Wednesday, 29 August 2012
Mall Rat
Shopping malls are sprinkled more generously through Ankara than salt on potato chips. They are everywhere. And now it is end of summer clearance. On the surface, the stores and merchandising seem familiar and similar to what might be found in US shopping megamalls. But there are differences. First, the people are considerably shorter and more petite. Fashions and sizes for big-boned Americans are hard to find. Second, in-store displays are limited to fewer pieces, and sizes are stored on shelves or in back rooms, forcing much more dialogue with store personnel...a challenge for those of us who prefer self-service and even more challenging when there is a language barrier between the salesclerk and the shopper. Nonetheless, I have snagged a few bargains and learned N important new word, "INDIRIM"! A sale is a sale in any language. I haven't found a TJ MAXX, but I have snagged some unbelievable bargains.
SHINE, SHINE, SHINE
Some books do shine, and this is one. Lydia Netzer's imagination and wordsmithing took my breath away. It is a family love story about a heroine with alopecia married to a mathematician whose robotic personality is matched with his genius in robotic technology and their autistic son Bubber, and how's this family of quirky personalities find the courage to be authentic. Netzer takes you on a journey that shifts back and forth from Burma to the suburbs of Virginia, to outer space, to rural Pennsylvania and back. She challenges your sense of normal on every level; grammatically, perceptually. Relationships, politics, morals, ethics and expectations are are all re-examined. It made me want to shave my head, to live louder, bolder and at the same time live more quietly and love more purely. It made me grieve for the the days lost to conformity for the sake of fitting in. It made me rethink perfect. Perfect is not without flaws, but recognizing that the flaws themselves are part of the perfect order of things. Shine, Shine, Shine is a bright star on my summer reading list!
Redemption in Cyprus
With a good sleep under our belt and feeling a little more optimistic about driving after our trial run on Saturday, we decided to venture southwest of Limassol and visit the Kourion castle as well as the archaeological ruins. The castle was lovely, situated in the middle of a vast vineyard, and surrounded by flowers. We spent some time snapping pictures and then ran into a group of about 30 young women from the Philippines who were also on tour. Nabil offered to take their picture and that started a picture taking frenzy ...they wanted a picture with Nabil as a group, in singles, twosomes and threesomes. They wanted pictures with me, then with us, then with each other. They giggled and screamed and traded cameras and thanked us profusely and then disappeared onto their bus! That's the beauty of traveling...the crazy unexpected encounters with people who you would never imagine meeting.
We stopped for a Turkish coffee...thick, dense coffee served in small cups sweetened to taste, and served with a separate glass of water. Its become an acquired taste with a caffeine kick! We sat there taking in the fresh air scented with ripening grapes, watching the proprietor and her husband tend their storefront. We tried to imagine living such a simple life. Couldn't get there. And then we pushed on....
The Kourion ruins were perched on a spectacular hilltop that overlooked the Mediterranean, making it one of the most spectacular sites we have ever visited. Much of the city had been excavated and the remains of the plumbing, thermal baths, ceramic flooring and other minutiae of daily life were incredibly well preserved. The well preserved amphitheater was abuzz with preparations for a heavy metal concert which was scheduled for that evening, and their wild lyrics echoed off the mountain as they tested the sound equipment. Recycling the architecture of the ages! The brutal heat seared the visual memory into our brains.
Desperate to cool off we headed down the hill to the beach and chowed down on freshly grilled fish while the blue sea crashed on the rocky beach. This side of the island was much prettier, with limestone cliffs plunging into a sea of swirling blues and greens. Refreshed, we headed to the temple of Apollo several miles away, stopping briefly at the site of an ancient sports stadium. The entire complex from Kourion to the Apollo site had once been a contiguous ancient metropolis, sitting on the crest of a mountain. It was awe inspiring. But hot, hot, hot. So we decided to drive into the mountains to the village of Omodos, recommended as quaint, with good shopping and traditional architecture. At least 10 degrees cooler and much less humid, it was a welcome respite from the broiling heat of the coast.
We navigated with ease, stopping along the way to enjoy the views and then meandered through the town, buying some treats from the local bakery to enjoy with our cappuccino. At the recommendation of our hotel clerk, we took a detour deeper into the mountains, clinging to the curving switchbacks that hugged the edge of the cliffs, looking for the first of a series of Venetian bridges buried in the mountain forests. When we finally came upon the first of these simple stone bridges, it looked like we had stumbled onto a movie set, where forest gnomes might be gathered at the stream and under the bridge. Six hundred years ago, soldiers had carved this trail and series of bridges to cart supplies through this difficult landscape. We soaked our feet in the stream and braced for the return trip, stopping first at Aphrodite's temple before driving back to our hotel, and having dinner in Larnaca.
