Kempelen, a senior official of the Austro-Hungarian court of the mid eighteenth century, is committed to the empress herself in six months will be able to create a marvelous machine that will amaze everyone. The machine in question is an automaton that played chess in a masterly way, supposedly without any human intervention that winding the clockwork.
Fiction based on historical fact, the Kempelen automaton survived its creator and came to defeat Napoleon Bonaparte. This is the first work of Löhr and the proof is that his prose lacks sufficient maturity. The book is very well documented and well structured, but lacks pace. Also starting at the end and takes away a lot of excitement to the rest of the story. The secrets of the machine is discovered too soon and many of the pages become repetitive and even, at times, tedious. It made me not too long and gets trapped Löhr in history. It is true that the characters are worked and are credible, but this is not: the plot has become bored. The best of the book is final (thank goodness), it has the dose of emotion from which no development of the novel and the characters bring out the best and worst of themselves. At the end of the story you would have left with the question of whether the characters were real or not, but for the author's epilogue that reveals what parts and what the invented history.
Facing the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia, instigator of yet another uprising against the government, remember the day when the gypsies came to town, Macondo, as a child. His father was delivered with great devotion to the demonstrations of his inventions was the gypsy Melquiades, who was a true scholar.
Since that day, Macondo has grown from a group of huts of villagers to have a considerable population, and electric light rail line under the influence of the important Buendia family.
When this novel was forty years since its first issue I told myself I had to read it soon. In print and television bombard us with news of the anniversary of one of the best English-language novels of all time. Until then knew little of the argument, and the title simply does not call me: that a hundred years of solitude sounded slow, very slow.
So many years of studying language and literature at school and high school and I did not know more than the name of the author of this famous novel, I have little to say about a "momentous" education system where we came rarely to the generation of 27 .
first thing that struck me was the simplicity of language and how fast the author gets you into Macondo, no need to dwell on long descriptions. With a few pages and you are within the Buendia family of the nineteenth century, sometimes the problem was be the opposite: not getting lost in a cloud of Aureliano, José Arcadio, and Amaranta Úrsulas. From when it comes to the third generation of the Buendía family is very easy to confuse parents with children, grandchildren or nephews so I would recommend to any new reader to make a small sketch to the family tree because the book covers one hundred years the life of Macondo and no less than seven generations Buendía.
The novel seemed to me a very good taking into account their structure, their language and how the story is making then resealed masterfully. With a few phrases defined to any of the many characters better than others in a hundred pages.
However, all you have to put a "but." When I finished the book I left a good taste, however I must admit that I came to enthusiasm: I've lost hours of sleep to read a little more, and I spent the whole day thinking about the story. Perhaps because of the subject, the Colombia between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, or the lack of a clear pattern beyond the life of the family and all Macondo, but has not come to arouse my curiosity than to read something well written or see to what ends so well woven story.
Ultimately, some will like more and others less, but recommended.
El asombroso viaje de Pomponio Flato (Eduardo Mendoza)
Pomponio Flato is a Roman philosopher seeking a miraculous waters by the confines of the empire at the time of Augustus. After various vicissitudes of the Middle East comes with no possession in the Palestinian town of Nazareth to seek help from the Roman tribune, his acquaintance. There is as a private investigator hired by a boy named Jesus in order to prove the innocence of his father, a carpenter who will be executed on the cross for the murder of a wealthy merchant.
Entertaining and original book. Is written in a comic tone, imitating the style of the classical writers with a glossary full of cultism and latinejos which does not hinder the reading, but on the contrary it is easy to read. Despite
style with touches of humor clearly define the novel as the detective genre in a historical environment. It also follows a subtle satire to the Roman and Jewish principles of our age, but especially to the Christian religion would emerge a few years later and misrepresent the facts. The author walks a fine line between irreverence and clear recognition of the divinity of Jesus, but does not fall toward either side, through the prism Roman rational (and he thinks it fair) with which the protagonist investigates the facts.
I enjoyed reading and I liked more than the odd "No news from Gurb" just Mendoza.
David Martin is a seventeen year old who works as an assistant in a newspaper of second row of the Barcelona of the early twentieth century. After years of enthusiastic reader and miserable existence, he begins to write short stories. Given the brilliance of his stories and with the help of an influential mentor, able to post your serials on the back of the newspaper. One day, he receives a mysterious letter from a Parisian editor gives you the opportunity to write to order a very special book.
After "The Shadow of the Wind" millions of readers waited anxiously the next work of Carlos Ruiz Zafon. I have read many opinions from readers disappointed, but this is not my case. It is true that really moved me less than "The shadow ..." and that is less endearing, however, is very well written, engaging from start to finish, does not lose intensity at any time, in order: it was a pleasure to read .
is a dark book, romantic (in the strict sense of the word) and to some extent, a tribute a los relatos folletinescos como los que escribe el protagonista. Vuelve a aparecer el cementerio de los libros olvidados y la familia de libreros Sempere, aunque en este caso el protagonista es un joven escritor de penoso pasado, tortuoso presente e incierto futuro.
Puntos a favor: está escrito en un registro culto, pero a su vez fácil de leer; no aburre en ningún momento y cada vez que finalizaba un capítulo pensaba: 'uno más y paro'; el último tramo del libro es trepidante y cuando al fin lo terminé tuve un ataque de nostalgia, razón inequívoca de lo mucho que me metí dentro del relato. Muy bueno el personaje de la aprendiz del protagonista, la extraña relación entre ambos me ha parecido lo best in the book.
