I catch a last glimpse: at midday, the temperature is -25C.
As I zip up my outer jacket, last of 4 levels of clothing starting with a base layer and including stuff I’d normally wear on an Alpine trek, I ask myself who’s more stupid, the man who out of the blue decided to turn the sleepy town of Akmola – Kazakh for “white grave”, previously dumping ground of deportees – into Astana, the capital, or me.
Undoubtedly, the moron is me, for while I’m here without a hat, the other chap actually built the collection of outlandish buildings sprouting from all sides in Nurzhol boulevard, a series of spires and pinnacles gleaming in the cold air, a Sheikh Al Zayed road that has left its thermostat 60C lower than usual.
Snow becomes powder. Stiffened by the cold, each snowflake seems to turn inwards, becoming grain of a powder that squeaks like polished marble as I walk on it. Above my head the sky is endless, a crisp blue where the only clouds are the frozen puffs of smoke coming out of chimneys and smokestacks. The sun shines and so does the snow and every mirror or pane of glass, but it feels as if they are only there for decorative purposes, for there’s no warmth. And all this reflection doesn’t make a bit of a difference when the wind starts to blow.
President Nursultan Nazarbayev, so far the only one in the history of this young country, is the mastermind of this place. Opinions about him differ to extents that would make Marmite seem cherished by anyone and everyone. To some, he’s the saviour of this nation, the guarantor of its economic prowess and stability. To others, he is an autocrat, building a personality cult similar to Stalin’s. Whatever you make of him, it is beyond doubt that the act of moving your capital from the welcoming, verdant Tien Shan foothills to the steppe requires vision. And a lot of stubbornness.
Thirty minutes outside is my limit. Like an apnoea diver, I time my excursions in the open, retreating often in the nearest garish building of this city borne out of nowhere. A flamboyant Kazakh restaurant, where I order beşbarmaq, the national dish made of noodles, horse and mutton meat and where Armenian cognac is sold by the bottle. A 150-meters tall semi-transparent tent, a nod to this nation’s nomad past, where a shopping mall and aqua park bask in 27C, a 55C temperature excursion from outside. Then my last stop is the Bayterek.
Traffic diligently stops at the crossing to let me get closer to this stylised poplar tree, a 100-meters tall embodiment of an ancient folktale. On the side, a sculpture of life-size Cyrillic letters celebrates something with exclamation marks and a dustman gives me the look that those who work outside reserve to sods who have the choice to spend the day snug indoors but, instead, decide to step out in the freezer.
A golden sphere sits perched atop the white metalwork of Bayterek. Inside, the setting sun is enhanced by the colouring of the glass panes, basking the visitors in a mythical aura. Men and women, old and young, mill around, watching their city – the Soviet buildings to the north, the boulevard below them, the new buildings stretching towards the steppe. They look solemn as they take in the degree of change their country is going through, and mischievous when they reach for the golden cast of the President’s hand on the upper podium.
I notice the newlyweds as I watch a girl, evidently bored by all this. They are dressed in their ceremonial best and it’s quite clear that they aren’t used to it. He seems ready to choke in his starched collar and wears his synthetic suit with almost physical pain, as if it was an iron maiden. She’s always ready to fall into her own train, which she drags with the same enthusiasm of a sailor laden with a bunch of wet nets. They amble around, clearly under the spell of their best man and woman – elegant, dapper, confident in their business attires – following sheepishly their commands, as the photographer does. Eventually they reach Nazarbayev’s golden hand cast, and everyone else falls back. It’s their moment. She puts her tiny hand into the cavity, and he puts his on top of his bride; they look in the camera and all the embarrassment is gone. They look determined, quietly hopeful, certain of their future here in the capital of the steppe.
The next day I begin my return to London. Three flights and half a day later I’m standing in the vestibule of a Tube train, sweating in a T-shirt whilst everyone else dons an anorak. It’s raining and everything looks and smells of mud, soggy leaves and wet wool. I close my eyes as we bob along the tracks, thinking at the Kazakhs squinting into the setting sun, the wind blowing snow dust in silent whirlpools in a sky that’s slowly turning ochre and lapis lazuli.
I’d much rather be there.

