Thursday, November 30/2017

Last of the dental work. Only Fehmi, with his lovely laid back style and philosophical reflections could make seeing the dentist something to look forward to. He's a very good photographer as well, and a collector of old Cypriot photographs, and leaves J looking at historical photos synced to music on the computer screen in his office, next to the surgery. 

Fehmi's wife, Phyllis (have no idea whether spelling is English, though she is a London born Turkish Cypriot) comes in when I'm finished and we start discussing traditional Cypriot cooking. I'm lamenting the disappearance of small traditional restaurants such as the one we used to frequent in Girne (Kyrenia) in 2001. This culminates in their inviting us to lunch at Minder, a small restaurant specialising in Turkish village cuisine, near the Famagusta market. 

The cook is a lovely tiny woman who displays and explains all the varied dishes, lifting each metal lid to reveal the contents for us - stuffed vegetables, stewed herbs, bulgar in deep fried crusts, lamb on the bone, and much more. But my dentist said not to eat for two hours, I say, only half joking. Something soft, he says, and recommends manti, the little meat dumplings in warm yoghurt sauce. So after Phyllis has ordered we end up with a beautiful assortment too much to finish, but lovely, traditional, vegetable based - and soft!

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Wednesday, November 29/2017

Oranges 🍊🍊 at breakfast sweeter than yesterday, because of the rain Sevket says. But sunny today and warm. Twenty? More in the sun of course. In the square in front of the cathedral cum mosque dogs lie basking, reminiscent of he old saying "Mad dogs and Englishmen lie out in the noonday sun". Not that these dogs are mad; quite the opposite. They refuse the slices of ultra-bland soft white cheese J has saved from breakfast, as did the thin feral cats encountered earlier. 

Sun is good news for the local businesses, and café tables and wares are moved into the sun in the squares and narrow cobbled streets. J counts sixteen tour buses, and we pass a class of local children, aged about fourteen, paying half-hearted attention as their teacher holds forth at an historic spot. But we know from being here in March that the old city can be alive from ten to four and then become a semi-ghost town as the last bus leaves. There is everything from local crafts to designer handbags on sale, but only six short hours to market them. 

We eat supper at dusk in a small kebab place around the corner from us that serves mainly locals, we have noted. It's built beside the medieval walls of the old city and serves a somewhat more traditional version of the ubiquitous kebab style dishes. We order sheftalia (beautifully seasoned little Cypriot sausages made locally all over the island) and Adana kebabs - long grilled shapes of minced meat. They come with pitas, salad, freshly cut and fried chips, and, interestingly, a very large dollop of strained yoghurt. This used to be typical of Turkish cuisine but has almost disappeared from the cafés, though it may survive, along with dishes of stewed aubergine or pulses, in home kitchens. In Turkish cooking yoghurt is often found on the plate beside meat or stewed vegetables. Excellent meal.

Tuesday, November 28/2017

                      Photograph by Fehmi Tuncel, Famagusta

Rain begins at breakfast, not immediately obvious as it's still sunny- just with vertical lines of rain. And probably a rainbow if we were to run out and look for it. Breakfast always the same here. Would say that grows tiresome, and it rather does, but ironically at home I eat the same slice of wholegrain toast with peanut butter six days out of seven, obviously without complaint. Here it's olives (quite nice black ones), village bread, an egg, tomatoes and cucumber, and cheese. Two kinds of cheese - a round slice of soft white cheese of truly astonishing blandness and two slices of absolutely delicious grilled halloumi (hellim in Turkish). The coffee is instant, but really nothing to complain about. 

Our host, proprietor of the hotel - or probably more accurately the proprietor's husband - comes to the table to present us with his most recent publication, a book of Cypriot legends written in Turkish but with complete translations to English and German. And he has inscribed it. He teaches mathematics at the university in Nicosia, so this is a sideline, from the other side of the brain. Again, the relational - and cultural - North Cyprus. 