Cons: little I can say, maybe they could have shaped a bit more some people like the police, simple archetypes. When you are just dark spots left many possible interpretations to the reader (this one will see it a virtue, but I prefer stories a little more "closed").
I have understood that this is not the last book in the saga of the "Cemetery of Forgotten Books", hopefully not decline.
After four or five months without writing, this is difficult. For the timid us these things happen, you always think you're going to shit. It is like going to a girl, do not know how wafer is done and then you see others do so easily. Nor are you going to put to practice in the mirror ... not that.
sometimes not really to write, but I feel need to. It's a strange situation, much like when you have something to say to someone but do not know how. Telling a person, ours does not work and all these stories, you created a lump in the throat, the knot well sometimes goes from the throat to the lungs, trouble breathing
Every day I find myself with people who go on the subway is like a giant book characters, the Bible in the world of strange characters. I guess if Tolkien had taken the metro in Madrid a couple of times, the Lord of the Rings would have been quite another thing, I assume that instead of eleven hours of movies, would have left a hundred hours.
And you learn more by looking at the eyes of people traveling by subway, which in three years of social studies at school. Did you ever wondered how many things you have forgotten everything you had in school?
Again I arrived late to work, this time one hour. A little red eyes but no one believes it is the shampoo that irritates me (milongas). Everyone assumed that I left the party ... logical.
I'll talk alone. Then I come.
The other day I laughed at myself. You should be. Everyone should do it more often. I consider myself a hero, a hero of a cartoon world, misunderstood, like those super heroes who get up on roof because no one understands.
Wednesday night, but not very late night, had been with a girl, a pretty girl, pretty universal. Everyone would think it was a pretty girl, I guess. With a universal pretty girl does not matter how you act or what you do, sooner or later I look like or be clumsy or what, but something will look like. Floor master these situations but I recognize that it is sometimes difficult. You see, I'm the guy, more or less, and was walking with her Fuencarral street. She was looking for an ATM when you cross a girl overly attractive. Spectacular. Spectacular universal. There are girls who do not know how but you have to look at, is like going down the street and you run into Napoleon Bonaparte seized the hand of Adolf Hitler, you have to look! (In this couple we know who ... who would not say anything.) For it is the same. I'll be honest, but I'll be honest for me and all the guys, men of the world. All the guys in this fucking world to look at the girls ass. Do not kid yourself or not fool anyone, if we look at them and think that girl has ass. Good, bad, I like, wow, my mother, half and half ... you look!
The only difference is the amount of items that you can watch, that is, guys will look at all the asses of the world and that is necessary and annoying for girls, for your girl or girl girl, that is, annoying (which sucks). But no one can say that has not ever watched an ass, is instinctive. There has to be bad, you can look at a window, a sports car, or exotic breed dog. "You cross the street without looking? No. As an ass like the only thing is do not bother anyone, that is the girl's ass should not feel look, and if you go with people, you should not feel offended. But of course, do not have to compare or anything like that, only you look and point. Again I
fuencarral, street. The girl who crosses is dark, tall, very thin, tight pants, black, big sunglasses, of course. As I wear my sunglasses, I can see without problem, also, the girl with whom I was not even my mother or my sister or my lover and my girlfriend. I'm free, I love this kind of freedom. An ass you look between four and six seconds. Thus, period. They are universal standards, the longer it is chutzpah and less time do not see anything. One, two, three, four ...
I watched maybe a second more, my glasses protect me, no one sees me, look, look and in an unguarded moment ... zassssSSS! My knee is hit with those fucking murderer iron pins that the mayor has decided to put everywhere. Damn! Paint the fuck these pins everywhere! Why do not people park? Put landmines if that, dammit! Or go electrified!
One day I heard the blind say that they, the blind, the broken eggs and is called that, it should be bad blood to put those iron everywhere. Luckily, nobody saw me one shred the entire piece was left of my knee and now my situation was, walking fuencarral, street, with a pretty girl universal, but lame. These lame disguise is laughable (if you feel sorry ... laughter is so). Do not know if dancing or what, luckily fuencarral street is full of rare and modern, and queer and macho, and bangs, and move as you go dancing, go unnoticed. You can even "hum" a song by the Strokes and are one more. Gradually the pain and it goes back to being a normal person ... With all these problems typically happen when you stay with someone you like. The wind hits you and leaves you hair like you're Jim Carrey in any of his films. You look at a reflection of a crystal (a Caja Madrid, which are the most reflected) and think, damn I look bald on top ... and lame.
you go through a lot with a pretty universal. Your mother called to ask if you've eaten well and that these (I'm good mama!, I'm good! I'm actually a girl !!...) never crosses your old friends when you go with a pretty girl or with your ex-girlfriend, or with that fucking professor career hated so much. Do not see the pretty universal. That if you hold a universal gal you ever get drunk, sit on the floor at the exit of penta (a fresh air to breathe) and greets you salamanca your uncle, your ex-girlfriend with her new boyfriend Bob, your neighbor Apparel fine and that teacher you had in BUP (as I miss the BUP!) watching as saying "if I knew I would end well." We
wines and returned to Toledo by car, be late, in fact it was late, but in my life which is why it is late and soon, is quite mixed. What time is it? (Set it to comment, the time that I read) ... talk to you, yeah.
and of course she looks at me, I tremble.
Two in the morning, dark night, I'm in a car. Drive it, I at his side. Going fast, maybe 160, do not know because when you go with a pretty girl universal, if you look at the speedometer you afraid that she thinks you're squeamish. Then do not look, I'm brave but I did not comment, do not say: "have you seen? I do not watch the speedometer because I am brave. "
Music Cat Power I recall, something quiet, very trip ... Pulp Fiction. My hand on your leg, gentle touching, without any intention, they are just linking strokes. Ten inches of my hand, a steering wheel, a bad thought tells me to pull that wheel is to die, or turn your life completely. Ten inches and the opposite desire, a journey, tickle ...