Our last day was spent touring Larnaca in the morning, and then we headed east to Agia Napa, a newly developed beach resort that pulsed with young university students and families enjoying the white sand beaches, crystal clear coves and typical beach attractions. We soaked in the sea water and dozed in the sun on rented chaise lounges. On our return, we dined across from the hotel and spent nearly an hour chatting with the owner about the explosion of Russian tourists on Cyprus and the shifting global economy. He had spent 40 years in the hospitality business cultivating the Russian market for Cyprus hotels before starting his business. His brother was a restaurant owner in Nashville, Tennessee, and his daughter was attending university in Greece. A microcosm of global migration patterns.
We meet so many interesting people on our travels. There was the eighty year old owner operator of the rental car agency who had spent most of his life operating his coffee plantations in Africa. The his farms were nationalized and he returned to Cyprus, with much of his money lost and his family in crisis. Now a small family enterprise had taken root on the street corner of Larnaca, with the old man still barking out orders and holding onto his role as patriarch. Suffering from cancer, but still sharp as a tack, he still calculated all the details of his contracts in his head, forgoing both calculator and computer.
There was the elderly gentleman who had grown up in Alexandria, the son of a wealthy family who owned a chain of Egyptian supermarkets but lost their fortune when Nasser took control. Educated in England, he rebuilt his fortune in the shipping trade. He spoke impeccable English and fluent Arabic, trading stories with Nabil about the the splendor of Egypt, before it's fortunes we're plundered by the nationalists.
There was the old woman whose home was tucked in alley in Lefraka who welcomed us into her courtyard and shared her childhood memories of the village. Fluent in English, retired, with children who lived in Brooklyn and summered with her in Cyprus, we marveled at the simplicity of her grandmothers village home and how far from these humble beginnings the family had travelled.
There was the couple in Omodos whose children lived in Pennsylvania, but who still manned their storefront in the village. There was the woman in Lefraka who had raised and educated her family in London, and then returned to the mountain village with her husband to care for his dying mother. There was the desk clerk, who had been sent to England for his education and just barely escaped military service in the Turkish Cypriot conflict that claimed the life of his first cousin and best friend.
Chance encounters with strangers whose life stories are a reminder that life
is unpredictable, shaped by chance and sprinkled with luck and misfortune! It is a reminder of the tremendous survival instinct that enables us to reinvent ourselves. It speaks to our capacity for change and ability to adapt to new circumstances. It is a reminder that life happens...and happily so for us, at least for now !
We stopped for a Turkish coffee...thick, dense coffee served in small cups sweetened to taste, and served with a separate glass of water. Its become an acquired taste with a caffeine kick! We sat there taking in the fresh air scented with ripening grapes, watching the proprietor and her husband tend their storefront. We tried to imagine living such a simple life. Couldn't get there. And then we pushed on....
The Kourion ruins were perched on a spectacular hilltop that overlooked the Mediterranean, making it one of the most spectacular sites we have ever visited. Much of the city had been excavated and the remains of the plumbing, thermal baths, ceramic flooring and other minutiae of daily life were incredibly well preserved. The well preserved amphitheater was abuzz with preparations for a heavy metal concert which was scheduled for that evening, and their wild lyrics echoed off the mountain as they tested the sound equipment. Recycling the architecture of the ages! The brutal heat seared the visual memory into our brains.
Desperate to cool off we headed down the hill to the beach and chowed down on freshly grilled fish while the blue sea crashed on the rocky beach. This side of the island was much prettier, with limestone cliffs plunging into a sea of swirling blues and greens. Refreshed, we headed to the temple of Apollo several miles away, stopping briefly at the site of an ancient sports stadium. The entire complex from Kourion to the Apollo site had once been a contiguous ancient metropolis, sitting on the crest of a mountain. It was awe inspiring. But hot, hot, hot. So we decided to drive into the mountains to the village of Omodos, recommended as quaint, with good shopping and traditional architecture. At least 10 degrees cooler and much less humid, it was a welcome respite from the broiling heat of the coast.
