Sunday Evening Fast Food

Yesterday afternoon Costas & I went downtown to buy the Sunday papers and to sit in a cafe on the main drag to read and watch the (not so) beautiful people. In a moment of inspiration we walked up to a little hole-in-the-wall Gyro souvlaki place to sit at the window and eat. Simple, cheap, delicious and naughty. We have the Greek style (as opposed to the Cypriot style) with 'everything' on - slivers of basted shaved pork, onions, tomatoes, tzanziki, chips, sprinkling of herbs all stuffed into a split pita bread. It comes wrapped in paper and drips over your chin and down your shirt as you eat. Your fingers are slavered in yoghurt and juices, just perfect for licking off as dessert.

The guys who run it are Greeks from Thessalonika, and the walls are plastered with faded reminders of home.

House in Old Nicosia

On the way back to the car we passed this wonderful old house with the stunning door and shutters.

Old Nicosia

On Saturday we went down to Old Nicosia to buy some paintings. We were buying for our friends in South Africa, to take in October. Howerver both Costas & I spied paintings we each wanted and as he was in a generous mood, I let him buy them!!! The olive tree is a water colour by a well known (now dead) Cypriot artist called Asproftis. My picture, a water colour of flowers is by a Persian artist called Mansoury.

Afternoon clouds

I love Autumn when these great cloudscape worlds appear, towering over the land. They make me feel so small and meagre. They were accompanied by threatening thunder but alas no rain.

Rockie

Cats always know the best places. The window box outside the kitchen window with a struggling Basil and geraniums is warm after the norning heat. It is Rockie's favourite place when not hanging out with her fella, Ginger.

Boy on a bike

Today we went for lunch by the sea. The owner as always greeted us like we were family even though we go only 3 or 4 times a year. Insisted on offering us a bottle of his own wine. A slightly cloudy brew which curiously isn't too bad and gets better with every sip. Below on the beach people were swimming and enjoying the last of the summer days. This old boy came wandering up from the beach, helmet already in place and tootled off on his mean machine. He was pretty cute. As we drove back towards Nicosia, we drove into the heavy afternoon rain which is a feature of this time of year. The more the better. This island has been thirsty for so long.

Sunshine Cleaning

Went to see a delightful film called Sunshine Cleaning starring Amy Adams, Emily Blunt and Alan Arkin. A gentle, kind film with humour. no violence, no car chases, no saving the worl or the future of mankind. Just a snapshot of humanity. Do go and see it.

http://www.sunshinecleaning-themovie.co.uk/

Brief Storm in the Afternoon

The sky turned dark, the house gloomy, the air clean.

Fat raindrops fell for a mere 10 minutes.

Thunder crashed overhead but no lightening.

Towards the occupied north this cloud menaced, morphed, dissolved and disappeared over the mountains.

Writing Pals

Rhay & Sandra

and on the right Yvonne

Yesterday Rhay, Sandra and I met for coffee to plan our writing evenings and a 'retreat' up in the mountains in a couple of weeks. Only Yvonne was not there but will be here in October for the mountain retreat. Just an overnight stay, with the autumn mountains, possibly a walk or two, lots of laughter, Austrian tourists (so Sandra tells us - no Lederhosen I hope), wine and hopefully writing.

Rhay is American, but we forgive her, Sandra is Canadian and Yvonne is Irish-ish (it's complicated) and me a Kiwi. So quite a fun and diverse group. What would I do without them?

Sunset in Nelson

I found this picture of sunset over the bay of Nelson in New Zealand. Took me back to a wonderful dinner at friends of my sister, Clancy and her partner Mary. Sue and Jane's lovely house, now sold, looked out across the bay. How could they bear to leave it?

Sunday lunch

Yesterday we drove to the sea, me, Costas and Myrna, for a simple fish lunch at a simple taverna. It was a hot, sunny but windy day. We sat in the lee of the taverna's verandah with ice cold Keo beer, nibbles of tahini dowsed in golden-green olive oil, green cracked olives with garlic and coriander, taramasalata, hot pita breads and a glistening salad. Followed by giant grilled prawns, small fried red mullet, and piping hot salty proper chips.