Two opposite ways, one is the end, another may be the beginning. Curious that are so close. I play with those things you never have to play, look at my hand, look at the wheel and guess a jerk. I look at my hand ... Just look at his waist is a game of imagination ... just that.
My hand does not even go to one or the other, this quiet, well, rest moving slowly. No desire, no end.
We reached our destination. Toledo is a ghost any day lost at that time. Do not say you feel when you go to Toledo and is deserted. You get the feeling that just around one of those old streets dulcinea you may get a horse or a guy in three hundred years ago. But as I said, can not explain the feeling. Toledo is so magical night!
Another night but that hardly sleep. Want a person is a dangerous game. If it goes wrong, we spend too bad, but you learn a lot, you end up learning that life gives you what you have to give. Get someone que te gusta, es una sensación especial. Pienso que el sexo puede ser maravilloso, puede ser un antidepresivo, un placebo que cura, un ejercicio de felicidad, o alegría. Pero noto mucha diferencia de hacerlo por eso o mezclarlo con “quiero hacerte sentir…” ese punto de deseo que te sientas bien es lo que mas me gusta. Mi noche termino así.
Me desperté mas contento, nos despertamos mas contentos. Cansados de no dormir, y curiosamente hicimos de esa noche algo parecido a un sueño. Nunca se si se repetirá o no. Pero es mi base, las cosas no se buscan vienen a ti. Me encantaría repetirlo. A veces te sientes con ganas de dar amor y cariño a la gente y contagiar tu felicidad. Estoy así. I like that.
do not know who invented that day is night and day, day and night. I have them so mixed that for me the day has a single part with minute pause. I'm not sure that all hours are equal. As a child I wondered when I ran the damn cooper test, twelve minutes if those twelve minutes there were two hundred.
I'm back.
to me this world is killing me, laughing. I like reading the newspaper people in the metro and if I notice that bothers you, I do it with more blatant. I like it. Today I read something like an old lady says, she says, that Pope John Paul II (I want the whole world) Parkinson's cured and that is one of his miracles to his sanctification. Mariloli touch your balls! Now it turns out that Parkinson's cured. If the doctors are worthless. But that world is this. It turns out that millions still an ideology, a religion that says that his father cure Parkinson's. So that no more. Pope to miracles. Well, you could have walked over to Africa, there could overeat to make miracles. Malaria, AIDS, leprosy and Parkinson's all you want. Then
me crazy.
The most hypocritical society, religions, buy your fear and give you solutions. Tremendous. The pope does miracles. To take in the ass all science. Years and years studying and it turns out that the pope does miracles. Take cherries the turkey say to my land ...
Húrin, lord of the house of Hador of the land of Dor-Lómin leaves for war to join his men to the armies of the kings of the elves against Morgoth's army of orcs. At home leaves his pregnant wife and his son Turin. The great battle ends in disaster and the people of Dor-Lómin is enslaved by men allies of Morgoth, as the wife of Húrin sent to Turin to the kingdom Doriath kept hoping that there is care and exhaust the black fate of his family.
This is the third version I read the same story: the first aperece in a highly summarized in a chapter of The Silmarillion and the second was published in "Unfinished Tales." Christopher Tolkien continues rummaging through manuscripts left his father and finding excuses to further exploit the commercial reef. I'm sure that if the lifting of JRR Tolkien's grave is angry much, if not publish this material is alive because he thought it was not yet sophisticated enough to go out into the open. The story that the book is an evolved version of the Middle Earth fanatics have read in The Silmarillion. For those readers who have enjoyed The Lord of the Rings, this story can serve as an introduction to hard Silmarillion (me the first two times I read it walked quite lost with so many names and stories told at great speed interlaced). But anyone to expect a story like The Hobbit, these stories of the First Age are a mixture of the mythical Greek tragedy with nuances that sometimes remind me of the Bible itself.
This book does not qualify for two reasons: to Tolkien it is impossible to be impartial, on the other side is not entirely the work of JRR Tolkien but rather a Frankenstein monster created by his son Christopher from scraps.
(There was a Marrakech I and II ... so to catch up, lost)
A little advice, if you're a kid, you have long hair, red beard face freak and you feel like taking care of your ego, take a tour of Marrakech.
Sometimes just at that moment you think you begin to understand everything, something happens that makes you prove that you have no fucking clue. Walking through the souks, my English side, me in thrall. Vendors tell you friend, hello, or omelette, whatever as long as you listen to them. And I smiled, I begin to master the art of avoiding retailers. Starting to be really good when suddenly, a young, looks at me and says "George, look cheap." I admit that I made it caught, it had heard that you called by any name, pepe, paco, manolo ... but, George?. I look, and said calling me, Jorge, to which he replied very calm and smiling with a "sure, sure your name is George."
I decided to go my way and do not ask. Hours later, as my back was receiving the gift of a massage with four hands, the image of that boy was still in my mind and is to be bastard to guess your name to thousands of kilometers. Leaves you like it or not caught. I thought, what if I get called Bonifacio? Would he have known? ... best not to think. With a massage so the better ... not thinking. Djemaa El Fna. It's the craziest place you've ever seen. I'm sorry, did not describe what happens there. Santeros saint, or a guy who puts in the clouds the diabolo. Night falls and with it the sound of the square. The tourists gradually disappear, because the few remaining Djemaa El Fna is not a comfortable place for them when they start to get too dark. Nobody leaves there mounted his show to videotape or photographs, if payment is not and that caused me some minor problems. But my camera is not touched. I am very nervous about these things. At one point I thought about what a guy takes sixty years to dance with a chicken on his head? What day of his life decided that? Nor is that my work is much more exciting ... You walk in a group of people to a completely drugged so different, so you do not have any rules. How will I explain myself, something I do not quite understand? I can tell you is very beautiful, that has people and that seems cool, but little more!