We navigated with ease, stopping along the way to enjoy the views and then meandered through the town, buying some treats from the local bakery to enjoy with our cappuccino. At the recommendation of our hotel clerk, we took a detour deeper into the mountains, clinging to the curving switchbacks that hugged the edge of the cliffs, looking for the first of a series of Venetian bridges buried in the mountain forests. When we finally came upon the first of these simple stone bridges, it looked like we had stumbled onto a movie set, where forest gnomes might be gathered at the stream and under the bridge. Six hundred years ago, soldiers had carved this trail and series of bridges to cart supplies through this difficult landscape. We soaked our feet in the stream and braced for the return trip, stopping first at Aphrodite's temple before driving back to our hotel, and having dinner in Larnaca.
Our last day was spent touring Larnaca in the morning, and then we headed east to Agia Napa, a newly developed beach resort that pulsed with young university students and families enjoying the white sand beaches, crystal clear coves and typical beach attractions. We soaked in the sea water and dozed in the sun on rented chaise lounges. On our return, we dined across from the hotel and spent nearly an hour chatting with the owner about the explosion of Russian tourists on Cyprus and the shifting global economy. He had spent 40 years in the hospitality business cultivating the Russian market for Cyprus hotels before starting his business. His brother was a restaurant owner in Nashville, Tennessee, and his daughter was attending university in Greece. A microcosm of global migration patterns.
We meet so many interesting people on our travels. There was the eighty year old owner operator of the rental car agency who had spent most of his life operating his coffee plantations in Africa. The his farms were nationalized and he returned to Cyprus, with much of his money lost and his family in crisis. Now a small family enterprise had taken root on the street corner of Larnaca, with the old man still barking out orders and holding onto his role as patriarch. Suffering from cancer, but still sharp as a tack, he still calculated all the details of his contracts in his head, forgoing both calculator and computer.
There was the elderly gentleman who had grown up in Alexandria, the son of a wealthy family who owned a chain of Egyptian supermarkets but lost their fortune when Nasser took control. Educated in England, he rebuilt his fortune in the shipping trade. He spoke impeccable English and fluent Arabic, trading stories with Nabil about the the splendor of Egypt, before it's fortunes we're plundered by the nationalists.
There was the old woman whose home was tucked in alley in Lefraka who welcomed us into her courtyard and shared her childhood memories of the village. Fluent in English, retired, with children who lived in Brooklyn and summered with her in Cyprus, we marveled at the simplicity of her grandmothers village home and how far from these humble beginnings the family had travelled.
There was the couple in Omodos whose children lived in Pennsylvania, but who still manned their storefront in the village. There was the woman in Lefraka who had raised and educated her family in London, and then returned to the mountain village with her husband to care for his dying mother. There was the desk clerk, who had been sent to England for his education and just barely escaped military service in the Turkish Cypriot conflict that claimed the life of his first cousin and best friend.
Chance encounters with strangers whose life stories are a reminder that life
is unpredictable, shaped by chance and sprinkled with luck and misfortune! It is a reminder of the tremendous survival instinct that enables us to reinvent ourselves. It speaks to our capacity for change and ability to adapt to new circumstances. It is a reminder that life happens...and happily so for us, at least for now !
Monday, 27 August 2012
Cyprus Tales continued
The taxi driver was probably relieved to drop us off, since Nabil had spent most of the drive speaking in code to his phantom CIA associates. I couldnt wait to get out of the car so i could preview the hotel. This aas the make or break moment. Fortunately, the hotel was lovely. Small, new, and spotlessly clean, and manned by an English speaking night receptionist, the hotel redeemed me for all my other travel planning sins. Of course we arrived wired, and Nabil spent an hour interrogating the kind man at the desk about border procedures, taxi rates, drive times and a host of other inquiries aimed at proving we had been scammed. Finally satisfied that we had not paid usury rates, we shuffled to our room and collapsed, wondering what new surprises lay around the corner.
The morning was brilliantly sunny and hot as hell. Breakfast was served by the pool and it was delicious. I felt the clench in my gut slightly release. The hotel folks were extremely helpful and encouraged us to take a tour and just hang out , but we of course, don't know how to simply relax, so pressed him to help us look for a rental car and map out our day. We were told there were ncarted available to rent. Disappointed, we headed to the beach to reconsider the plan. Unfortunately, as we hit the street my gut tightened again. Larnaca is a seaside city in need of a facelift and the beach while well attended,was not the white sand beach we were hoping for. The sand was dark and where the sea crept in to meet the shore, it had turned a murky muddy color that made the thought of lounging on the beach seem akin to taking a mud bath. Not good.