Avoid showers going over to see Fehmi but spend ten minutes in consultation and about forty-five minutes discussing everything from photography (he's a very interesting photographer) to historic houses. No way to avoid the showers going back, and, as always when it rains in Cyprus, torrents of water in the streets.

Monday, November 27/2017

Ulus arrives at nine, just after we've finished breakfast. Quite an amazing person in so many ways. He retired from teaching this autumn, and has tears in his eyes as he talks of leaving his students. It's an elementary school and some of the children he had taught for three years - as well as being confidant and advisor. They were an interesting lot - many of them refugees - and Ulus grew very close to them. Post retirement he is as busy as ever, heavily involved in bicommunal cultural and co-operative activities, many of hem peace related. He has recently returned from a major cultural event in Paphos (in the South), where he was born and spent his childhood, before the division of the island. The visit was obviously a very moving one for him in many ways - among other things he visited with people who had known his parents and grandparents, all of whom were educated people with deep ties in both Greek and Turkish communities. In fact he talks of his grandmother fostering the baby son of a close friend, a Greek woman, who had died in childbirth - a man he still thinks of as an uncle. 

Sadly, we have to excuse ourselves, as we have dental appointments with Fehmi, our wonderful dentist, whose daughter was taught by Ulus many years ago. The old walled city here is a small and highly relational world. Fehmi greets us like old friends, spends a great deal of time on my mouth (which involves some rearranging of local appointments - extreme kindness on his part and on theirs). And persuades the lab technician to complete some work for us this week while we're still booked to be here. There is a lovely old world feeling about staying here which is a very unusual accompaniment to dental visits!

Sunday, November 26/2017

Return to Famagusta 

Sunday morning wake to sun and breeze and bougainvillea blossoms. Late November isn't prime time for flowers, but the olives are ripe for picking ( and some are already in jars on the counter). Breakfast outside - as it should be. Bill's made bacon and egg and mushrooms. We turn down Jane's kind suggestion that we start with cereal, aware that we're going to Cambanella's for traditional English Sunday lunch at noon. 

As we do. Three courses and the wife and hostess at the carvery as disappointed as any European grandmother if we only sample two of the four roasts (though we steel ourselves against her entreaties, knowing how good the desserts will be. 

From there we drive to Famagusta and the Altun Tabya Hotel. They remember us, and the room is much like last April's - basic but clean and quite OK. Oddly, there are mothballs in the sink and shower drains. I google and yes, people (especially Asians it seems, although this establishment is clearly not Asian) do sometimes use mothballs to discourage fruit flies and small flies that live around damp drains. Mothballs toxic to inhale and presumably carcinogenic, as well as neurologically damaging - though in all fairness probably somewhat short of fatal during a week's exposure when one thinks of all the years of winter woollens stored in closets. Anyway, the scent is pretty powerful so we wrap them and put them in the bathroom bin with the lid on. 

Message Ulus, whom we met last spring, and he answers that he will meet us for coffee at nine, before going offline. No chance to say that we do have dental appointments shortly after ten.

Saturday, November 25/2017

Lying half awake thinking, pleasantly, that six o'clock is taking a decently long time coming, when J announces that it's ten to seven. Fortunately all packing done and recycling disposal and garbage to the bins across the street last night, so we leave at 7:10. Actually, ridiculously early by most standards, but on flight days we always allow for plan B. 

Train from St Pancras - and somebody's plan B going into effect on the opposite platform as there is an announcement that one of the trains going north will be approximately forty-two minutes late (only the Germans can match the precision of the British). There's even an explanation, though we don't quite catch it. The advantages of going on a Saturday are clear even before we board. We're not competing with the commuters for standing room only - the train is nearly empty. As evidenced by the animated graphics on a screen inside the car showing our location, number of cars, how empty or crowded each carriage is, and the location of each toilet (as well as whether it is occupied and in working order!). Does lead us to some speculation on what VIA Rail's top brass would make of it and whether they have ever travelled on trains outside North America. 