The truth is that, in Marrakech, I have gone through some difficult sites. Walked the streets without a destination, and that made me lose by a different Marrakech on postcards, the juice and tea to foreigners, to the French with large sun glasses. Districts found that, I do not want you to know, those where people, children, work with your feet up, where to get a coin is hypnotized at all, while outside sites. There were people there pretty shitty, but no less smiling, the smile has nothing to do with all those things you think. Walking around places where women offended if you look in their eyes, where children smile at you ... if you look in their eyes, young sites sell you everything, even the have-nots, sites lying, dirty, lost, insane, retarded, suspicious, sites people different from what I have to put in my world.
People without twins, no sports, or without all those stories.
Everything is different. Sites with charm, but without light. I got lost in squares and streets that have nothing, have everything I wanted, a part of my silence, and a nod to time, it dies there every night.
And it was my last day, a Saturday night, when perhaps a coup destination, I found more bleeding wound that time can make a site, as magical as Marrakech. Late, tired and dark, I found the town of rats, rats of Marrakech. not think you are very different from here.
"money is the most dangerous of the gods," said a philosopher.
After five days lost, I admit that would have sold my soul, the same shop at the souk, the devil himself for a fucking drink of whiskey.
The way back to my riad, it was dark and easy to miss. Total, thirty years looking for me ... I
The light was on the streets of Marrakech, something that seemed not to miss the few people left. I continued my way in the dark, with my camera. Long time no hear my steps, not if happens to you, it is not easy to listen to your footsteps. Walking in heels is not hear your footsteps. Your steps, the authentic sound of sand footing, one after another, with no one to interrupt. In the distance I could hear someone singing, and if something was lost to me is the music, I lost many things, but the "best view" and perhaps more legalized music ... a saxophone and a voice of a woman singing a famous song by The Supremes. I decided to approach. I hit the road two thugs, with a smile, a little more tired, shaky and enforced, because, smiling at two o'clock, is not so simple. Took money, they know, no one around, I know, they. They do nothing. Go. Kushi
bar, as I recall it was called the site. Or maybe not. I do not know. I remember I had big candles, lamps falling from the roof from the third floor, very bright vases at the entrance. At its roof, a terrace overlooking the Menara (Tower). The site was lovely ... snakes. There was all these people. Now they are the children who smile at you if you look. This does not smell of jasmine, or mint, or spices. The truth is that people here is da pretty disgusting. Despite the wonderful voice of the girl, the time out of me, the worst of my face. And these sites do not end up like me. French old money, girls with lots of dreams that break, and much Briatore of life, Don Perignon bottles on the tables, laughing all rotten least one point of humanity. And is that for years that only believe in my intuition, and not always, but something tells me, here, clean money, clean what is said, there is little. The mixture of Moroccan money, and French money is very smelly. But no matter how boring it is also Marrakech, and I have to tell. A bore me telling it, of course. I do not give for more.
is curious to see these old French, do not know how to drink. They are clumsy, are fatal mixing, "he did it all, drink alcohol and I am uglier than these girls." And I so enjoy it. Life is so unfair sometimes have these things fair. den The manager has had me confused with Farruquito or a rock star by how good it is. I speak, but I interrupt, I say bring me a fucking whiskey, ask me that, and say (at the risk of you understand English) "that you leave the eggs." It makes me a Jack Daniels, (and I shit on inside me bitches) I pay, I feel and hear the girl sing. He sings very well but the rats do not pay much attention. Without sleep, ask for another whiskey, I take quiet, while my feet, rest after six or seven hours walking. (Is that four-handed massage I decided not to talk ... a lot). I have to admit that, to sit at my desk and see a bill of nearly three hundred euros, I shook the pulse. I thought if I had no money to pay those two Jack, I was going to play currar one of those rats ... the idea bothers me.
One guy looks bad, very bad. His world is a shit, or so I think, and still think. Surely, with that pint of assholes, cheats on his wife, probably his wife deceives him. I again look bad. Fuck you, come before he and my site is better than yours. Looks at me wrong, but I've been playing since childhood at me wrong with many people. I look at him, slowly, slowly, smiled. It is true that there could be up and giving me two wafer, or just blow your fingers, and others give me two ostia ... it is true, but hey, it did not. I love the universal language of sight. Eyes speak. You can look at anyone and tell with your eyes, "which tiomierda you right? ". Will understand perfectly. Well, anyway, in part we are all tiosmierdas. I'm fucking leaving twenty euros, a pair of Jacks. People sleep on the street, not far from me. I think, I think.
(a pity that in a city as magical ...)
People are within their rights to spend their money on what will come out of eggs. You're not going to solve the world not to, nothing will change. You're not going to change you. We are all weak, I'm weak, you are. I can tell you thousand milongas that if you offer me much money, deny, deny surely. Groucho Marx said it best, these are my principles, if you do not like ... I have others.
So we are all detestable?.
No, nothing like that. I always say you have two paths, you have chosen and ... everyone else. I have tried to choose "cancel my account." I'm weak, of course I am, I am guilty, very fragile. maybe there is magic, know our limits. I'm getting to know, maybe they do not. Consciousness exists, there is another of those rolls as ricky martin ... consciousness exists.