We decided to head back to the hotel for a dip in the pool and to regroup there. On our way we stumbled upon a rent-a-car agency and lucked into a car that was both reasonable and comfortable. We snatched it up and felt pleased with ourselves as we returned to the hotel for directions to some of the Cyprus sites. And here's where things got interesting again.
For many years Cyprus was a British colony and one of the traditions they passed along to the Cypriots was the habit of driving on the right side of the road...not a small adjustment, especially when road signs are written in Greek and highway engineers have committed to the liberal use of "roundabouts" to control traffic flow.
So now Lucy and Desi are hurtling through the hills and byways of Cyprus in the desert sun, while Nabil tries to master the art of driving on the wrong side of the road, sitting on the wrong side of the car, with the exit and entrance ramps coming all tool quickly on the wrong side of the highway. Gail tries to decipher the Greek/English maps and road signs, an orie ting herself to directional signs on the wrong side of the car. You discover a lot about yourself and your partner when you are forced to change a habit. I never knew that Nabil's depth perception on the left is impaired. I did however know that he had reached his threshold of stress tolerance. I also learned that my own stress level are exponentially increased when tree branches scrape my side of the car. I gently tried to persuade Nabil that we would quickly adjust to this newest challenge. His white knuckle grip on the steering wheel said otherwise.
Still, we managed to find a lovely seaside restaraunt recommended by the hotel cook, and then explored a neotholithic site on the south side of the island that was nearly 12,000years old. Then we headed infortune mountains for a look at a village known for its lace making, traditional architecture and spectacular views. We wandered the village, spoke with the locals, drank cappuccino under a grapevine trellis and applauded ourselves for our navigational skills. We rested. Then we decided to head back to the hotel.
We should have held the applause. While we did a great job getting to our destinations, the return to the hotel was not as smooth. What should have been a 45 minute drive, turned into a 2 hour nightmare, driving on mountain roads in the dark on the wrong side of the road. When we finally pulled into the hotel, we were too exhausted to eat, barely talking and I was fairly sure I was for g to lose my travel planning privileges!
The morning was brilliantly sunny and hot as hell. Breakfast was served by the pool and it was delicious. I felt the clench in my gut slightly release. The hotel folks were extremely helpful and encouraged us to take a tour and just hang out , but we of course, don't know how to simply relax, so pressed him to help us look for a rental car and map out our day. We were told there were ncarted available to rent. Disappointed, we headed to the beach to reconsider the plan. Unfortunately, as we hit the street my gut tightened again. Larnaca is a seaside city in need of a facelift and the beach while well attended,was not the white sand beach we were hoping for. The sand was dark and where the sea crept in to meet the shore, it had turned a murky muddy color that made the thought of lounging on the beach seem akin to taking a mud bath. Not good.
We decided to head back to the hotel for a dip in the pool and to regroup there. On our way we stumbled upon a rent-a-car agency and lucked into a car that was both reasonable and comfortable. We snatched it up and felt pleased with ourselves as we returned to the hotel for directions to some of the Cyprus sites. And here's where things got interesting again.
For many years Cyprus was a British colony and one of the traditions they passed along to the Cypriots was the habit of driving on the right side of the road...not a small adjustment, especially when road signs are written in Greek and highway engineers have committed to the liberal use of "roundabouts" to control traffic flow.
So now Lucy and Desi are hurtling through the hills and byways of Cyprus in the desert sun, while Nabil tries to master the art of driving on the wrong side of the road, sitting on the wrong side of the car, with the exit and entrance ramps coming all tool quickly on the wrong side of the highway. Gail tries to decipher the Greek/English maps and road signs, an orie ting herself to directional signs on the wrong side of the car. You discover a lot about yourself and your partner when you are forced to change a habit. I never knew that Nabil's depth perception on the left is impaired. I did however know that he had reached his threshold of stress tolerance. I also learned that my own stress level are exponentially increased when tree branches scrape my side of the car. I gently tried to persuade Nabil that we would quickly adjust to this newest challenge. His white knuckle grip on the steering wheel said otherwise.