Longish wait, self inflicted, at Gatwick, though EasyJet check in surprisingly efficient, including fully automated baggage drop which actually recognises that we are travelling together and that my 18 kilo case more than balances J's 20.5 kilo one. It allows us 40k jointly rather than 20 each. 

Gatwick itself not UK send off at its best. Endless shiny pathway snaking hypnotically through glitzy duty free before reaching departure seating. Ninety minutes free wifi but no charging points in evidence. Water bottles fillable only from fountain immediately after security (water in loos hot), so back through duty free, snaking against pedestrian traffic this time, to fill ours. Obvious that locating free drinking water near passenger seating would be considered a hostile move by shops selling it in plastic bottles. 

Flight about four and a half hours and fine, although we're startled to be met by wet tarmac and lightning. Arrivals in Cyprus have always meant descending through clouds into sunlight and citrus and birdsong. Though at eight pm we weren't really expecting sunshine. Jane and Bill looking sunny enough though. They collect us and take us home with them for g&t and a lovely steak and kidney stew that's been in the slow cooker for hours, and a good night's sleep.

Friday, November 24/2017

For some reason the smaller the suitcase the more time it takes to pack it. Not really odd maybe, as there is a Chinese puzzle quality to the effort. Last day in London. A good visit, though notably colder than usual. Temperature supposed to be six tomorrow. Time to go. Genie very kindly tells us that almost all her rooms are now let by the week - so let her know as soon as possible when we will be coming back in the spring.

Thursday, November 23/2017

J and I to Embankment where we change Canadian currency to sterling - interestingly at a better rate than the bank would have given us if we'd used a cash point to take it out of our home account. 

Then we separate, he to enjoy central London and I to visit Jean in West Harrow. I leave via Charing Cross Station, a place that always makes me remember Kieran, aged six, observing rough sleepers bedded down in its long foot tunnels, saying nothing as his eyes widened. Charing Cross underground tunnels often have as strong a smell of urine as the streets of central Paris, but it's not bad today. I pass a single empty sleeping bag, then four together, two of them occupied, looking relatively cheerful. The effect is multicoloured (although I'm too discreet - and too decent - to photograph it). There are miscellaneous clothes and bits of bedding as well as magazines and newspapers. Well, everyone needs reading material, and the newspapers probably serve a dual purpose as insulation, and are, in any case, free. The magazines maybe a bit more aspirational - I spot a brightly covered motor car  publication. You don't have to have a home to dream about fast cars.

Wednesday, November 22/2017

Budget day, UK. Have to say that I prefer Philip Hammond, the Chancellor, to most of the rest of the cabinet, but suspect my reasons are more stylistic than political. He's low key, low ego, low drama. Having said which, I frequently disagree. His cancellation of the stamp duty for first time buyers of houses worth under £300,000 will, I suspect, serve mainly to raise the price of houses. There will be beneficiaries, of course, but not necessarily the poor. Not even a particularly partisan position on my part. Similar measures were taken when Alistair Darling was (Labour) chancellor with little effect in terms of making housing more affordable, and of course a substantial loss to the tax payer. 

The British are almost unable to mention first time buyers without referring to "being able to get on the property ladder". Which seems to be a part of the Anglo (Canadian, American, Australian, English - but not Scottish) view of housing as capital asset more than home. Rental is often more cost effective and is much more common in continental Europe, and also in Scotland. 

Sadly, the government's economic growth and debt projections are depressing. Hammond tries arguing that the problems are global, but unfortunately for him the picture is rosier in the rest of the G8 and in the EU.

Tuesday, November 21/2017

Have a list for the day, which we get started on fairly early, as the wifi dies at Starbucks mid-morning. Down Goldhawk Road to buy more corduroy - my favourite fabric and becoming inexplicably difficult to find. Not so difficult this time, as we remember which of the many fabric shops (almost all run by Sikhs) actually had black corduroy last year and start there. So mission accomplished almost instantly, which gives us time for a quick look at Shepherd's Bush Market and a sample of the spring rolls at the busy food stall at the corner. 