Perhaps I am but a young man of my age of the Congo, or India or Trinidad and Tobago. But im all proud, memo, superficial, ready, alive or dead, or silly or sensible, or not, or if ... Nor are there many more differences. About us educate, others, no. People are not so great as to be able to boast of what we are. If you do not clean your mother's ass and gives you chest when you're a baby, you're nobody.
And there I was, in turn puchi bar knife. The site made me realize that Marrakech, Morocco is as magical as miserable. And has the treasure of lost time, and the wound of social differences ... differences boring! Social!.
once told me one of those secrets of bed. After the King of Morocco, that which I call going to allow delayed and depraved bastard king of Morocco, because after him, "class" social with more money in Morocco, are the judges. Damn, too bad we are if a Judge is the second richest.
The reality behind the souks, is that Morocco is a country rotten with corruption, with a high social class very very nasty, maybe more than we know here. Many Guccis, Dior, homes, yachts or private beaches, a long channel and bitches, a group of people living under the same flag of a country to die in the streets. Well, it's what you get. More of the same.
Nothingness is behind everything.
That's the difference. One lost a Thursday night, walking down a street I'm lost in Marrakech, a fucking neighborhood without light, where young people spend brushing their bikes my camera. Alleys where I have followed with amigoamigo, hachishachis, Babuchababucha and my camera, something striking, or watched.
The truth is that when you have nothing ... I do not want much.
learned that time does not exist in the alleys of the souks of Marrakech. Are iron lamps, leather bags, wood and ceramic darbuka you want. Work, and much, because I have seen. But time passes.
hundred years ago were there, and in a hundred years from now, will still be there, his sons, daughters, sitting in the square, crushing spices. They keep their rats in the palaces, with their laughter of money, jewelry or power. My contempt for that does not work much, and knowing that I am weak, very weak, I'll take the "friend friend slippers" with their smiles, their streets, kebabs, their donkeys and their mirrors at half half price. I do not care the price, I sell and buy, smile .... That is life. You, me, smile.
will not believe that life is something as simple as having or not having money or being or not being beautiful. There must be a thousand things more wonderful than that, at last, after all, happiness is in your mind.
was completed. This trip back over. Pay Jacks and I went out to the street. Walking down the street, I stood in front of a truck, one of those trucks that transports mirrors large. Well. There it was, my silence. In front of me. I gave her time, I felt that strange feeling of not understanding anything in this world ...
(If called Marrakech II ... is that there was a Marrakech I , if not read, just that.)
Taxi! TAaaaaaxii! Shouting
taxi in a Moroccan street becomes the same as shouting "I'm an idiot and I have money." And again that is scream "take my money .... I am an idiot." Luckily I quickly realized this (I'm an idiot) and kickback that however bad it may sound this word, it remains to be the noble act of knowing rectify. I kickback, you Reculas, they ... well, that. Traveler
time, next stop, Place Djemaa El Fna.
Take
seven seconds to get my crappy side but, being a man and not a tarnished with an old bag. It be fucking crappy . Well, not quite. Vale, a crappy undecided. That. approached me a man, a Moroccan man with a mustache and a Moroccan Moroccan accent, look at me and says: - "bullet jam jam jamb the taxi?" (And go with the ham) A what I say - "oui." But a tough-guy oui. Add "per quant" (which is because in the famous French Toledo.
I have read many stories about bargaining.'s A fucking art form of them is their nature. They are the best in the world, they invented the ancient trade, and anyone like them to negotiate. Enjoy! of a lifetime of Allah (ala's life), an Arab wants to sell at a high price and he knows that you are asking more than they should, but lying is a serious act in the eyes of Ala, so you can not afford, so easily, the lie. They want you to give them another price once you do, the trader fails to lie to simply negotiate .... That you be a fool in the eyes of Allah, it means nothing. Allah punishes the liars, not idiots or smart. And ready, very ready. The theory is easy.
200 says Mohamed slippers, slippers 100 tell you, slippers 160 says Mohammed, say your slippers 150 in six seconds ... and you just sold mohamed slippers that cost 20 Dirham, for 150, which is the price you have offered him by As awareness of Mohammed, is in complete peace.
Many years of slippers.
But, oh friends! Have gone to me, dude among dudes, old dog, most dog of dogs. Tanning in a thousand battles, do not I'll put it all easy, you'll sweat to get my money excasos. I come for my silence and nobody will stop me. I have a lot of streets, many evening, comrades. Do not play with me ... you do not know losing.
There I was, my old black hat, my old ripped jeans and my hair lost before man driver and quieter than Steve McQueen, I ask:
- "You as a taxi?" (You have a taxi?, I say, right?) "Oui, oui, 40 Dirhams cite au center? (Me says Mr between means of many, many words in Moroccan those pretty fast.) to my old tricks with you speak too fast to get nervous. For a moment think that this man is believed to tie the dog with sausages. And lánzole the famous Red Buttler look as with the wind, asking: "Combien il coute taxi? (My French is not enough for more) -40 Dirham (she says as she puts face "it seems that it's hot" or "I have all day to tell 40 DHMS, friend"). -Tres bien (very good) I say.
Tres bien!
And I ride in the taxi
But haggling is this shit? "Tres bien?" Why the hell have I told you three okay? Where is the legendary "I hear 25?" .... or "talking to me" Robert De Niro?. But I told him not "make my day" (Make my day) to Clint Eastwood.?
Bah!