Still, we managed to find a lovely seaside restaraunt recommended by the hotel cook, and then explored a neotholithic site on the south side of the island that was nearly 12,000years old. Then we headed infortune mountains for a look at a village known for its lace making, traditional architecture and spectacular views. We wandered the village, spoke with the locals, drank cappuccino under a grapevine trellis and applauded ourselves for our navigational skills. We rested. Then we decided to head back to the hotel.
We should have held the applause. While we did a great job getting to our destinations, the return to the hotel was not as smooth. What should have been a 45 minute drive, turned into a 2 hour nightmare, driving on mountain roads in the dark on the wrong side of the road. When we finally pulled into the hotel, we were too exhausted to eat, barely talking and I was fairly sure I was for g to lose my travel planning privileges!
Friday, 24 August 2012
Schizophrenic Cyprus
Once we resettled in Ankara after our roman holiday, we realized that another long weekend was around the corner, thanks to the national celebration of the end of Ramadan. Much like Christmas in the US, the end of Ramadan is marked by celebrations, feasting and gift-giving and while it is a religious holiday, it has actually been nationalized. We were advised that nothing would be happening in Ankara and it would be an ideal time for another trip, so I immediately started looking at options. With two days notice and in the height of summer season, it was hard to find something both reasonable and suitable for a four day jaunt, especially in light of the fact that we were still unpacking our bags from Rome.
Finally I stumbled on Cyprus, an island country just a hop, skip and jump from Turkey, rich in history and archaeological finds, with great beaches and a favorable exchange rate. Perfect. On further investigation, I learned that there was Northern Cyprus, a Turkish military state wrestled from the Cypriots in a bloody but short war in the 1970's, and southern Cyprus, that draws heavily on its Greek heritage, but is proud of its independence (though still heavily reliant on British tourists).
This north:south divide creates some obstacles for tourists and one has to choose sides. Because it was easier and cheaper to fly into north Cyprus, the decision for us was easy and I made reservation for a hotel close to Famugusta, a city on the Turkish side of the island. I reserved a car, bought tickets and packed, congratulating myself on my increasingly efficient ability to navigate the Internet and organize our travel.
A few hours before departing for the airport, I began printing out our paperwork and realized our airline reservation had not confirmed. This might have been a small problem to correct in the US, but given the language and technical barriers, a two hour nightmare ensued. It took nearly an hour to connect with an English speaking operator. Then, my phone died. Had to start over. Decided to use Nabil's phone. After nearly completing the transaction, Nabil's phone lost the connection. Then had to start the process over again. Finally, with an hour to spare, we confirmed flights, packed, closed up the apartment and headed for the airport for a late night flight.
The flight was short, but we arrived in Cyprus after midnight. We hustled through customs and headed into the baggage claim area to find our rental car agency. No show! The airport personnel were grumpy, inhospitable and didn't speak English. They told us to stand outside and wait for the car company to pick us up. I pulled out our confirmation as I didn't remember any instructions to wait outside. That's when I realized the confirmation did not include a phone number for the car rental company. By now, Nabil's anxiety level was off the charts. I assured him that all would be okay, since the island was small and our hotel nearby. We could take a cab, and rent a car in the morning. No problem.
That's when the taxi driver informed us that our hotel was actually not on the North side, but in a small village southwest of,Famugusta on the Greek side of the island! The hotel was not actually twenty minutes away, but forty. But, the taxi driver told us, it was going to take us almost 90 minutes to get there because we had to drive to a distant outpost that would handle people with US passports. (Americans are not often seen on Cyprus).
While all of this made sense to me (except for the fact that my key word search was Famugusta hotels and I couldn't understand how I ended up on the south side anyway), Nabil was now sure we were victims of a taxi driver scam. Incensed that we would need to pay $125 for the hotel transfer and not likely arrive until two in the morning, he began cross examining the driver testing and retesting the facts of the story that unfolded about politics at the border. Another 30 minutes went by before we reluctantly climbed into the cab. Well, Nabil was reluctant. I was relieved.
By now, I was totally discredited - a travel agent wannabe, who had botched two of three critical reservations. This of course triggered our usual bickering and bantering. Lucy And Desi Arnaz in Cyprus arguing in the back of a cab hurtling through the darkness across a hostile and suspicious island.
