Andrej Turns Four or How Pizza Found Pizzo

A couple of days ago Andrej finally turned four. I say 'finally' as not being four had been a serious problem for him. For him the more, the better. Sometimes when he is angry with me for not letting him eat a fifth sweet he tells me 'You are zero years old' showing his fists without any fingers sticking.

Andrej turned four on Thursday and we wanted him to spend the day with his classmates preparing a cake but unfortunately both his teachers fell ill and I had to keep him home for the day. As the sun dared to peep through the clouds I decided to take him downtown Geneva for a walk to his favourite Parc des Bastions.

Our walk started next to Plainpalais, next to a statue of a philosopher. Who is it, I wonder? Andrej also has a skeptical look as all philosophers should have, shouldn't day? Yes, I turned four and I reached the goal but now my new target is five. Andrej is shooting at a moving target.

Andrej and the philosopher

I don't know why but I have always been attracted by water taps which are used in case of a fire. There was one at the corner of my street as a kid and it was always a silent presence except on the day when an old house burned and the firemen used it as a water source. They can often be beautiful urban objects.

By the water tap

We are already in the Parc des Bastion, one of the nicest places I know in Geneva. The park is quiet now, expectant of the spring to come. Andrej is posing in the next two pictures engaged in a psychological battle with the camera. Will you take a picture of me or will I take a picture of you?

Condensed happiness (1)

Condensed happiness (2)

The park is famous for its chess boards and I thought that Andrej could pose as a pawn at H2, ready to strike the non-existing enemy.

An important chess figure - Andrej

After the Parc des Bastions we went to a little square in the old town overlooking the park. That's a perfect spot for watching the winter sunset over the park. It is also a place where the 'official' chestnut tree is located meaning that the chief botanist of the canton observes the coming of the spring on this particular tree.

The official chestnut tree

This little square hides a set of very appealing old kids' toys, simply different from the standard set of toys one can find at playgrounds. Here is a merry-go-round where you have to pedal. Andrej's legs were not long enough though and we had a problem. Mine were not short enough. Some cutting and pasting of legs would have been needed for a perfect peddling couple.

Virages

Here is a small Trojan horse but no one should be afraid of it and your hard disk will stay intact.

Trojan horse

And, of course, we finally made it to this obscure object of desire - the chocolate muffin. All the suffering, walking, posing and playing was just an excuse to reach this coveted goal - a fresh, warm muffin with a vanilla filling with a hot chocolate in case the chocolate-ness of the muffin is not enough. If I can paraphrase Freud: it is not all about sex, it is all about chocolate.

A well-deserved muffin and hot chocolate

Even a muffin has an end and we had to go. On the way down to the lake we discovered the missing half of Pizza, her partner, her love. This is Pizzo. It is a perfect Yan and Yin, Yin and Yan.

Pizza can finally be happy - Pizzo is found

Killing them softly

In October I spent some days in Malta. One sunny Sunday morning I decided to go to a fisherman's village Marsaxlokk (to be read Marsa-shlok) mainly because of its name (don't you like the 'x' in the middle of the word and on top of that it is read as 'sh') but also because of the guide's promise that the world's best fish market takes place on Sundays there.

The evening before there was a huge rain in Valletta which actually means Malta as there is little else in Malta outside Valletta. The rain was so serious that coming back from a Saturday outing with Venelina and Dora I was afraid that the water would get into the car and we would drift away direction Africa.

The morning after was as fresh as if no deluge had threatened to wipe the island the night before. Sometimes nature is so innocent and oblivious of what it had previously inflicted or at least pretends to be totally innocent. It was naughtily offering people a gentle African breeze.

The only sign of the rain in Martaxlokk were the huge puddles which were quickly evaporating in front of the eyes of Sunday morning coffee-drinkers. Evaporating puddles always remind me of childhood Sliven, the thrill to get out of home after being forced to hide during a summer rain. The only drawback was the fact that the leather ball would get into the water and become really heavy.

View of Martaxlokk port

I find that the Martaxlokk fishermen found a really cute colour combination for their boats. It fits so well the stone of the village houses.

The gentle killer boats

No matter how gentle the boats look like they have hidden killer properties and are actually there to bring those guys below to the tables in a non-living state.

Scampi anyone?