Maybe because they did not stop cars passing me by, honking and dodging, perhaps because people stop talking, go ahead, run, brake, accelerate, perhaps because the driver had a man look noble, or because I was afraid that if I had this 20 Dirhams, the world had stopped and everyone I have pointed the finger, perhaps because four fucking euros is what it costs me in Madrid to tell a taxi driver "looks like rain" ... perhaps whatever. But I accepted.
I can fool me but my first haggling MARRAKECHI was a fucking disaster.
Maroc: 1 Jorge: 0. (Own goal)
man was endearing. Fifty years, a photo of their children in the age-old Mercedes taxi, a little music in your car, I guess the area Fari, and tranquility impossible in a crazy city. I love how this guy looks carefully your old car. I guess for him is his life. I got to understand (read hand), would not go direct to Medina in order to see the palace. Passing through the palace, pointed out, proud, arrogant, and I watch while I did. Bonito. Perhaps could kidnap me, take me to the Sahara, rob, rape and dismember, maybe ...
And? We
to Medina and before I got off the taxi, without realizing, I had "engaged" in the second bargaining. A viejete offered to accompany me to Riyadh (Hotel). Before that was done many illusions I told him that "merci mais je conais summoned" (thanks but I know the city). So the man decided to leave. After half an hour walk in a city where everything and nothing is impossible is possible, I gave up. I felt like a mouse loose from an airplane in mid-Atlantic, completely lost. I read minds. Children in Marrakech, I read your fucking mind. While in my head, creating the idea of \u200b\u200bhow the hell will go my Riad, a boy of that year I was up to me I see my role and I said that I can carry to the Riad. Exhausted from
travel, accept the help of young and want to guess its tip. But in this city of little use to think, he heard it all before. Ali told me his name, so I guess it is called in any way less ... Ali. Walking with the kid, watch me, see how greets another child, who joins our way to greet little later a third party who does not hesitate to join us. For a moment, I feel like the Pied
Amelia ... The guys are missing, which I suspect at the moment is nothing but an old trick that I think the Riad is really hard to find and eventually lead me to the door in an alley .... end. giving them a tip, 20 dirhams, the young false-Ali gets angry and tells me that there are three, who wants more.
Let's see,
Alley, three against one, Morocco, Allah, crossing eyes, hand gestures, Allah, 3> 1 ... This was not very good. The search for my silence was lost in an alley where three boys about 15 years ago I spoke at once asking for more money. Bruce Lee well, but ... I? With one I get, maybe two ... but three.
Then I remembered something I never knew, and that was always within me. One of those treasures that we all have inside, completely hidden, hard to find. And then I was going to get to know .... Learning to smile.
We live immersed in a world so false as our smiles. We filled our mouths "I'm glad to see you" "I missed you" or "well that this or that" and do not feel ... it is sad but not sorry. That does not mean we are bad people, no, not at all. We just have a fucking shield against all, what shield? What shield? Fear.
We live with a fear of everything and anything (nothing is after all, do not forget). We live in fear of the abyss of loneliness, failure, shouting or crying of a loved one, live hidden behind a stone called fear. And forget precious treasures as simple as real smile. Come a time in life to smile because if, for that muscle we hide in our jaw feels the need to loosen up, and accompanied by the glow of a glance, are the most sincere smile. Now that's living hell. Smile, nothing really smile.
And there I was, surrounded by three young Moroccan, in an alley in Marrakech lost, and recalling a phrase I read in one of those old books "are kind, be kind to them." Forget appearances.
And not without a tight grip on my old haversack, but not neglecting what at any time can be unexpected, smile at the boys, and tell them I will give you no more paste, I understand and do not push.
was not the best of my smiles, but did little good. The kids, of course followed in his insistence, but this time, they knew that "there was nowhere to scratch."
may need that smile, true, to find my friend the silence.
Silence lives in the smile ...
's smile is not forced, just comes to you. Everything else, they are stories not to sleep.
Like a thriller it were, going in the taxi, I realized that all the bikes, and many, had the mirror tucked inside. For a moment my idiot side, which is much hand, thought it would be tradition. There must be an idiot. Everything would reply later and later is now.
Five in the afternoon, the sun is in Marrakech. I have to rent and put on the city. Fuck that hot, Cádiz me laugh. ('m In that picture!)
I go through the long, empty alley Riyadh, turn left, take another long, empty alley, turn right and ... the world went crazy.
The best gift I've done in a long time was this little time travel. Everything is for sale in the society we live inevitably. All "you know" everything belongs to everyone and to your mind has to share. Television, your spouse, your parents or your children live so into you, it is impossible not to bare your mind. Welcome to the first world. This is our legacy, we are all equal, think the same. When that is not going, when you go on living in the seventy Mahou peel, and still remember the melody of Casio Vl, white. When your child's day ended at ten to news of José Luis Marín, when UHF was that where you saw who knows where ... when everything was different, you were happy. Now, everything is the same ... and you can be happy, but do not overdo it. No passes like you happy.
Marrakech is a gift. I can not not be! write you a feeling so new to me. It must be like to fly hundreds of years ago. You walk the streets, donkeys, motorbikes forward you will whistle, children who are sellers of all you speak, others come and go around you, in the middle of it, you feel awkward. I remember as a child, came running, flying through the crowded streets of the old Toledo. John greeted the baker, and scared me with Felipe crabs the fisherman, an older lady sold me one at sticker and marbles. And people came and went. Or live on the moon or nothing is the same, everything changes. Thyme is no longer smell the streets of Toledo ...