When the highway ended, and we found ourselves snaking though some back city streets, Nabil was convinced that the taxi driver was moving us off the grid and taking us to some rendezvous point where thieves and murderers were waiting to plunder and butcher us. He pulled out his phone and began making false calls, reporting his position to "pretend CIA associates". I wanted to laugh, but dared not. The inside of the cab felt like a pressure cooker. It was a very long ride. It was hot and humid. The road seemed endless. I sat in silence, hoping that the hotel would live up to the reviews posted online. I worried as we got closer. The town looked tired and the roadside littered. This was not the Cyprus I imagined and certainly not what Nabil was expecting.
I am not sure why Nabil and I like to travel together. I think traveling is an adventure, and often a misadventure. Sometimes you have to make the best of a bad situation. It always works out. Nabil expects it all to go well from the beginning; a seamless transition from one environment to another. That seldom happens. When venturing out together, I try remain peaceful and calm when I am not in control. Nabil strives to take control to avoid conflict. I throw him into chaos and push the boundaries of our limits. He holds me in check. I trust everyone. Nabil trusts no one. I think the vacation should be a respite from boredom. Nabil is seeking a break for over-stimulation. I expect him to be a partner in the adventure. He expects me to be the event planner that never misses a beat.
We are like two dancers who have lost their rhythm, but can't get off the dance floor. We always get tripped up!
Stinky poo
I am not sure why deodorant isn't universally accepted. Apparently Turkish folks, men in particular, must consider the use of personal hygiene products an affront to their masculinity. It is not unusual to crowd into an elevator and find yourself nose to armpit with someone who smells like they haven't bathed or washed their clothes for days.
Last week we went to a fine restaurant in downtown Ankara. Once seated, a strong objectionable odor drifted in, and I frantically did a self check to make sure I wasn't the culprit. Passing muster, I sniffed around to make sure Nabil wasn't the guilty party. He too was cleared. At first I couldn't be sure if the odor was coming from inside or outside. French doors opened onto the street and I thought it was possible that the odor might have been a mix of city sewage and street smells. The sickly sweet stench gathered in small waves, flooding our space and then retreating, until I finally realized that the waitstaff was emitting this pungent odor as they buzzed around and between the tables.
Of course, bad smells are another of Nabil's pet peeves, and so I cringed as our waiter moved in closer to take our order, with his armpits positioned just to the left of Nabil's head and perilously close to his nose. I was sure he wouldn't be able to hold himself, and before the order was completed, he blurted out the obvious,"My god, man, you smell awful!".
Not one to mince words or spare embarrassment, Nabil has gone on a personal mission to clean up the air quality in Turkey. In fact, he has ordered a case of "DIRTY BRITISH" deodorant (especially chosen for resistant and hard to treat body odor ) to be dispensed throughout his company. Perhaps he will start carrying an extra stick in his pocket and dispensing it as the need arises. Sadly, his vigilante efforts are like pissing in the wind. A stinking strong wind at that!
I can only hope the P&G folks are doing their homework.
The market is ripe...I hope someone fully penetrates it.
Last week we went to a fine restaurant in downtown Ankara. Once seated, a strong objectionable odor drifted in, and I frantically did a self check to make sure I wasn't the culprit. Passing muster, I sniffed around to make sure Nabil wasn't the guilty party. He too was cleared. At first I couldn't be sure if the odor was coming from inside or outside. French doors opened onto the street and I thought it was possible that the odor might have been a mix of city sewage and street smells. The sickly sweet stench gathered in small waves, flooding our space and then retreating, until I finally realized that the waitstaff was emitting this pungent odor as they buzzed around and between the tables.
Of course, bad smells are another of Nabil's pet peeves, and so I cringed as our waiter moved in closer to take our order, with his armpits positioned just to the left of Nabil's head and perilously close to his nose. I was sure he wouldn't be able to hold himself, and before the order was completed, he blurted out the obvious,"My god, man, you smell awful!".
Not one to mince words or spare embarrassment, Nabil has gone on a personal mission to clean up the air quality in Turkey. In fact, he has ordered a case of "DIRTY BRITISH" deodorant (especially chosen for resistant and hard to treat body odor ) to be dispensed throughout his company. Perhaps he will start carrying an extra stick in his pocket and dispensing it as the need arises. Sadly, his vigilante efforts are like pissing in the wind. A stinking strong wind at that!
I can only hope the P&G folks are doing their homework.
The market is ripe...I hope someone fully penetrates it.
Friday, 17 August 2012
Spiffy
This morning was set aside for grooming! After nearly 7 weeks here, I was in desperate need of a haircut. Nabil has been going to a local salon and suggested I go along, first to observe and then to decide if I wanted to get my own hair cut.
