What a lovely weekend...

#puddle and fire, blue and orange, colours. #curb #sidewalk #city #london #citystreet

A photo posted by b (@benjaminlalala) on Nov 16, 2016 at 12:58pm PST

What a lovely, lovely weekend where the beautiful present reminded me of the past in a happy way, not with sadness.

Friday was like the first episode of Queer As Folk - when I was a twink, I was way too scared to meet people in gay bars, so I never got to be Nathan, and I never thought of myself as a Stuart, but that night I was Stuart and that was fun! The Nathan I met blinded me with his smile, bravery and attitude to life: he will go far I am sure.

Saturday was like a Sex And The City episode, extended food edition, catching up with true friends and eating starters in one place, mains in another, and dessert elsewhere, cause we can do it now and that felt awesome.

 On Sunday we sang briefly in memory and celebration of little people: overfed, we lounged and kept saying 'we are going to go now', only we didnt cause it was too nice to pet the dog or chit chat for a bit longer. On the bookshelves I spotted Asterix, which took me back to Sundays with a similar feel, reading them all and playing with numerous cousins and telling my mum 'no we can't leave now we've just started to have fun' - when we'd obviously started 4h earlier.

Gracias a la vida!

Thank you, 2016!

I guess the overwhelming sensation of 2016 will be that of one's stomach dropping - when you realise you wont make that flight, and then you do; when you see the guy who is trying to steal your phone pull out a long blade; when you face the fact that you have to say goodbye; when you hear that Brexit got through; when you hear about a bloody Bastille day; when you read about the death of Prince; when you hear those horrible stories from war-torn countries; when you wake up at 5am to look at the US election results.

Thinking again, I'd like the overwhelming sensation of this year to be utter joy, the type so strong that you just want to hug everyone - when you first see Brazilian star Ivete Sangalo in the flesh, up there on her bus, singing in the heat to thousands of revellers (you waited so long for that moment!); when you spot good friends across a Brooklyn street and then dance your jetlag away; when Faufau beams her 1-year-old smile at you whatever face you pull at her; when you dine with old colleagues or see old friends in unexpected places and think back on the journey you've all travelled; when the show you've worked hard on is a huge success; when you get an awesome new job; when you visit Venice again, after 18 years, and with your love, at that.

Feeling grateful.

I don't really know what really kept me up until 2.30am...

I don't really know what really kept me up until 2.30am. 
I was hot. 
I was cold. 
I was thinking about the last moments of Harvey Milk (am finishing his biography - the moment he saw Dan White with a gun and must have thought 'oh no!"). 
I was thinking of the last moments of OJ Simpson's ex-wife and her friend (am watching American Crime Story - what terror). 
I was reliving the emotions of our Brazil trip. 
I was excited about doing pecs at the gym in the morning. 
I was singing Shirley Bassey's After The Rain to myself again and again ('after the rain has gone something inside me is dying for you'). 
I was thinking about the intense one-man theatre show I'd seen with Dan and Michael earlier that evening, and one of its monologues: who are we afraid of disappointing in life? Ourselves? Others? (who are they and why?). 
I was worried my phone battery was going to die (it did the night before, I couldn't explain it, no alarm that morning, it made me late for work). 
M thought I was asleep as I was very still, but in my mind thoughts and melodies were racing through, one taking over the next; in my body my senses on high alert. There seemed to be no end to it, but sleep did win over, without me being conscious of it. 
Normally I realise it's coming because I get a spinning sensation (like my bed is flying through a space tunnel) or I start having work ideas (which I have to jot down quickly) or I start thinking ridiculous thoughts (could I get Chaka Khan to sing at my 10th wedding anniversary, wouldn't that be a nice surprise if she just rocked up in the pub we've hired and sang us our song?).
Tonight, will you sing me lullabies?

Brazil trip #6

I did sleep a good 4-5th of our flight but still I feel well tired here on this couch next to a power socket by gate 43 of Lisbon airport. It makes me so emotional: I look wistfully at a beach volley competition TV broadcast (we played beach volley during our trip, it was hilarious), I cry at a Guardian video about an Iraqi cat reunited with his family now refugees in Norway ("Kundush! My life!" sobs the mother when he is returned to them - I can't wait for the cat's biopic to come out at the cinema), I friggin' go all "that-is-so-sad" reading that Umberto Eco has died (question: has anyone every finished one of his novels?), and I react passionately to the lack of available choice in fruit juices at the cafe (haven't they heard of acerola in this country??!). Time for a nap.

