Cycling on snow sounds like a Yoguslav brass band under your pedals
* * *
The man in the Cafe yesterday talked about "tantrum sex". Everybody liked the idea
* * *
The man in the Cafe yesterday talked about "tantrum sex". Everybody liked the idea
Friday, February 20, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
The market diaries: monetising tomatoes
I am drawn back to the wholesale market, the one I've been visiting for six years now, on the south bank of the river. It is not a short cycle for me, perhaps even an hour. I wonder if it is nostalgia that draws me back there; or the search for continuity, while my life is changing.
But there are simpler reasons, as my fridge is empty of vegetables, and the distance is hardly an excuse - what is an hour's cycling compared to hours of Internet-procrastination. As I am currently out of paid work, filling the larder with free fruits and vegetables is something I look forward to.
As I am cycling through the city, and then on Southwark bridge, I enjoying to see London, the familiar beast groaning with traffic. I am following the little rituals I developed over the last few years. Yet as I get closer to the market, I am starting to think: what if the security guard kick me out?
I start the tour and find boxes of Brazilian lime in one of the silver-metal bins. I love limes and these ones look fine, even perhaps organic? (small and non-standard shapes). I also find some basil (UK). But then the Market Authority car stops next to me. I don't look at them. They sound the horn; I look up, and the guard, in a tired gesture, motions to me to get out and get lost. I feel the anger building up in me. What harm am I doing by collecting rejected fruits and vegetables that were flown here from the other side of the world only to be dumped? But I nod. As they drive away, I continue my tour, my decision made: they would have to do more than this to throw me out.
In truth, in dozens of visits to the market, I never returned home empty-handed. I was kicked out a few times. Twice - in six years - they ordered me to empty my bags of the produce I had collected from the floor and the bins, but even then I managed to get out of the situation while keeping most of my booty. The risk is low, but it is always there. I used to accept it, in return to free food. But now I feel a new kind of impatient anger. Perhaps it is the fact that I cycled from the other side of town; and perhaps it is because I am out of work, not out of my own choice, that I feel my standing is stronger. But is it? at the end of the day, good food going to waste is wrong, and salvaging it is good, regardless if you are unemployed by choice or not.
No doubt, things have changed in my head since I gradually went back to the money economy over the last two years. I starting thinking in costs and savings. Before, I rarely bought fruit and veg in the supermarket; I had little idea how things cost and I didn't care. But now, as I am cycling between the bins, trying to keep a low profile (to postpone the encounter with the guards as long as possible), I think of the monetary value of my finding. Onions are cheap, lemongrass, expensive; organic cherry tomatoes, very expensive. Inevitably, I am thinking how much I saved by picking this food; how much it would have cost if I had bought it at the Turkish veg-shop where I otherwise get my produce from. It is a useless calculation, simply because I would never buy 1gk of limes, and a giant bunch of parsley (tabule salad forever). I would not get 12 oranges, and 4 radiccios. The experience of the market is abundance, plenty, and madness, it cannot be compared to the conventional shop-and-save experience. It is the dark side of capitalism; the malign side of growth, the irrational side of the profit logic; the big loophole, which I am so happy to travel through once more.
It is after 11am and the market is quietening down, the traffic of forklifts, vans and trucks becomes slower. I somehow manage to avoid the security, or perhaps they avoid me. Finally it is time to leave, with two full and heavy panniers. Mission accomplished: strangely, the only thing I didn't find were the usually-ubiquitous bananas. I cycle away by the river, my blood sugar dropping, my spirit wandering.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
On the visit to the market I found:
parsley
chervil
mint (Israel)
limes (brazil)
melon
Organic lemon; organic capsicuoums; organic cherry tomatoes
oranges
cooking apples
Chard
turnips
swede
parsnip
watercress
radiccios
lemongrass
onions
chillies
fennels
But there are simpler reasons, as my fridge is empty of vegetables, and the distance is hardly an excuse - what is an hour's cycling compared to hours of Internet-procrastination. As I am currently out of paid work, filling the larder with free fruits and vegetables is something I look forward to.
As I am cycling through the city, and then on Southwark bridge, I enjoying to see London, the familiar beast groaning with traffic. I am following the little rituals I developed over the last few years. Yet as I get closer to the market, I am starting to think: what if the security guard kick me out?
I start the tour and find boxes of Brazilian lime in one of the silver-metal bins. I love limes and these ones look fine, even perhaps organic? (small and non-standard shapes). I also find some basil (UK). But then the Market Authority car stops next to me. I don't look at them. They sound the horn; I look up, and the guard, in a tired gesture, motions to me to get out and get lost. I feel the anger building up in me. What harm am I doing by collecting rejected fruits and vegetables that were flown here from the other side of the world only to be dumped? But I nod. As they drive away, I continue my tour, my decision made: they would have to do more than this to throw me out.
