Qatar - II part.

If you don't like sweets, don't go to any Arab country ! But if you like - Qatar is the perfect place to get fat ! Once you are invited by locals, they offer you sweets, then at least!!!! a three course meal and then sweets again! Finally, in case you haven't had enough, you are offered tea and coffee with chocolate...!!!

No wonder diabetes is a huge problem in the country.. but the chocolate is really good.

Qatar has various faces:

here some more city and sand, what actually you find there in abundance...

a gate in the middle of nowhere

sunset over the construction

the Doha skyline seen from the desert 

a Hammer in its peculiar version.... I was just wondering who needs a limousine Hammer?

Such a personal attitude to the Porsche Cayenne - black, gold and "The Godfather" !

Coca - Cola Middle East

Souq Wakif



and... the Emiri Guard passing by...,

though I really liked watching them on the grounds around the Emiri Divan

(the Palace where HH the Emir actually works !)

 The ATP World Tournament and my personal hero - Rafa Nadal !

The Arab Games 2012 Opening,

view from the VIP Area

Qatar - I. Falcon festival and Camel race

I have promised to my friends to write about Qatar. Three years of unforgettable experience. However, most of the Qatari people, who are very proud of their country rapid economic growth would be disappointed to see that I'd publish more photos of the desert than of the towers on Corniche. In my humble opinion, the uniqueness of the state is in the people, in their bedu tradition mixed with new technologies.
During my time in Qatar I had the chance to meet many interesting personalities and to enter, to some extent, into the Qatari women's life. I find it amazing. The Western prejudice and ignorance would be quite surprised to realize that under the abbaya there are exceptional women with fantastic brain and impressive courage. None of them will appear on the photos of this blog - I cherish too much their friendship and respect their culture to do it, but my dedication goes fully and entirely to them.

Falcon Festival in the desert

Falcons have accompanied the desert people for centuries. It is the only animal that is permitted to travel in the cabin of Qatar Airways, first class included. Young Qatari boys are given a falcon when they are nearly 5. You can buy one from a special market-place near Souq Waquif in Doha. The training is hard and takes months and years. Live birds, like pigeons, are used for everyday meal. Should never forget you train a predator. Falcons never attach to a human; they just come back for food. The Qatar International Falcon festival under the auspices of HH Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad Al -Thani, the Hair Apparent, takes place once a year.

There was a sand storm at the day of the competition, so we had to cover all our face, eyes, nose etc. Normally, Qatari women don't go to this event. Being a foreigner sometimes is an advantage...

 

The driver Kamal with a kid on his lap and Dani's falcon

Qatari boys staring at another hunting falcon

Sun and sand

Camel race

There are camels for everything - to eat, to travel, to compete. Those you see on the pics are especially trained and nourished for the race. The doll on their back is an electric device with a whip. The owner drives his Toyota Land-Cruiser nearby with the remote control. Small kids used to ride the camels during the race before, but not any longer. The prize for the last year winner was a new Bentley and for the next five participants - BMW X6. The rest of the finalists received "only" Toyotas.

 

 

Start

 

 

the Race

 

 and after...

8 de marzo - día de la Mujer

ЧЕСТИТ 8 МАРТ ! НА ВСИЧКИ МОИ ПРИЯТЕЛКИ !

 

 

A todas las mujeres que trabajan y a las que se han quedado en casa, pero dan lo mejor de su vida a su familia,

 

¡ Feliz Día de la Mujer !

Happy Women's Day !

С праздником !

 

 

And since in each one of us sleeps the rebelion, the "coyote girl", hope you'd like this tune :

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1LApPG-vl8

Rahmaninov, Piano Concerto N 2 C minor. My favourite

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AvRfs8IK_s

Rachmaninov created this extraordinary concerto being under therapy. Actually, his name should be pronounced “Rahmaninov”, Серге́й Васи́льевич Рахма́нинов. I still keep at home the special recording with his performance, a gift for my 20-th birthday. My preference for this Russian genius is well known among my friends, but the story of how the recording came to me is worth telling:

My first year in the University, surprisingly for everyone, was dedicated to the Psychology studies. Apart from the basics, like Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung, I enjoyed the first touch with some not that popular, though quite relevant scientists like Eric Berne or Sergei Rubinstein. The accumulated knowledge during that remote year helped me later in my life-path, and still does I must admit, when I have to tackle with surreal or openly "up to the edge" human reactions.