Second errand is buying the train tickets for Saturday's run out to Gatwick. So to King's Cross/St Pancras, where we follow the wheelchair route - establishing the location of the lifts for next weekend with the luggage. St Pancras has pianos in the hall, one of which is being played, as usual by someone with talent. Fortunately no chopsticks players here. The girl who sells the tickets says that on Saturday we'll have to go from London Bridge not St Pancras as there will be weekend works. But at London Bridge, surely? No, but she's already on the phone. Yes, yes. That would be Sunday - on Saturday you can go from St Pancras. Which leaves me unsure whether to be pleased that I checked online for weekend planned engineering disruptions - or worried that the girl's new information still seems not quite right, as I'd thought the London Bridge works were longer term than a day. As usual, we'll leave early enough to deal with most eventualities. 

Errands on Kilburn High Road, include buying low dosage aspirins. They're much cheaper at Savers than anywhere else, but oddly enough there is a regulation (everywhere, not just at Savers) preventing the purchase of more than two packets at a time, each packet containing 28 tablets in blister pack. So the winter's supply involves J and I each buying our two packets on more than one occasion, without actually having to pretend we don't know each other.  Does seem odd. Surely anyone attempting suicide could find a more efficient method. Don't know if the blister packs would slow down a determined child, but they would have been a definite deterrent to my mother.

Monday, November 20/2017

First Ania arrives, Jenny's cleaner who has been living with her elderly Auntie Vera. She's Polish and very cheerful, but looking forward to Christmas when she can go back to Poland. Lots of family in Edmonton, she tells us. Then J goes with Doug to inspect the flat he's done up to sell, in Surbiton. Quite impressed. Jenny collects Cody and brings him home before he's picked up for lunch at a friend's. Friend's foster father is a bit late so we pass the time with him demonstrating judo holds and charades. He's bright, and funny, and very busy. So goodbyes until April, and we're off to the train. Not cold, but darkish and on the edge of drizzle.

Sunday, November 19/2017

To Thames Ditton, as we've been invited to dinner while Jenny's brother Andy is visiting. We've never gone there in the dark before and are invited for five,  but sunset is pretty early at this time of year, and London is farther north than Sioux Lookout - though warmer. Andy lives in Cornwall (we visited a few years back) but has been spending quite a bit of time in Cyprus, before and after Sam, their father, died this summer. Good to see him again - he's always interesting to talk to - thoughtful, informed, and low ego. Emma is here too, and we have a happy, leisurely dinner. Lovely of Jenny and Doug, who have quite a bit else on their plate, between grandchildren and Jenny's mum, now in a care home. And Doug doing up a flat to sell, as well as looking after the ones let to students.,

Saturday, November 18/2017

A man at a nearby table at Starbucks leaves behind his copy of The Times, having stayed over two coffees - quite long enough to have read it all. And I'm happy to acquire it, though I probably wouldn't have paid the £1.70 ($2.85 CAD) cover price for the pleasure. 

The Saturday Times has a good weekend section, as well as The Review, with theatre and book reviews as well as several puzzles, which the previous owner has kindly left undone. 

And in one of the book reviews (of Patronising Bastards by Quentin Letts) there is a reminder of the gender neutral loos at the Barbican, encountered by us earlier in the week and actually  labelled "gender-neutral toilet with urinals" and "gender-neutral toilet with cubicles". The ones we visited were in a little frequented subterranean corner and were toilets we remembered from past visits and sought out for their quiet cleanliness. In the event, we just walked in to the loos we had always used in the past, in Js case without actually reading the sign - happily unaware that he might have been sharing the "with urinals" with unexpected mixed company.

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Friday, November 17/2017

To the Saatchi Gallery, one of our regular stops. It's been closed as they set up new exhibitions, but the wait has been worth it. There are a number of pretty shocking displays of contemporary Russian protest art, featuring Pussy Riot and also artists that we're not familiar with. 