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A snowfall that would’ve made Bruegel proud.

It was snowing when I arrived, and it hadn’t finished yet when I left. Everything between the flights from and to Kiev – with their cargo of harmonica-playing, duty-free-vodka-guzzling men – happened under a soft blanket of falling snow. Of everything I soaked from Almaty, the most overwhelming impression is the one of the snow. The screeching of the white stuff under my rubber soles, the patting of the flakes on my jacket, the cover suspended over the streets and alleyways: snow is so present that it defines Almaty in my mind, so much that it’s hard to imagine that this city could ever exist without its white cloak.
Click to start the slideshow.
A dead-serious woman hands me a flimsy city map with the solemnity usually employed for the ratification of peace treaties. On its cover, the map shows a vista of Almaty that I immediately found optimistic, for it showed sweeping mountain views, wide boulevards flanked by double lines of poplars, their trunks painted white. A quintessentially Soviet town, built verbatim from the Stalin’s own manual for city planning after the inevitable earthquake had flattened it in the 1940s.
However grand the views might be, what I can see stretches only a handful of meters from my nose. The falling snow shrouds everything into mystery, closing the grand boulevards after a few poplars. Cars, trolleybuses and people disappear, becoming mere impressions, diapositives against a black background. Under the trees, pavements become trenches, wide enough to let pedestrians pass in Indian file, trying to guess where ditches, steps and other obstacles might be lying.
Echoes of the USSR reverberates stronger, here, than they did in Yerevan or Tbilisi and their sounds are irresistible for this Cold War kid. I toy idly with the idea of tracking the two remaining statues of Lenin, apparently dumped in somebody’s backyard, desist and set for a park downtown where the brash, bombastic monument to Panfilov’s 28 erupts from the snow.
This excrescence of dark bronze, this postmodern – and super-armed – version of Kali is the perpetuation ad aeternum of the cult of the 28 Guardsmen, many of them Kazakhs, who fell defending Moscow, not before destroying 18 German tanks and elbowing their way into Soviet Olympus. Like every gospel, this one too was apocryphal, for an enquiry found the Guardsmen weren’t 28, weren’t all dead and weren’t all squeaky clean – some of them cooperated with the Nazis. However, the Almaty burghers didn’t seem too worried about letting facts getting into the way of a good story, and their monument still stood, a protrusion of limbs and stony faces and weapons, rushing with little regard for gravity towards the eternal flame and a sombre office building, standing on skinny plinths on the other side of the square.
Those pillars seem too flimsy, too weak to support the bronze behemoth, akin to a massive brow, hanging creased from the building’s façade. I stand daunted in its shade, aware that my feelings are precisely the ones sought by the designers – here comes the Soviet train and you, you little decadent imperialist, better jump on it or be crushed like a cockroach, it’s your choice really – squinting in the snow, fixed on the centrepiece star, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. That star is the epitome of the whole Soviet lie that sold the world images of nuclear silos lurking in the steppe, armoured divisions ready to steamroll through Fulda and not the ones of Aralsk or Chernobyl. The flag flying atop isn’t crimson but sky-blue, with a sun and an eagle and delicate, golden ornaments. Its pole ends with a trident, a three-pronged concoction that, I suddenly realise, has got nothing to do with socialism. It’s a simplified tug, the banner of Genghis Khan.
I walk into the city’s Green Market, losing myself between stacks of dried fruit and pomegranates stacked so neatly that you’d be ready to bet that sellers would be sighing at the prospect of having to spoil the geometric perfection when forced to finalise a trade. Hawkers call me in Russian, but everyone else speaks a different language: I recognise the soft consonant and cadence that I heard earlier, in Istanbul. That’s the beauty of Almaty. If it were a person it’d be wearing western clothes and would be writing in Cyrillic, but her face – tucked between hoods and scarves – would show the timeless features, high cheekbones and almond eyes, of the Turkic peoples.