Simultaneously to my psych studies, I was preparing my DALF exam. One of the guys in our group happened to be a specialized in hard cases psyquiatrist. For his young age he had seen enough in order to decide to "emigrate" to a remote mountain village and return to the capital just to attend French classes. Another peculiar personality was an extremely beautiful girl from Russian aristocratic family, her grandparents had escaped to Bulgaria after the Revolution in 1917. She was wearing a golden Rolex with the portrait of Kaddafi engraved and was decided to marry a French aristocrat.

So, we formed a ferocious trio - the Blond, the Brunette and the Psych-doctor. Quite bizarre to watch and even worse listening: "Are the psychiatric diseases contagious?" (Positive, according to Jung, BTW); "How an eventual psych-condition would influence the talent exposure of a genius and its relation to the classical music?” or "The Russian poetry and the French political life in the XX century". The psych doctor was in love with the Polish pianist Wanda Landowska. For those not so enlightened musically, she used to perform Bach in original on clavichords. Already dead, of course. Landowska, I mean. Look, even Kaddafi is already dead! The Blond, who finally married a French count, should keep the Rolex in her memorabilia.

To make the long story short, my birthday came exactly a week before the exams, and my two peculiar friends showed up with their gifts - the Kaddafi’s Green Book (must admit, I lost it!)  and the original Rachmaninov recording, with the composer playing his own Concerto N2, dedicated to his therapist. Several years later in Paris, in equally bizarre circumstances, I met the late Bob Marley psych, and oh, wonder! some of his famous songs were also dedicated to his doctor. Seems to be a pattern among the musicians!

What I am trying to say, though not so eloquently, is that Rachmaninov’ music has accompanied me all along my life, like my personal therapy, in happiness and grief. As a red line in a novel, that jumps from the remote morning of my floating serenity in a suite facing the Geneva Lake (Symphony N2) to the afternoon a month ago, when I realized my beloved Grandma was gone (Symphony N3).  Today, looking at myself at the mirror, I still see the person that lives her life with eyes wide open. With no sorrow and no regrets. It’s not a bad account, after all. Being still alive, not only literally speaking…

"El tango de la Guardia Vieja" de Arturo Pérez-Reverte y unas reflexiones que aparentemente no tienen nada que ver con el libro...

El nuevo libro de Arturo Pérez-Reverte “El tango de la Guardia Vieja” me gustó muchísimo. No sólo por la vena melancólico-romántica con que se caracterizan las obras de Pérez-Reverte. (La verdad es que me gustaría poder hablar con él algún día. Le preguntaría muchas cosas. Pero eso es otro tema.)  O por la extraordinaria historia de amor, que me suena como algo muy cercana. Lo que pasa es que me acordé de mi etapa pre-matrimonial, de mi juventud, de la transición de la Europa del Este a finales de los 80 y principios de los 90. Entonces había de todo – guerras, mafia, cabrones, lujo, pobreza… todo. Un día nos despertamos y el mundo seguro donde habíamos crecido ya no existía. El dinero de todos se había transformado en dinero de algunos. Y el resto –  ratones de un experimento socio-científico. Pero éramos muy jóvenes y la vida, una lucha dura por sobrevivir, no nos intimidaba. Queríamos vivir mejor. Habíamos visto demasiadas películas. Para mí, siendo niña “buena”,  fue más fácil. Hice mis deberes y el destino me dio una buena nota. No sé si sobresaliente, pero por lo menos aprobé… Y por el camino vi a chicos duros, sin recursos, cuya única salida fue la mafia. Como el personaje del bailarín mundano de Pérez-Reverte. Con la pequeña diferencia que los libros que se escribieron sobre ellos no fueron tan buenos. Los que tuvieron suerte terminaron de banqueros con guardaespaldas o “jubilados” en Nassau con un pasaporte falso. Algunos a estas alturas ya son dueños de bares en Brasil o de casinos en Colombia. Otros tuvieron el camino mucho más corto. Hasta la morgue con varios balazos en el cuerpo o en el fondo del mar. Las viudas de los conocidos se pasean como celebridades. Las demás se las arreglan como pueden. Y nadie hace más preguntas.