In truth, in dozens of visits to the market, I never returned home empty-handed. I was kicked out a few times. Twice - in six years - they ordered me to empty my bags of the produce I had collected from the floor and the bins, but even then I managed to get out of the situation while keeping most of my booty. The risk is low, but it is always there. I used to accept it, in return to free food. But now I feel a new kind of impatient anger. Perhaps it is the fact that I cycled from the other side of town; and perhaps it is because I am out of work, not out of my own choice, that I feel my standing is stronger. But is it? at the end of the day, good food going to waste is wrong, and salvaging it is good, regardless if you are unemployed by choice or not.
No doubt, things have changed in my head since I gradually went back to the money economy over the last two years. I starting thinking in costs and savings. Before, I rarely bought fruit and veg in the supermarket; I had little idea how things cost and I didn't care. But now, as I am cycling between the bins, trying to keep a low profile (to postpone the encounter with the guards as long as possible), I think of the monetary value of my finding. Onions are cheap, lemongrass, expensive; organic cherry tomatoes, very expensive. Inevitably, I am thinking how much I saved by picking this food; how much it would have cost if I had bought it at the Turkish veg-shop where I otherwise get my produce from. It is a useless calculation, simply because I would never buy 1gk of limes, and a giant bunch of parsley (tabule salad forever). I would not get 12 oranges, and 4 radiccios. The experience of the market is abundance, plenty, and madness, it cannot be compared to the conventional shop-and-save experience. It is the dark side of capitalism; the malign side of growth, the irrational side of the profit logic; the big loophole, which I am so happy to travel through once more.
It is after 11am and the market is quietening down, the traffic of forklifts, vans and trucks becomes slower. I somehow manage to avoid the security, or perhaps they avoid me. Finally it is time to leave, with two full and heavy panniers. Mission accomplished: strangely, the only thing I didn't find were the usually-ubiquitous bananas. I cycle away by the river, my blood sugar dropping, my spirit wandering.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
On the visit to the market I found:
parsley
chervil
mint (Israel)
limes (brazil)
melon
Organic lemon; organic capsicuoums; organic cherry tomatoes
oranges
cooking apples
Chard
turnips
swede
parsnip
watercress
radiccios
lemongrass
onions
chillies
fennels
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Olympic Market
The usual wholesale market to which I've been going for five years and more is far from Hackney, which has meant that I've been there only a few times in the last year. Last week I decided to try another wholesale market not far from my house.
I went on a Saturday because I know Saturdays are slow. Markets work for half days and there's less traffic of traders and buyers and vehicles. It also means less things to find. But it was the first time and I wanted to feel the place before plunging into the full experience.
The area is this large expanse of East London: flat and empty, with motorways and warehouses. I like that area, in its fucked-up and contemplative way. The Olympics are designed to "regenerate" this, but to what exactly, I guess we have to wait and see. My guess: fucked-up unused giant Olympic installations. The market is just opposite the Olympic construction ground. What exactly is supposed to be opposite, I'm not sure: the Olympic Village, or Velodrome, or is it the basket ball arena? the Olympic maps tend to be a bit fuzzy. Whatever it'll be, they'll have nice smells from the market nearby, of grit and rotting vegetables.
It's time to cycle into the market, through the main gates. The main trading area is inside a huge hangar. There was little, if anything, to find outside it. And so I ventured in, by foot, with some trepidation. Walking for some minutes without seeing anything worth picking. Wondering if people would stop me to ask what I'm doing there. But they didn't. Finally I spotted some coriander, and parsley, and a few papayas lying on the floor. As I picked them up, one of the merchants offered me another papaya: "it's a good one!" he said as he walked away.
People are friendly here, I thought. Skip one, get one for free.
After this it only got better. Slowly I collected a nice loot for a Saturday morning: a whole bag of rocket (Israel); tons of radishes; four beautiful Radiccios; green beans (Israel); four fennels, and one mango (Brazil). No organic produce, as far as I could see.
My conclusions: this market is smaller, and is probably oriented towards corner shops. Still a nice number of luxury items. It seems more relaxed, with no market-police driving around with security-uniforms and hats.
And it's all for free.
I went on a Saturday because I know Saturdays are slow. Markets work for half days and there's less traffic of traders and buyers and vehicles. It also means less things to find. But it was the first time and I wanted to feel the place before plunging into the full experience.
The area is this large expanse of East London: flat and empty, with motorways and warehouses. I like that area, in its fucked-up and contemplative way. The Olympics are designed to "regenerate" this, but to what exactly, I guess we have to wait and see. My guess: fucked-up unused giant Olympic installations. The market is just opposite the Olympic construction ground. What exactly is supposed to be opposite, I'm not sure: the Olympic Village, or Velodrome, or is it the basket ball arena? the Olympic maps tend to be a bit fuzzy. Whatever it'll be, they'll have nice smells from the market nearby, of grit and rotting vegetables.
It's time to cycle into the market, through the main gates. The main trading area is inside a huge hangar. There was little, if anything, to find outside it. And so I ventured in, by foot, with some trepidation. Walking for some minutes without seeing anything worth picking. Wondering if people would stop me to ask what I'm doing there. But they didn't. Finally I spotted some coriander, and parsley, and a few papayas lying on the floor. As I picked them up, one of the merchants offered me another papaya: "it's a good one!" he said as he walked away.
