Treated Like a Princess

Last Saturday I decided I needed a much deserved break before going to the supermarket. It takes a special kind of courage to do the weekly groceries shopping in the local, overcrowded supermarket. So I made a stop at “Casa Rey”,  the neighbourhood coffee shop where I’m know for my sweet tooth.

Since I’m quite sensitive to caffeine, I do not drink the typical Portuguese “bica” (espresso), but instead the “meia de leite”  (a cup of coffee with milk). Usually I ask for a “meia de leite clarinha e morna” which means a lukewarm, more milk than coffee drink. Rarely do I get what I asked for: it’s either lots of milk, not much coffee, but scalding; or practically cold, but barely no milk and lots of coffee.  Somehow, part of the “meia de leite clarinha e morna” formula is lost.

This time around, I decided to go “Sally” about it, as in the Meg Ryan’s character in “When Harry Met Sally”, thus describing in detail my order: “I would like a ‘meia de leite’, please, but could you prepare it as follows? I just want a third of coffee,  two thirds of milk and lots and lots of milk foam, please. And lukewarm, too, please”. The waitress smiled, said a laconic OK and began to prepare my order. 

As she brought the “meia de leite” to my table, I wowed: it was beautiful! She took it quite literally the whole “lots and lots of foam”. I smiled  and thanked profusely. As she was about to put the cup on the table she asked “Would you like some cinnamon or chocolate on top?”, “Why yes, I’d love some cinnamon, please”, I replied giddily. Not only the “meia de leite” looked beautiful, but it was delicious too: a third of coffee, two thirds of milk, lots of foam, and truly lukewarm.

As I paid I told her it was the first time, ever, someone got the order right. She replied modestly, it wasn’t that peculiar a request. So there you go: want to be treated like a Princess? Go to the King’s House (Casa Rey)!

So Long and Thanks for All the Fish

So far, along side "The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy", the favourite of the triology of 4.
Incidentally, as I arrived home the movie was playing on TV.

Talk about Improbability Drive!

The Naked Thruth

James Stewart in Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window

«Blinds!» I said in a half-scream. With his hand around the hips, holding the towel around the waist, he looked around and acknowledged the light coming from the wide opened window on the study. He said his scientifically learned “Aaah.”, that sounds something between “aaah interesting” and a mildly enthusiastic “aaah eureka!”, there was some eyebrow raising, that graphically completed the sentence designed on his forehead. Then he acknowledged the other curtainless window on the bedroom, that completed the “light tunnel” in the corridor. In a unconscious safety measure he tucked the towel tighter… I giggled at his nonchalant walk towards the bedroom, as he closed the blinds.

Later, as we were preparing our tea mugs in my wonderfully sunlit kitchen -  where the 3 meters large, 2 meters high windows, give a generous view of the small backyard with two palm trees and an array of windows from other people’s kitchens – the learned “Aaah.” returned, but a bit more emphatically. At this time, I knew he was going to share his view on his discovery, usually as plausible as laughable, and highly entertaining.

«You know, you should ask a percentage of the profit». I looked at him quizzically, encouraging him to go on with his theorising. «All these curtainless rooms, provide quite a view, I bet, to your aging neighbours. So, my guess is that property value has increased. You know, the better the view, the more expensive real estate is.». By now I was laughing hysterically. I confessed that when I first moved in, there were a couple of times I walked into the kitchen wrapped only in a towel. His eyebrows raised enthusiastically, as he realized he was on to something, «No-no… my bath towels are huge, so much so, that the word for them in Portuguese is bath sheets…». He was a bit disappointed but still wondered how I would manage to live in a curtains-free house, there were the blinds, of course, but still… «a lot of exposure».

I frowned and remembered all the good advice and words of wisdom I had got before moving in. Whenever I told people I was moving out from my parents into a tiny, comfortable flat in suburbia, people would often ask whether I was sharing the flat. As I would explain that I was moving out alone, then the words of wisdom would come. First the nostalgic sigh, then the looking at an invisible past and then the reassuring words «Good for you! You’re at the right age to move out alone, you’re still young and it’s good to leave the parent’s nest. And it's so nice to be on your own, you have your own privacy, nobody controlling your coming and going, more independence, you can walk around naked around the house, not a care in the world…».

Excuse me? Let’s rewind these words of advice “walking around the house naked, carefree…». Really? That’s the highlight of single living? I could not believe the number of people, young and old (especially the grandparents' generation), that would tell me of the marvels of living alone, in particular, walking around the house naked. As it seems, that is the no. 1 advantage of having a place of your own, it’s the naked rights. Living alone is a free pass to be naked in the privacy of one’s own home. Nine out of ten people would come up with the “naked argument”. That was not the advice I was expecting, but it sure was funny… everyone had the same nostalgic look and wishful sentiment in their words “not having to worry about walking naked…”. I wonder how often would they actually do it, and why they missed it so much.

Three years of mortgage later, my flat is still curtains-free, I really do not miss it all that much, except for the kitchen, where in lazy mornings, all that light can be a little too overwhelming. Curiously enough, the only room in the flat that is windowless is the bathroom. That probably explains why winter, spring, summer and fall I will be more or less clad, but always dressed.

And that’s the whole truth, the naked truth.

(please don’t) Forget Paris…

and When Harry Met Sally , as well as other 90s romantic comedies. It’s one of my guilty pleasures, romantic comedies: from Singin’ in the Rain (romantic comedy and musical, every modern man nightmare, I guess) to French Kiss, I love the genre - the sharp dialogues, the great gestures, the happy endings. Let me tell you how much I enjoy these movies, I’ve talked so much about it and quoted it so often, that a work colleague when he went to Nice, he took a picture of “Cartier’s”, where one of the final scenes of “French Kiss” takes place. (And yes, I can quote the dialogue by heart).

I feel, however, that recent romantic comedies, funny and romantic as they are, they’re not as thought provoking as the ones I’ve mentioned. Let me explain: the comedy is in the theatricals, the circumstances surrounding the characters, sometimes the characters themselves, rather than in the writing/dialogues.

And this is what I miss of Billy Cristal’s comedies. “Forget Paris” in particular is all about story telling: this couple has an amazing love story that is narrated by their mutual friends. Each one brings (literally) something different to table (they are waiting for the couple in a restaurant) and with each view, there’s an enriching detail about the story. There’s an eager and attentive guest, new to the group of friends and the couple in question that, as the story develops, becomes hopeful/less towards the whole idea of marriage. From lover’s bliss to marriage hell and some odd events, the viewer is rooting for the “love conquers all” ending.

On sitcoms I feel the same, I miss terribly Mad About You for the same reasons. So please let’s not “Forget Paris” and let’s hope for rich, enticing dialogues and yet with a lovely “French Kiss” ending.