I leave the market, and head towards the minarets of a mosque, peeking incongruously from behind a drab tenement left behind by a Brezhnevian architect. A man crosses the road opposite me, gliding along the powdery snow tormented by the wheels of many Land Cruisers and Lexus. He wears a white turban, electric-blue cloak, felt boots and black, baggy trousers. I look at him and the surprise in my eyes makes him smile, smile at this strange man in North Face windproof, green trousers and Salomon trekking shoes. He caresses his beard, smiles again and then he’s gone.

Towards his horse, towards Genghis Khan’s encampment and the rest of the Horde I daydream, before realising I’m still bang in the middle of the road.

 

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Licensed to Ill: driving your teenage roads, twelve years on.

Unlike many of my peers, I wasn’t given a car as a birthday present when I turned 18. Publicly I was saying I didn’t want it but I knew it was a case of fox and grapes with a numberplate, at least judging by my driving sessions whenever a chore required sitting behind the wheel of my mum’s old Clio. Chores that inevitably involved driving for far longer than necessary, along roads that led nowhere, in and around the hills and mountains of my province, listening to my favourite music tapes.
Twelve years have gone by, and I still don’t have a car of my own. Mum’s Clio has gone, demolished and hopefully recycled into something more reliable; a rented Golf, an expanded version that Volkswagen surely must be calling something other than the “Bloated Golf” I came up with, sits in the driveway. It’s Saturday morning and I don’t even have to pretend to have a chore to do.
I slide into the driving seat, turn on and the radio announces a special broadcast to mark the thirtieth year of Licensed to Ill by the Beastie Boys. I smile, think at when Licenced was only 18 and drive off.
Click on any of the photos to start the slideshow.

 

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The metamorphosis of Prague

 

Some places are bound to be beautiful, and Prague is one of them. Soiled as it might be by the triple plague of stag dos, hen nights and Segway tours, its handsomeness it’s undeniable.
Prague’s medieval core features heavily in the city’s marketing materials, but the Prague I get to know first is solid, regular, Mitteleuropean. Orderly tenements follow one another along straight, well-kept, streets bisecting each other at precisely 90 degrees, running past a wooded hill on the left bank of the river where, following my Budapest habits, I’ve decided to spend the night.
I walk along the river, and the city of thatched roofs, winding alleys and alchemists’ alcoves is nowhere to be seen. Wealthy condominiums parade before me, built in that fin-de-siècle style that reminds me of civil servants in three-pieced suits, Habsburg eagles and trams. The city of the Haredi Jews busy putting together the Golem could very well be in another planet.
Slowly, as I walk through this quietly prosperous city, Prague becomes, in my mind, less a city and more a person. Actually, a group of persons; a family. One of those high-middle-class families of the kind I see driving Skoda saloons or Volvo SUVs, harmonious and pleasantly content with themselves. Mom and Dad are quietly beautiful, have respectable jobs, the kids are well behaved and they all live in a nice apartment, comfortable but not too flashy if you forget the Bang & Olufsen home theatre, perhaps.
I enter the medieval centre as Friday night starts and punters are getting ready for another night of boozing. Youths are already chugging cans of beer – it’s Faxe, I recognise with an acute pang of nostalgia – and, from the depths of some bars, I can hear gangs of Brits rehearsing the choirs they’ll repeat, like mantras with an alcoholic volume, throughout the night. Above us, the medieval buildings loom like surly plotters. My mental image of the city gathers depth, with another son joining the cute and studious two I concocted before; this time, however, he is a teenager, living through the rebellion period that comes with dyed hair and piercings, benevolently tolerated by Mom and Dad. It’s only a phase.