People are friendly here, I thought. Skip one, get one for free.
After this it only got better. Slowly I collected a nice loot for a Saturday morning: a whole bag of rocket (Israel); tons of radishes; four beautiful Radiccios; green beans (Israel); four fennels, and one mango (Brazil). No organic produce, as far as I could see.
My conclusions: this market is smaller, and is probably oriented towards corner shops. Still a nice number of luxury items. It seems more relaxed, with no market-police driving around with security-uniforms and hats.
And it's all for free.
Monday, January 26, 2009
What's in a name
God this blog is becoming Nostalgia central.
No, it's just that I'm sorting my papers. After two years of mayhem. I want to claim some tax back, and I need the receipts. So I go through my stuff. And I found exam candidates name cards.
When I supervise exames, I am bored, so I look for funny names, as I tick the students' attendance list. Sometimes the name really suit the person. For example, Mr. A. Admiral, who had a square jaw, was short and squat, and his look was always turned forward, towards the horizon. Or the rather fearful mr. Meek, who kept looking at the clock with anxiety. Ms. Downwards, who didn't even bother showring up to the exam.
But then some people just don't look like their names: the Afro-Caribean Mr. Snow; the rather dull looking Mr. Sultan Khan.
I like to collect the name cards, to recycle them as scrap paper, and to remember the names. The ones I found tonight in my mishmash folder were not bad: Ms Urban G (a hipster no doubt); Mr. A. Cassanova (no, I don't remember how he looked like). And believe or not, Ali G, the man himself (Psychology: Inroduction to Research Methods).
No, it's just that I'm sorting my papers. After two years of mayhem. I want to claim some tax back, and I need the receipts. So I go through my stuff. And I found exam candidates name cards.
When I supervise exames, I am bored, so I look for funny names, as I tick the students' attendance list. Sometimes the name really suit the person. For example, Mr. A. Admiral, who had a square jaw, was short and squat, and his look was always turned forward, towards the horizon. Or the rather fearful mr. Meek, who kept looking at the clock with anxiety. Ms. Downwards, who didn't even bother showring up to the exam.
But then some people just don't look like their names: the Afro-Caribean Mr. Snow; the rather dull looking Mr. Sultan Khan.
I like to collect the name cards, to recycle them as scrap paper, and to remember the names. The ones I found tonight in my mishmash folder were not bad: Ms Urban G (a hipster no doubt); Mr. A. Cassanova (no, I don't remember how he looked like). And believe or not, Ali G, the man himself (Psychology: Inroduction to Research Methods).
Sunday, January 25, 2009
I just found my notes from the Gleneagles, the G8 summit three years ago. In the same folder with my NHS cards and emmigration stuff, for some reason.
Tuesday, walking on the highway, not sure where. The hotel should be nearby. Nick is talking about the midges, Scotland's menace, little flies that never leave you alone. We are overheard by two robocops. One of them trying to be friendly, says, sure, when they get in my suit these midges, I'm fucked.
His mask is lifted, we can see his face. But his mate is keeping his mask on.
Friendly robocop says, look at them walking barefoot, I would step on a stone in two seconds and wouldn't be able to carry on.
The Spanish girl asks the masked robocop, why are you covering your face?
Eager robocop: you can talk with me, I don't have a mask.
She continues: when I cover my face you call it "anti social behaviour"
Masked roboco: no, Muslim women can cover their faces and that's fine.
Spanish girl: I'm Muslim, by the way. And I'm not talking with you cops.
-=-=-=
sometimes, within the green, eplises of black mud, and white bright rocks, or mushrooms. And underneath everything, water, streams and rivers. The ground is drenched. The ground is water.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Gaza as entertainment
In watching UK responses to the Gaza war, I find myself in a by-now familiar predicament. I am resolutely against this pointless carnage. And I do think there is room for action here in the UK: Britain and Europe is supportive of Israel in a range of ways, which make them in my view involved, partisans. Yet at the same time I dislike much of what I hear on British and European anti-war rhetoric. It's not even the arguments, it's what I see as exploitation of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict as some kind of a banner. The utlimate cause for anyone with the right views on the world.
Take this quote from the Guardian, a story about working-class Britons making it to Cambridge and Oxford:
Discussing Israel/Palestine over a glass of wine - the ultimate passtime. The way you make it into the intellectual elite.
Hey! This is my country you are talking about! Not some film.
More from the Guardian, the tasteless comment of 2009:
Take this quote from the Guardian, a story about working-class Britons making it to Cambridge and Oxford:
When I came here I was adamant at first that it wasn't going to change me. Looking back, I've changed so much, but it's all positive. Before I would have thought getting into debates about Israel and Palestine over a drink in someone's room wasn't for me at all, because I'd never had that opportunity.
Discussing Israel/Palestine over a glass of wine - the ultimate passtime. The way you make it into the intellectual elite.
Hey! This is my country you are talking about! Not some film.
More from the Guardian, the tasteless comment of 2009:
Forget Gaza. The real story of the week was that of an actor [Kate Winslet] sobbing after taking receipt of her second Golden Globe.
Friday, December 05, 2008
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