We were greeted by the owner and whisked to a private room, where they served us coffee and evaluated the work ahead. Nabil was there for routine maintenance, and they jumped right to it. The master cutter labored over a perfect buzz cut for nearly 20 minutes, while every wild hair was tamed and clipped. A plastic visor was taped to his forehead to shield his face from stray clippings. He was brushed and dusted, and the back of his neck buzzed to a clean finish. When he was properly trimmed, they cleaned his ears (no kidding) and then waxed the ears to remove any hair that might be sprouting there. This was followed by a a waxing of his cheeks, an eyebrow trim, a mini-facial,a head massage, wash and blow-dry. All this, for $20 US.
Of course, I was all in after witnessing this ritual cleanse, and decided to indulge in a manicure, pedicure and new haircut. However, the challenge of communicating with a hairdresser who doesn't speak your language raises serious issues, especially when you are considering a radical change in hair style. I had been contemplating a shorter, funkier style. I was looking for easier maintenance and something younger and edgier. After searching the style magazine and coming up with a hybrid solution, I tried my best to convey my preferences, and then put my trust in the guy with the scissors and closed my eyes. As I sat watching clumps of my already short hair fall into my lap I worried that my cosmetic risk-taking might put me over the edge this time. While I obsessed, Nabil sat across from me making me even more uneasy with his wide-eyed expression and "my god, you look different" comments. Not better, but different. The anxiety was mounting. After all, at my age, the thought of growing out a bad haircut is tempered with the realization that you may never have enought time to grow it out! Worse yet, it may fall out, before it grows out. But I was too far in to back out, so I sat there breathing deeply and hoping that Nabil's ever-widening stare was not a harbinger of bad things to come.
When the scissors were finally set aside and I was spun around to face the mirror, I was amazed...somehow, despite the language barrier, this guy had captured most of my thoughts and translated them into my new "grandmother as punk rocker" style. It is really short, but fun and young and a perfect counterpoint to my crow's feet. I didn't get the ear wax, but did get an eyebrow wax, and the mani-pedi with my wash, cut and blow dry and a hair threading facial..this $100US. And I feel like a million.
Now, if I could just lose another 15 pounds.....
We were greeted by the owner and whisked to a private room, where they served us coffee and evaluated the work ahead. Nabil was there for routine maintenance, and they jumped right to it. The master cutter labored over a perfect buzz cut for nearly 20 minutes, while every wild hair was tamed and clipped. A plastic visor was taped to his forehead to shield his face from stray clippings. He was brushed and dusted, and the back of his neck buzzed to a clean finish. When he was properly trimmed, they cleaned his ears (no kidding) and then waxed the ears to remove any hair that might be sprouting there. This was followed by a a waxing of his cheeks, an eyebrow trim, a mini-facial,a head massage, wash and blow-dry. All this, for $20 US.
Of course, I was all in after witnessing this ritual cleanse, and decided to indulge in a manicure, pedicure and new haircut. However, the challenge of communicating with a hairdresser who doesn't speak your language raises serious issues, especially when you are considering a radical change in hair style. I had been contemplating a shorter, funkier style. I was looking for easier maintenance and something younger and edgier. After searching the style magazine and coming up with a hybrid solution, I tried my best to convey my preferences, and then put my trust in the guy with the scissors and closed my eyes. As I sat watching clumps of my already short hair fall into my lap I worried that my cosmetic risk-taking might put me over the edge this time. While I obsessed, Nabil sat across from me making me even more uneasy with his wide-eyed expression and "my god, you look different" comments. Not better, but different. The anxiety was mounting. After all, at my age, the thought of growing out a bad haircut is tempered with the realization that you may never have enought time to grow it out! Worse yet, it may fall out, before it grows out. But I was too far in to back out, so I sat there breathing deeply and hoping that Nabil's ever-widening stare was not a harbinger of bad things to come.
When the scissors were finally set aside and I was spun around to face the mirror, I was amazed...somehow, despite the language barrier, this guy had captured most of my thoughts and translated them into my new "grandmother as punk rocker" style. It is really short, but fun and young and a perfect counterpoint to my crow's feet. I didn't get the ear wax, but did get an eyebrow wax, and the mani-pedi with my wash, cut and blow dry and a hair threading facial..this $100US. And I feel like a million.
Now, if I could just lose another 15 pounds.....
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