Hecatombe 1

Hecatombe 2

Hecatombe 3

Hecatombe 4

Hecatombe 5

A stone's throw away from Africa - Malta

Two months ago I was lucky to spend several days in Malta - a place that had always attracted me by its marginal geographical position and its yellow stones seen on pictures.

Just as an orientation, Malta's history is linked to Carthage, Rome, the Arabs, the Phoenicians, the Kingdom of Sicily, the Knights of St. John, the French and the British.

Valetta is fantastic as seen from a boat in the bay. It looks haughty and inaccessible, strangely austere in its warm colours. The trips takes you to a cholera hospital, run down custom houses, magnificent palaces....

View of Valetta from the port

The two pictures below can give you the impression of the many nooks and crannies hidden in the wide Valetta port. One wouldn't have a problem finding a parking place for one's boat which is not the case for one's car.

Valetta or Sanglea or Vittoriosa (they are all linked anyway)

Fort St Angelo seen from Valetta

A place not to miss on Malta is the inner city of Mdina and its suburb Rabat. They say it was built by the Phoenicians who obviously preferred to stay away from the coast. Too vulnerable to the pirates I guess...

Mdina, the old capital

The small towns adjoining Valetta - Sanglea and Vittoriosa - are of particular interest at dusk and before storm when water is motionless.

Martaskala and Marsaxlokk were two happy fishing villages on a Sunday morning late October. The African sun dries the puddles from the evening rain and caresses the men sitting in cafes enjoying the renovated waterside in Martaskala and the cute white benches. Who said EU funding doesn't have an impact?

Martaskala

Although we looked hard for it we couldn't find a nice piece of coast. If I go back to Malta it will not be to the seaside but rather to Valetta. And of course, to confirm the cliche, we immediately ran into a bird shooting party. If you don't know local people are famous for shooting the birds that migrate from Europe to Africa and vice versa. Pretty mean I would say but maybe they also have their justification.

However, imagine that you are a tired bird finally seeing a piece of land. You hear the sound of your brothers and sisters (which are actually recorded), you get closer and you get a bullet.

Malta West Coast

Another disappointment was that no one was spared the 1990s and 2000s building spree damages. The empty apartments are in the thousands and they are simply not nice unlike the great old yellowish houses that were pulled down to make space for the new monstrosities with a sea view. Business and economic growth can't be an excuse here.

Grey Economy of Ourselves

A couple of days ago I stayed at my friends Adriana and Robert's place in Brussels and we had a good long conversation watered with Beaujolais Nouveau and Hungarian palinka. Staying without work for several weeks some years ago Robert was testing people's reaction by telling them that he was taking care of his kids when answering questions on occupation. Surprised reactions made him think how much we are associated and somehow defined and unjustly framed with what we are doing as a profession.

Some time ago I came upon a quote from Nietzsche Untimely Meditations: How we labour at our daily work more ardently and thoughtlessly than necessary to sustain our daily life because to us it is even more necessary not to have leisure to stop and think. Haste is universal because everyone is in flight from herself; universal also is the shy concealment of this haste because everyone wants to seem content and would like to conceal more sharp-eyed observers......."

I think Nietzsche got it right: we are afraid of ourselves and the emptiness that lack of haste and full occupation could possibly reveal. Life is easy when we are busy, we have a reference point, a business card, a story to tell. We also have deadlines, direction, schedules, pressure. Where are we? Is our character defined by how well we keep our deadlines, how organised we are to deliver what we produce: knowledge or cars. Is our smartness proven by the quantity of products we sell or our inventiveness by the advertising lines.

Gulag labour

I think Nietzsche was feeling that modern society was speeding up and the faster we go, the more we lose ourselves.

It is obvious that there is time needed for just being, for watching the sky 'that will be there after us', for looking for little gems crystallized in our loneliness and silence or in other words: facing ourselves, the fears, the unpleasant truths and the beauty. There is a need for an entire, legitimate identity outside of the regular economy, a grey economy of ourselves (not to be understood as valuation of house work).

On the other hand, I am convinced that what we do is important. I disagreed with my friends Dimitar and Irina when during a discussion in Greece they stated that work doesn't matter and it is a means and not an end. We should not seek escape in work but it seems to me that those who can should try to prove a point in life through work, to make a little difference. I realise this is a luxury but those who can - should afford it.

Only in this way, a compromise can be found between Nietzsche's constant escape from ourselves and the imperatives of modern society.