Brazil trip #5

So in the end there was nothing to fear about today (Sunday), because we said our goodbyes last night instead.

After a stunning day of hiking and swimming in 3 waterfalls and 4 water holes, and stressfully making dinner (gazpacho, Brazilian chicken), we went to dance forró in a bar. Why oh why did I decide to have a caipirinha with cachaca? (I blame my friend A) 

I started welling up as the singer/accordeonist was asking "meu baião... coração... arranca essa dor do meu peito pra eu não chorar" - I didn't get all the words but I understood the words for pain, chest and not crying. (Can you see where this is going?)

So in the end I just had to cut it short ("Shall we go, M? I am tired") even if  I didn't want to say goodbye.

So in the end I actually don't look down to hide my tears, I look up into the sky, as though gasping for air, my throat is too tight and my chest feels too heavy. I sob in V's neck, I cry on G's shoulder, J, A and T join them to make a circle around me and jump and sing and jump and flood me with their joy for living.

Here's to you, beautiful ones!

Brazil trip #4

This morning Thamires, sat in the back of the VW Gol we had rented for the day to go around this gorgeous national park, told me how much she enjoyed reading my posts about the trip. "Even if I'm there anyway. They are so nice! They take you there!" (I paraphrase).

At the end of the day, as we hike down from the top of the Moro de Inacio peak (it takes 10 mins + Valmir did it in flipflops - we are not that adventurous), giddy with the breathtaking views we just enjoyed, and after having been to a waterfall deep in a canyon and swam in a lovely river creek, she says "Ben I can't wait to read your latest chronicle tonight!".

"Oh I don't know if I can write about today, there is too much to say", I reply, thinking that it would be hard to describe how beautiful the landscapes are here, how magical it is to see hundreds of butterflies flying across the dirt road and by the water, and all the flowers, insects, birds all around.

But also I thought I couldn't write because I am feeling quite anxious: on Sunday we say goodbye to our merry gang of friends, old (the ones we came to see on this trip to Brazil) and new (the ones we made during the recent intense days), and it breaks my heart already. 

I am dreading it so much. You know that sensation before hugging someone you don't want to part from... I tend to sort of clear my throat while looking down on the floor (as if the courage to face the moments ahead could be found on the floor!). Also I tend to hope the other person will cry too, and first, so I can say it is their fault I am crying now. Well it was always their fault, but not in that way.

Brazil trip #3

It's 6pm and the beach hut we stop at to have dinner has actually closed its kitchen. (Cause it's a Wednesday night I guess?) But the live band is still playing, and the small crowd of people is loving it so we decide to hang about. At first we watch from the side, then we start swaying our hips, then we get into the groove. Behind us the beach is long, sandy with waves perfect for the handful of surfers still in the water. We face towards many tall palm trees: at their root the sky is that light orange (the color of the fruit juice Valmir made us try yesterday - fruit name unremembed, am pretty sure it ends with a 'va' sound?), at their top the sky is the purple/dark blue of the coming night. People are dancing all around us. A little girl (7 years old or so, big afro with a bright yellow ribbon) makes a choreography (right arm round on 1 beat/left arm round on the other/both arms together slowly on 2 beats) and everyone starts copying her. 

Are we on the set for an advert for Havaianas, Coca-Cola, or the Partido de Trabalhadores?

Brazil trip #2

So Sunday started scarily with that mugging (see previous post), but it also ended magically - with a visit to our friend Victor's grandma. 

Raised to be a lady, she was a natural hostess. She chatted and chatted and chatted (and Michael and I just nodded, understanding 1 word in 5...), asked questions and told us about her love for the local football team (she has written a story whose main character is the club's mascot, a canary bird).

 She also told us she loved playing the piano ('adoro tocar o piano!' - this I understood clearly), and then invited us to listen to her. I was a little late in the parlour, as I was admiring the several paintings she had made and were on display in the living room (some were naive collages, others on plates, many bouquets of flowers, and fishes on glass). And then I heard she had started to play. The instrument was really out of tune, but wow she could play it! 

What made it even more magical is the coincidence that she played Autumn Leaves (one of Michael's favourite songs), and then went into playing a fado she had composed herself for her parents (her dad was Portuguese, from Madeira). And I love fado! What were the chances? This holiday is an emotional overload.

Brazil trip #1

Things I said I would do if I ever got mugged (you know, the things one says while watching a stressful movie scene): 1. Scream loudly "I am being mugged!". 2. Scream loudlly "Police!" 3. Kick him in the balls. 4. Punch him in the face while holding my set of keys. 5. Throw what he is after across the street. 