The shock effect begins immediately in the first gallery with the work of Pyotr Pavlensky. What we see is photograph and sculpture, but his passion is clearly for performance art. And so we have Carcass, a record of the naked artist wrapped in layers of barbed wire at the seat of the St Petersburg Assembly, intended to represent the individual's position in the legal system, forced to comply as a silent animal. In the next room is the small but horrifying sculpture Fixation commemorating the occasion, on November 10, 2013, when Pavlensky, again naked, nailed his own scrotum to the pavement of Red Square, remaining until police covered him with a white sheet - and then arrested him. Thus the police became unwitting actors in the drama, proving the individual's fixation in the face of police power. 

After this, the Pussy Riot exhibit is both more familiar and, oddly enough, less shocking, featuring mainly film clips (as well as small masked matryoshka dolls behind bars. 

Then back to shock effect - and it's considerable - with Damir Muratov's group photos, highly satirical and sparing no political feelings. 

Even the less compelling works in this show would be central to a lesser exhibition. We finish with a series of wall graffiti posts above television screens showing only "snow", helpfully hand labelled "Art" on a sheet of A4 paper, featuring slogans like "the revolution belongs to you". 

And including a moral challenge from Desmond Tutu: "If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor". If this seems educational, or even didactic, it is, in an old-fashioned 60's way. There are even handouts labelled "homework" - suggestions for fighting injustice to be read later. 

Stop at the lower ground floor before leaving, in order to use the loo, and are intrigued by one last piece. It's the classic Uncle Sam Wants You picture, but done as a mosaic, every piece cut from an American comic, the background cut outs of words and the figure from comic book pictures. And done so cleverly that it takes a minute to realise what you are looking at!

Thursday, November 16/2017

They're working on the corner next to where we stay. Unspecified sewer operations plus extensive recurbing. Fascinating from the point of view of a Canadian, all four corners are fenced off, while men in high vis vests and digging machines do their thing but road and pedestrian traffic is never impeded. The whole procedure does take a matter of weeks, but no longer than it would do if, Canadian-style, they had closed the road. The fencing is moveable, of course, and is frequently rearranged to suit changing bits of excavation or paving, occasionally more than once in a day. But calm carrying on is indeed what is happening.

Wednesday, November 15/2017

We have tickets for a talk by Dr Ben Broadbent, deputy head of the Bank of England, at the London School of Economics. The talk is free, but they're expecting more people wishing to attend than there will be seats, so they've been allocated randomly. At least that's the theory. It's in the Hong Kong Theatre at Clement House, which is not a very large auditorium, but there are still empty seats when the talk starts, so our both having tickets is down to over optimism on their part, not good luck on ours. The topic is Brexit and Interest Rates, and unfortunately we're rather more interested in the Brexit bit than the interest rates. But still currency exchange is important and this is Mark Carney's 2IC. 

Well, those who didn't apply for tickets may have known something we didn't. The event is an hour, including fifteen minutes for questions, and that's more than enough. The worst is that the man is difficult to hear, and this doesn't seem to be down to the sound system. We're in the second row, probably within thirty feet of him and he is using the Mike, but we probably catch no more than fifty percent of what he says. J has the advantage of being better educated than I in economics, but this advantage is more or less negated by his having worse hearing. Not the first time we've encountered this at the LSE, and not down to old age either. There seem to be quite a lot of people with a great deal of knowledge and no presentation skills at all. In all fairness, Dr Broadbent may not have to present his ideas to an audience very often. But he does engage in a great deal of mumbling, punctuated by muttered asides. Would have been worse if it hadn't been for the natural non-committal reticence of the professional economist, so no great loss. 

I tell J as we leave that I do know a very good pub nearby - just round behind the Courts of Justice, but fail to spark any interest. He simply doesn't regard this as beer drinking weather and the lure of real ale is ineffective.

Tuesday, November

Finally (one hopes) deliver as much corroborative material as possible to our tiny HSBC branch at Charing Cross where we are now on first name terms with the affable Hassan, who probably hopes that his friendly "see you" as we're leaving is inaccurate. Photograph the pedestrian crossing light at Trafalgar Square. We cross when it's green but can't imagine what the code is. Green light for ménage à trois?