Marrakech is not written, breathes, looks, lost, think. Because if there is something that time does not want to do, is to travel in, and this city at the very scary time. Here, perhaps, in the Medina, all worth less, even worthless, but you can feel more person in a fucking mall. I hate those sites, so cold. Callejas
the souks, souks shady, hidden from the sun and weather, markets which do not hesitate, you're going to lose, you want or not, you lose because they have no beginning, no end, and go from one sound to another. The smell of leather to spice, reflex of the thousands of mirrors the grim streets lined with tapestries. Everything is sold, everything is for you if you offer a good price. Wrath of one side to another, fleeing from vendors, tumbling like an intruder in the past. For my eyes, my lips my hairs are present, and only my new smile, invited me to this journey through time. Amigo, amigo. I whisper in his ear at all times. Friend friend. They keep their commitment. Every friend I hear, I return a smile. Friend, smile, smile, friend. Is the path of silence. You ask me business I will smile. You insist, I smiled back. Does not matter. I'm fine, I give you my smile. I missed by a souk in Marrakech, is one of those things you need to do. They say all roads lead to Rome ... I got a Roman in a souk. Let's see if it comes out.
Take a plane in the souks is like a deer head goal in a pond in the Serengeti for drinking water, before a hundred crocodiles. They lost. Children will intuit, is touching a plane and go to you. Tell you what it is.
guy asked me what I was looking, is the large square? I said, does koutoubia ? Tell me again. With a smile, I said as I kept walking if "I had seen my silence."
Obviously I said yes, they follow him, he would take me to my silence. For a moment the boy did not know if I was to me or I him. Walk streets and roads, while he kept looking at me and smiling. I turned to tell who would not go to the plaza, and he said "no no, not square." Finally, I'm taking the square, put his hand, gave him some coins, and went on my way.
acknowledge that runs (almost as much as read to me), the bargain runs out. All up, it lives strong. Intense spoken. They are intense. They show slippers, while I say "friend slippers slippers" and when they see your face I do not want slippers, whispering tone down the "cost rich, good hashish, hashish friends" and to see your face "do not tell me your life Ali" raise your voice again "friend slipper slipper." At that time you smile, ever so sweet smile, and a brother-bye, off you go. Whatever. I do not care. Everything they do not care! I have come to hold, lost in Zouk, the following conversation.
MARRAKECHI Friend, friend slipper, bongos, you, what do you friend? Do you? "Slippers? "Cost rich? "Armani? Tallinn nice, cost, "pores" Buono, friend friend, lamp? Friend, go see a friend.
say conversation because in his words, I watched smiling, made me deaf, the blind, autistic, the left. But whatever. All do not care. Say, they say, and then ... say. It's amazing the skills they have to "modular" your voice and the words pass through cost, has, pores, or smoke, gently lower the tone.
There is something beyond my reason, and that something, in Marrakech, is ... Everything.
Looking for my silence, on a train, with Ghita, I found my ego. Learning to smile, in a souk, I gave up my soul. I swear I thought for a moment buy it, was half price. Barata, friend, your soul ... cheap. But I decided to look at other posts, if I could get a better price.
Without silence, smiles for all and friends all over, got out of the souks. Juice in Dfema Fna square, only asking that. Orange juice and a break.
And you get to the plaza and walk around the square and
... Who are you? What are you?. Where did you leave your clothes, your schedule, clubs, jams, messages, careers, meetings, discussions? Where have you been? Or ... What about you?
Djemaa El Fna sound ... so its corners when it falls night.
... Santeros, snake charmers, children, comedians, magicians, guys dancing with a chicken on his head, walkers monkeys, Moroccan gypsies sing and call to me that pussy. Tribes, and trobar trubis! juice vendors, tattoo artists of gena, witches, preachers (preachers), children boxean, dances and more dances each with a small light in the center, marauders, many merodearodes ... all there. Is Djemaa el Fna square ... crazy.
not been invented points defining the square. There, everything is crazy. A feast for a fool ... but the guy in the cobra, the soothsayer, the Frenchies, the hammam, "Jorge come" and my silence, are already part of another story ...
I guess the only way to find yourself others will flee. Away. When I travel with my friends, sooner or later, you hear those phrases, "I feel like a beer" or "Have you seen this ass?" Is inevitable, they have their charm but are phrases that all they do is remind you that live prisoners something, we all live prisoners of something, whatever. If you travel with who is with your partner, it is impossible to spend four days without hearing a comment about your mother, your dog or your shirt puchi communist or not leave the towel there baby ... and if you travel with family, good with my family I'll always be George, the small. That is forever ... I miss those trips.
My family laughs at me, but I want. They laugh, but I want.
Without knowing it, or maybe you, Ana and Alvaro gave me the other day a nice phrase:
"... And in my madness I have found my freedom and safety. freedom of solitude and security of not being understood as those who understand us exclavizan a part of our being. But do not let me too proud of my safety, even the thief jailed is safe from another thief " Khalil Gibran
And we were, after the last little kick to my heart, you can beat, say Sabina, was the best time to flee. I fell in Zanzibar, my hat, my glass and my heartbeat, my Russian and my red beard black. She will not ask anyone to marry me. Attitude.
I hate that phrase to take the bull by the horns, no kidding, that fear, because pussy take the bull by the horns and can run. I looked into the eyes of time and started to run. I called my contact, let's call him Mr. M, and serious, with my word to slow I said slowly: "get me outta here, M" The Mr M, that guardian angel that I have long, moved a pair of wires and their response was swift: "the world is yours", tell me. And that dime, I said ... I
... Marrakech, now.