Visto desde la Europa Occidental del siglo XXI, aquella experiencia que tuvimos los hijos de la caída del muro de Berlín es un recuerdo sucio, que es mejor olvidar. Se invitan los oligarcas rusos a los yates de Montecarlo o fiestas de élite en Londres sin pestañar y se les venden terrenos en Marbella, Cardeña o Córcega.  Las fulanas en los burdeles de la Junquera no tienen nada que ver, al parecer, con aquella gente “distinguida”, cuyo único mérito es el dinero que alguien les entregó. Y la “crisis” financiera de un mundo que vivió de prestado es muy buen pretexto para cerrar los ojos ante las pseudo-democracias que inundan aquella parte de Europa que vivió con un sueño, pero que no se imaginaba cómo iba a ser  el despertar. Nada ha cambiado en la lógica eterna de la “Guardia Vieja”.  ¿Esa experiencia se puede considerar enriquecedora? ¿Nos da un toque romántico? No lo sé. Lo que sé es que, hace un mes, mirando una película de acción, dos de los personajes, al parecer asesinos adiestrados, no me convencieron.  De repente, por un impulso natural, le dije a mi marido español que la peli era una tontería. “¿Por qué?” me preguntó él. “Es que falta el tiro de remate” le respondí. “¿Qué tiro?” no entendió. “Un asesino profesional nunca se va, sin un último tiro en la cabeza.  El que le asegura que ha hecho el trabajo”, le expliqué tranquila. Entonces, al percibir su mirada estupefacta que su mujer de modales impecables, graduada por una universidad británica de élite, supiera un detalle tan macabro, me di cuenta del bagaje que llevamos nosotros, los que a casi cuarenta años ya somos  la “Guardia Vieja” del Este. ¿Buena, mala, sorprendente? No lo sé. Pero pocas cosas nos asustan. Quizás un tema para otro libro….

To my Grandma - На баба ми

Normally, I don't put personal things on my blog. Today I'll break the rule, because in Sofia, at 6.45  pm local time passed away my Grandma Borka. She was an extraordinary woman, who lived with courage through all the turbulence of XX century and met XXI with wide open eyes. Her life was like a saga: sometimes sad, sometimes incredible, but I never heard a word of regret from her mouth. She always faced the challenges with high spirits. It is not the moment to write the story of her life. When someone closes the door, what remains is what was done. My grandma did only good things. She helped my early widowed mother to raise me and my sister, and taught us to be strong, to have dreams and to fight for them. She showed us how to keep the head high in the adversity and how to be tender with the family. She was the pillar that supported the house when it was ready to collapse. My grandmother never complained and never accepted the surrender. A woman who remained without a mother just being five, had her sister dying in her arms when eleven, lived during three political regimes and two wars, passed through luxury and unexpected poverty, and always survived. Someone, who was taking my clothes including my black leather jacket being already 75 and ferociously believed that a visit to a hairdresser cures the depression.

I still remember her ladies tea-afternoons (actually she served mostly coffee), when I was expected to sit still for hours and was allowed to eat just one piece of cake. My grandma outlived all her friends. She was the last of a generation that belongs to other times. This world is gone. But deeply in my heart, remains and will always remain her legacy, which I'll try to pass to my daughter: "Don't be afraid to live! Never bend, never accept the defeat and always believe that tomorrow will bring you something better!" Thank you for this lesson, Grandma! May God bring peace to your soul!

 

Обикновено не слагам лични неща на моя блог. Днес ще наруша правилата, защото в София, в 6.45 местно време, почина моята баба Борка. Моята Грени. Тя беше изключителна жена, която премина с достойнство през трусовете на ХХ век и посрещна XXI с широко отворени очи. Нейният живот беше като исторически роман – понякога тъжен, понякога невероятен, но аз никога не чух дори и дума на съжаление от устата й. Винаги посрещаше предизвикателствата с висок дух. Сега не е момента да пиша история на живота й. Когато някой затвори вратата след себе си, това което остава са неговите дела. Моята баба вършеше само добри неща. Тя помогна на рано овдовялата ни майка да отгледа мен и сестра ми,  научи ни да бъдем силни, да имаме мечти и да се борим за тях. Показа ни как да държим главата си високо срещу трудностите и как да бъдем нежни със семейството си. Беше стълбът, на който се опираше дома, когато имаше опасност да се срути. Баба ми никога не се оплакваше и никога не приемаше примирението. Беше останала на пет години без майка, голямата й сестра бе починала в ръцете й, когато само е била на 11 години, беше минала през три политически режима, две войни, през богатство и бедност, и беше успяла да оцелее. Бабата, която ми вземаше дрехите, включително черното ми кожено яке, когато беше вече на 75 години и вярваше, че ходенето на фризьор лекува депресията.

Все още си спомням следобедния й чай с приятелки, всъщност следобедно кафе, когато трябваше да седя мирна с часове и имах право да изям само едно парче кекс. Моята баба надживя всичките. Тя бе последната от едно поколение, което принадлежи на други времена. На един изгубен свят. Но някъде дълбоко в сърцето ми, остава и ще остане нейния завет, който ще се опитам да предам на моята дъщеря – “Не се страхувай да живееш ! Никога не се огъвай, не приемай поражението и винаги вярвай, че утрешният ден ще донесе нещо по-добро !”

Благодаря за урока, бабче! Нека Бог приеме в мир душата ти !