Monday, November 13/2017

To the Barbican library for the first time in ages, maybe years. It's so peaceful and civilised, helpful people going about their work with an almost monastic quiet and efficiency. And the VPNs work here, as they have unhappily ceased to do in most public venues. 

So take advantage of the opportunity to check in for the flight to Cyprus Saturday week and download boarding passes. Only five allowed per device, which seems reasonable. When we boarded in Fredericton they were unhappy about two boarding passes on one device, citing Transport Canada. Intended to check this as it seemed unreasonable. What about the passenger accompanied by small children or an elderly blind parent? My baby has dropped his smart phone and my mother can't see hers? 

Make copies of phone bills for UK bank in the continuing interest of proving J's identity and residence, although they say not to use online billing. It is an exact copy, though a downloaded one. They also say full first name, and Bell has used Joe instead of Joseph. On reflection, the only other utility bill we receive is from Sioux Hydro, which does the same. Do I detect an urban bias here? J has lived in the same community for 65 years and doesn't have what HSBC considers proof of residence. Electric bill addressed to Joe, water pumped from lake by us. Heat is wood, delivered in 16 foot lengths without a written bill. It's a different world, although there may be similar arrangements in small communities in the Scottish islands. Driving licence does have full name and address, but they seem only to want it if it's EU. Wonder if Brexit will broaden or narrow the requirements. 

Stop in Kilburn on the way home (which it isn't) to pick up a few things at Aldi. And pass Roses, which, surprisingly on a Monday, is featuring lamb kleftiko. So, unexpected supper stop. Only a couple of tables empty this time, and kleftiko falling succulent lay off the bone as always.

Sunday, November 13/2017

It's cold. Not cool, not chilly, cold. Bitter wind. OK, not as cold as much of Canada, and no snow - though temperatures in much of the UK outside of London will be below zero tonight. Robin Lustig, in his blog on Friday, laments the "real human misery" attendant on a welfare crisis and increasing homelessness, noting "last night, there were eight homeless people shivering beneath a railway bridge close to where I live in north London" whereas "a year ago, there were none". And this morning there is someone lying in a sleeping bag (which doesn't look thick enough) outside Bayswater tube station. A not uncommon sight in central London streets or in the long tunnels leading to Charing Cross tube station, but we've never seen it here before. Add it to the beggars regularly stationed outside Tesco's and McDonalds. The takings don't look very impressive, and the bits of blanket and newspaper seem pretty poor insulation on days like this.

Saturday, November 11/2017

Meet up with Jenny at the National Theatre, an excellent spot for meeting as its lobby is large and quiet and comfortable and you can get coffee - or for that matter something stronger. So we have a good chat and then head down the South Bank to the Tate Modern, which none of us have been to for a while. 

Enter via the Turbine Hall, where there is usually a large, often multi-storey installation. And need there is one now - a huge brightly striped carpet (the colours of British bank notes the sign informs us helpfully) with a large reflective pendulum swinging overhead. Children playing happily on the carpet and beyond it on triple swings. The thought being vaguely philosophical, re grounding through gravity and commerce. Jenny takes the same view of galleries as we do - view a small number of exhibits and leave before over saturation. 

And there are a number of new works to see. The Tower of Babel, for example  tall tower made entirely of electronic sound devices - transistor radios, cassette players, etc. The room is darkened and the sound track too confused to disentangle - mainstream media at its most unclear. 

And then there's a huge canvas by French Communist artist André Fougeron, caricaturing Americanisation as well as French colonialism. Plenty of hits here, from exploitation of the underprivileged to the electric chair, as used in the execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. 

Then we're back to the National Theatre. On the other side of the river we spot what we quickly identify as the Lord Mayor's annual procession, bands, Cinderella style golden coach and all. Pretty chilly for outdoor picnicking but we have a nice sandwich lunch inside, and more chat. Pretty quiet lounge except when theatre goers are arriving or leaving. 

Realise quite late in the day that we met up just before the Armistice two minutes of silence. And weren't silent.