I just searching for my silence.
needed to get out of this, sometimes the weather catches me, grabs you and without you noticing, you're a prisoner of his trap. Run, run, do not you stop running. Work, car, subway, the Message, beer with it, you drool nieces, nephews, to which habeas, work, metro, bread, wine, shower, run, run a little faster, cinema, anger, sleep, breathing, kissing, back to Monday, Message a. .. coffee, more coffee, wine ... Basta! do not be misled! No! The sun rises every day and how hard they try, will never get to the moon. Flee, that "you have to flee," look at the time, and played with. Do it. Do not fear, because he will fear you.
(Let scratched because it is free, cheese costs money, but, grate, no).
One of the things that I like to travel by air is because I always think that simply going to fall. Call me silly but I still do not quite understand why that air propulsion motors generate bla bla bla ... but weighs much a plane, I think. If we fall, nothing will serve these life jackets or those with oxygen masks, because if a plane falls, falls. All you can do is kiss your hand, you feel, girl or boy that will give equal, you will die, but it's better to go kissing screaming.
And my split personality is rubbing his hands with such a situation. Jorge vs. George in full launch. On one hand, argues that it is statistically possible that the plane was go to the ground, the data is there. The planes do not fall. Peeeero on the other side is my "weird" sort of weird things happen. Conclude at the end, my death will, I know, very very absurd, but I do not think today was my day to die. And not because the pilot is not trying. All these fancy stuff you're doing to take off only have an explanation, like a flight attendant and want to impress (single sex). I understand that if the runway is pointing to Lisbon and Casablanca let the man have to "focus on the nose", but there are ways and forms. I am calm, I had the wings of the plane and has two. The last time a plane ride, I pulled the .... Curious. Right?
I already en route with his eyes closed and summer orgasm face, "fuck I'm dying for a zumito orange" at the very moment that a flight attendant reported that, grounds for a strike, no catering service. ("Suputamadre" is an instinctive expression that I can never get out of my head when someone pisses me off that way) But I am or I am learning to be positive, is an art. If I passed that philosophy ignore me, I can do without a miserable juice. The girl next door gets very bad face and muttered the mother remembers Allah (ala's mother). Not if you have calmed down with my comment ... "They are worse strikes which reviewed the plane's wings, better wings, juice." I look weird, and whisper "are the two wings, I counted." I look down. I read my book, listen to my music. I forget the rest. Seeking my silence.
(Do not read, but time will end atrapándote).
Landing in Casablanca saw a rabbit running down the runway (landing, sorry), that egg of yours!. It was damn fast, and I thought "fuck with rabbits Moroccans, are faster than those of Toledo" and courageous. Traveling just think a lot. And I came. Nostalgia come to me, Africa, the continent that third floor, I knelt down, kissed him, and bless. And it comes ... (bless you, and coming)
One of the dangers of traveling alone is that no one tells you, "is hell here." Under the plane, I see a queue of people and throw me head Vincent behind and its people, step control and luck in the second uff ... I put off a guy's face Calculus teacher look at me wrong and I said "ajam the bullet jam jam." I Ham? What does this ham?
a nice girl soon after I explained that this was a flight to Cairo. And then I focus. Seeking my silence, I just want to find my silence, I need it desperately. Brahms far away from you, away from everything. (Toledo is always within me.)
There are three things I'm excited to do lately. One is to tell my mother how much you love her, the other is to mourn, and recently had a wild desire to take a cafe in Casablanca and tell a waiter
"Play It Again Sam."
And when I say
"excuse moi, messieur" say
"If you've seen Ingrid!"
and if he says:
"je ne pas comprendre, ça va?" , answer:
"cafe lait avec vous plait if."
I'm crazy, I know, and aspirin have no effect.
I did not, from fear in Morocco, are serious, imposing enough. I'm still a child.
could have gone straight Marrakech, but you never know where you can be your silence, my silence. So I took a train Casablanca-Marrakech. Beautiful, old, used, clean, a three-film.
And sitting there in that old station, with my old travel bag between my legs, I began to observe people. Two old men sitting and there is no nursing station. And entered a young, thin, stylish, and a French-style sunglasses (oh the French style!). The neckline was also French. He sat beside me and a French-Moroccan accent asks me the time. My forgetfulness not ever leave me alone. When I say ... that of Madrid. She looks at me quizzically, and not much attention. It is late for say "no no, no I was wrong" he thinks you're stupid, period. One thinks not know sit without falling to the ground, one that can not read a clock, and another tells you not want to marry you. And what I want my niece ... my princess.
We sat together, facing each other in the old train Moroccan. She knew where I was, me, no fucking idea. We talked, my voice cold and his voice Frenchified (strawberry?). Twelve years of subways and trains in Madrid and I do not speak or reviewer, no, I do not speak no one and a train in Morocco ... I do not understand anything. I like it. She pretty much helped me to not end up lost in a desert, but fate would have it come down in Rabat and I Marrakech. I wonder what to there (there), and to say I was looking for my silence, could not help lower your sunglasses and look at me wondering if there was an hour talking to a freak. And I was only able to freak face ... nice.
Sometimes my shyness abuse me. And there was silence for a moment I thought, if it would be mine, but nothing to see. And she broke the most stylish French:
- "give me your phone number or an email if ..." As I like those "just." I ask him his name and time for: - "Ghita" I answered. - "Nice name." He said, smiling.
And after those two kisses gave my ego Ghita,
kept looking for my lost silence. and reach Marrakech. Under the train station ... way to go out into the street.
Kempelen, a senior official of the Austro-Hungarian court of the mid eighteenth century, is committed to the empress herself in six months will be able to create a marvelous machine that will amaze everyone. 