 

Un patio y una tumba vacía.

Ávila

Esto es una historia corta sobre un patio y una tumba vacía. En un sitio de Castilla, donde todo el mundo piensa que estuvo sólo Santa Teresa de Jesús. No fue así, no exactamente. En Ávila hay varios conventos y monasterios. Algunos de verdad son impresionantes. Para mí, la revelación fue el monasterio dominicano de "Santo Tomás". En los tiempos de Santa Teresa, que entonces era sólo Sor Teresa, que venía allí a confesarse, aquel monasterio era la casa de cientos de monjes, un centro de enseñanza y sede de los Reyes Católicos.

 

Entramos antes de anochecer. El sol baja por los muros y cambia sus formas y colores. El tiempo parece haber parado. Nos dirigimos adentro, siguiendo las señales y después de varias estancias entramos en el Patio del silencio. Parece un patio normal en un monasterio románico en invierno. Frio, no demasiado cuidado, un poco oscuro. No decimos ni una palabra. La voz indiferente del audio-guía nos explica que los monjes paseaban por el patio en silencio absoluto por sus hermanos, enterrados dentro. De repente me doy cuenta, que no estoy andando en un patio, sino en un gigante cementerio. No hay ninguna señal de todos aquellos seres humanos, cuyos cuerpos reposan debajo del jardín. Anonimato a lo extremo. En la hora del último término entre el día y la noche la sensación de lo efímero que es todo en la vida, resulta aplastante.

 

Intentando huir de la mudez de nuestra insignificancia, pasamos a la iglesia. Ya es de noche y las lámparas del claustro iluminan la magníficamente adornada tumba de un joven. Es la del Infante Don Juan, el único hijo varón de los Reyes Católicos. Murió con 19 años, sin descendencia y sus padres le enterraron en el monasterio de "Santo Tomás" en Ávila. Tenían tanta esperanza puesta en él para seguir con su obra. No pudo ser. Hoy en día la tumba está vacía. El cuerpo despareció durante una de las numerosas guerras. Los soldados usaron la iglesia como hospital y caballerizas. Es un milagro que la obra impresionante del escultor italiano Doménico di Alessandro Fancelli haya sobrevivido hasta nuestros tiempos.

 

 

 Como una lección excéntrica del destino, en un mismo espacio reducido se han quedado para la eternidad cientos de restos sin nombre, ni tumba particular, y una tumba vacía sin cuerpo. ¿Qué exactamente ha querido decirnos el Señor? Se lo dejo para reflexionar...

 

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbv99vFK9Yk

 

 

 

English version

This is a short story of a Spanish “patio” and an empty grave. It starts and ends at the same place - somewhere in Castilla, where everybody thinks that only Saint Teresa de Jesus lived. It was not exactly that way: there are few more monasteries and convents in Avila. Some of them are quite impressive. To me, the monastery Saint Tomas was a revelation. At the times of Saint Teresa, just Sister Teresa who used to confess there, the monastery was housing hundreds of monks, a cultural center and even the King Fernando and Queen Isabel during their sojourn in the region.

We enter the complex at the end of the day, when the sun is crawling down the walls changing forms and colors. As if the time has stopped. Inside, after having visited various chambers, we reach the “Silence court”.  It looks quite a regular place for a late medieval “romanico” monastery in the winter: cold, not overdone, a bit dark. The visitors stay mute. The indifferent voice of the audio–guide reveals the reason for its name:  the monks were walking around in absolute silence in memory of their brothers buried down under the lawn. Suddenly, I realize that I am walking around not in a court, but in a giant cemetery.  There is no sign of all those men, whose bodies sleep under the grass. They remain in their religious anonymity for the eternity. At that moment, in the boundary between the day and night, the sensation of how life could be ephemeral, is devastating.

In attempt to escape the dumbness of our insignificance we pass to the church. It is night already and the lights illuminate the magnificently ornamented memorial of a young man. The Prince (“infante” in Spanish) Don Juan was the only son of King Fernando and Queen Isabel, the Catholic. He died at the age of 19 with no issues and his parents decided to bury him in the monastery Saint Tomas of Avila. With his death the Royal couple lost the last hope to have a male successor. Today the tomb is empty. The body disappeared during one of the numerous wars and in various occasions the church has been used as a hospital. It is a real miracle that the impressive marble masterpiece of the Italian artist Doménico di Alessandro Fancelli has survived till today.

As an eccentric lesson of the destiny, the space of the monastery is shared between hundreds of bodies with no tomb or name and an empty memorial without a body inside.  Wondering what was the message, the Lord wished to send us with this comparison, I am leaving the reflection to you…