I was, by then, safe in the knowledge that I’d understood the whole city, and decided to call it a night, opting for a tram ride home. If only I didn’t choose a convoy going in the wrong direction, delivering me to Lipanska by the time I’d realised my mistake. Standing in the wet street, at the foothills of Liptkov hill, I look up and find something that makes me realise that, no, I hadn’t understood Prague at all.
The TV tower dominates the roofs of yet another solid, Central European, neighbourhood. Its 1950s-sci-fi looks – half Space:1999, half Ray Bradbury – look as if it belonged to somewhere else and was staying in town only for the time it took to recover and start the next leg of its journey.

I stand under the tower, in the driving rain, nurturing my mental image of Prague. They still were there, with their Volvo SUV and the jobs and the Bang & Olufsen thingy, but Dad hid Japanese tattoos under his turtleneck, and Mom had a past as a MMA fighter, and perhaps she still ventured on the ring every now and then. I give another look at the tower and, for the second time, realise I’m wrong again.
Scattered on the tower – crawling impossible up its leg, gazing from the observation decks – are the gigantic sculptures of jet-black toddlers. Designed in the act of moving on all four, they have concave spaces where their faces ought to be. In the driving rain, I find this infestation of faceless infants particularly sinister and threatening, like the children jurors that roamed Munster during the Anabaptist heresy.
I was wrong. Mom and Dad weren’t only into MMA and Yakuza tats. They also organised Sabbaths on weekends.

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People of the Sacred Valley.

There are ladies in traditional garb sitting with their llamas and alpacas on pretty much every corner of Cusco. “Foto, señor?” they call every time they intercept a camera-toting tourist. She, however, doesn’t seem to be one of those. It’s early in the morning and she’s taking her furry companion uphill, away from the touristy hotspots, and doesn’t ask for money when I mimic the act of clicking the shutter control. She keeps on going up, where the whitewashed houses stop and the one in bare bricks begin.

– § –
The parade goes on in the Plaza de Armas. Men and beasts march before where the steps that, today, double up as stands. The boy in Fidel Castro-style field cap attracts my attention: he’s watching intently the procession, but his lineaments and complexion aren’t Andean. I can’t make what he’s saying to the adult next to him, but I like to think that they are both Cusqueños, perhaps descendants of those who invaded and subjugated this people, and that they are enjoying the culture that their ancestors sought, but failed, to eradicate. And I like to think that the boy is glad that they failed.

– § –
The soldiers are waiting in the street. Loosely arranged in rows, clutching rifles and mobile phones, they wait for those ahead of them to get moving, so that they can follow. They are young, fit and, like everyone else in the Valley, stocky. The gear they carry makes them bulkier, their body a succession of clean lines of demarcation between light and shade. Next to them, agile and frivolous, the city passes by. It seems we’re the only one to be surprised to see a military défilé in town.

– § –
Tourism is only one aspect of life in the Sacred Valley. People have other occupations but to look after sunburned, short-of-breath visitors from overseas. Shopkeepers, paper-shufflers, market sellers, teachers: they all rush to come and go from work, jostling for space to drive their cars, or crammed in the old and battered colectivos, with their sons and daughters perched on top of their knees.

– § –
The lady looks frail and unsure as she negotiates the tempest of traffic around the Jesuit church, stepping gingerly through the flock of marauding motorists, but it’s only an impression: under that Panama her eyes are fixed on the goal, the Cathedral’s door, and her wrinkled face is resolute. Beware, anyone thinking of crossing her path.

– § –
News travel fast, these days, and the beginning of the sanctification process of Mother Theresa arrives here, in the Sacred Valley, only moments after it is spread throughout Europe. Whilst in the Old Continent opinionists are ready to pour scorn, from their columns, on the legacy of the Albanian nun, here in the Valley an impromptu celebratory procession begins, an indication of where the truth lies in the whole debate over this nun.

– § –
“Alé Toro” says to me the man on the right in this photo, after I tell him where I’m from (and after having tried his luck with Juventus), then he invites me for beer. It’s ten AM in the morning, and he sways as if he’d more than one already. The lady and two stray dogs watch us talk and say nothing.

– § –
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