After lunch we stopped at a small village which had made a park around a grove of ancient olive trees. Broad, sturdy, tortuous trunks, and branches still bearing fruit. How old? I don't know - there was no information but these were the grand old men of olive trees.

Costas and Myrna

These giant terracotta pots were used as storage jars in Greece and Cyprus.Now sadly they function mainly as garden decorations.

The diamante sea

The simple blue and wicker chairs of most tavernas.

Pere Lachaise Cemetery

My first day in Paris, I walked from Notre Dame to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery. It was a long walk through accidental streets and interesting corners. On the way I bought the obligatory baguette and bottle of water for half the price the vendors were selling them around Notre Dame. The streets I crossed were less Belle Paris and more Paris Ordinaire, with a definite increasing ethnic presence from Africa and North Africa. At last I reached the cemetery, which was quiet and had a steady small straggle of visitors.

I found myself a shady step at the feet of Faure to eat my baguette, drink my water and to smoke a leisurely cigarette. Refreshed I wandered off to find the grave of my hero during my intense teenage years, many moons ago. Along the way there were some lovely mausoleums, many dilapidated, others pristine.

It was obvious, like me, most were seeking out the grave of Jim Morrison. Middle-aged couples, younger couples, groups of solitary young men in black T-shirts and a slightly wild feel to them, and teenagers, pimply and in their own minds, probably dangerous. We oldies know that feeling and know how quickly it passes. There are graves of many great and good authors, artists and musicians spread throughout the vast cemetery, but unfortunately Jim’s grave is probably closer to the entrance so unless a visitor has a definite agenda these immortals get ignored. I confess I did the same because I was hot and tired and my camera battery was about to give out. Next time. Despite a plan at the entrance, Jim’s grave was difficult to find, everyone went in different directions.

Family tombs from an age when life was so much more serious and worthy. Inspiration for their architecture varied as did the influences for the tone of decoration. Greek classicism featured heavily.
Some of the statuary was striking – overblown or sombre in turn.

After much ambling and back tracking I found Morrison’s grave. It was virtually hidden, tucked behind other graves almost out of sight. I happened upon it accidentally. Spookily, just when I was sure I wouldn’t find it and could not face a trek back to the master plan, I heard the briefest snatch of the opening chords of Light My Fire. It was enough to convince me I was close. Was it Jim letting me know or merely some other fans nearby who were playing the song in tribute? The oddity was that it was so brief. I had heard that it was a bit of a circus around his grave, with graffiti and tokens left by enamoured pilgrims, but it seems the authorities had had enough and cleaned it up.

What interested me most was the Greek inscription which I had never heard or read being mentioned before. It reads KATA TON DAEMONA EAYTOY - which roughly translates as ‘against his own demons’. I wonder who chose it.

Start at the beginning - Faces & food of Paris.

Loved the guy polishing his shoes, before turning into a side street - I wonder where, or for whom, he was going.

At the cafe with the old lady and the Jewish man, a charming waiter taught me the correct way to order the coffee I wanted - une noisette - essentially an espresso with a little jug of milk. Perfect.

This little girl caught my eye as I watched her for 10 minutes at the bus stop and it was obvious she was bored. I can't imagine being bored in Paris, but I suppose at her age.....

These are a few glimpses of Paris.

This pic should have been with the one above!!

This lady was checking her daily order of fresh veges and fruit.

These women were accosting the tourists at the Eiffel Tower, offering letters to read, usually some story about needing medical help. But all quite business like, they would re-group every so often and then fan out again.


The black guys hawking cheap souvenirs were everywhere, everyday. How soul destroying it must be for them, who knows what their backgrounds and talents were but this is what they were reduced to. Amazingly, and thankfully, there seemed to be plenty willing to buy the cheap tat. One difference I noticed from the other Europen cities was that these guys did not sell much in the way of fake knock-offs of big brands. The French are very strict about it and it is even illegal to buy fake goods.