Things I did not do when I got mugged by a crackhead with a very large knife: all of the above. In the typical post-trauma, guilt-trip way of thinking of my family, I would spend lots of time thinking about what I could have done: kick his knee? pretend to fall so he would stop holding my tee-shirt so tightly? Only later did it cross my mind that maybe he had another weapon, actually, so what I did do was the only right answer.

Things I did do when I got mugged: 1. Said "oh not my phone there are all my holidays photos in it!! Por favor!!" (our friend got his phone taken from him at Carnaval the night before so at this rate we aint gonna have many photos of the event to show you!). hahaha I tried to plead a poor crackhead for the mercy of my first-world digital memories! hahaha 2. I refused to take it out of my pocket, but then he started counting "one.... two...". 

Which made me realise I was, actually, one second away from disaster. (If not the big one, at least something very painful!). I thought about my partner, helplessly watching from the side, about my family, about our Brazilian friends. I gave him my phone and the little bit of money I had in my porta-dollar.

In the picturesque cobbled streets of this old Salvador neighbourhood, as the sunrise bathed the crumbling, colourful houses and the stray cats slowly walked in the middle of the deserted road, the likelihood of disaster striking was actually higher than I thought.

Getting out of bed this morning

I've noticed that in the morning I need to think of something to get me out of the warmth under my duvet. I don't get out of bed for the sheer joy of living my life. I need something concrete, and often immediate.

Today though, what got me out of bed was not the thought of having a latte at Gail's Bakery on the way to work (so silky), the urge to look at overnight sales for my shows currently running in town (I know, it's sad), the anticipation of the post-gym adrenaline rush (I know, it's sad) or my plan to break my work day with lunch out of the office with a friend.

Today what made me jump out of bed and still feel its warmth as I was getting ready was the realisation that in one month I will be in Brazil! And this gave me enough strength to face the day ahead. B-A-H-I-A!

Thank you 2015!

A photo posted by b (@benjaminlalala) on Dec 26, 2015 at 9:56am PST

For ringing you in with an old friend, for Laos, for Rome, for Valmir & Victor, for Charlotte's baccalaureat, for vintage Michael joy, for Sintra, for getting to know Andy & Jon & Dan better, for long-awaited and surprise babies, for the fitness push, for Bristol, for the summer cycle rides, for the validation from people i shouldnt realy care about, for that meal at Bao with Nicolas, for learning to draw a little bit with my little neighbours, for Faustine's blue eyes, for singing with friends and family, for stolen kisses on empty sidewalks late at night, for Netflix, for the freedom from a certain type of worries, and for work and life plans that make me look forward to 2016!

A day as only London can throw them

8-8.45: gym. aaaaah push it.
9.30-10.30: meeting in Facebook's offices (career highlight, but I wouldn't work there because they have this frozen yoghurt station which I would basically empty every day).
12-12.30: quick run through the Ai Weiwei exhibition at the Royal Academy, with noticeably diverse and engaged crowds. Wanted to linger more.
12.30-15.30: work lunch where I met interesting people who live in a different sphere of life (one where people pay £20,000 a year of school fees, one where they can be a Masterchef finalist - it was Emma, for those who watched it)
16-19.30: work
20.30-22.00: recording of my future single "Let One Go", a version of Let It Go that is about a different kind of wind (written by Michael), ahead of a drag cabaret next week.
22.00:00.00: baking of cardamom biscotti for office bake off tomorrow.
22.45: snarky comment from partner seeing me type, delete, shape, re-shape this post, but I can only shrug my shoulder because this was a day as only London, that city of opportunities, could throw them and I feel grateful.

Why Sintra (Portugal) is worth more than a day trip

I was lucky enough to spend a week in the pretty town and landscape of Sintra, a 35-40 min train journey west of Lisbon. (price: 2.15 euros each way! so cheap). Many tourists rock up for a day tour and leave, and I even got raised eyebrows from locals when I told them we were here for longer. "You are here until Friday!!??" said the woman behind the counter at the panaderia opposite the main square with incredulity. Even our super nice air bnb host, Daniel, had emailed us after we made our booking to check we indeed wanted to stay this long: "you'll have done Sintra in 2-3 days max".

Well actually, I wish I'd stayed longer! Here's why - with a few pics by me and the friends I was with.

The place has about 7 palaces to visit, with large gardens/estates (we only did 3). As a playground to the Portuguese aristocracy from the 1500s onwards, it's got gothic gardens (a tower carved inside the rock at Quinta da Regaleira), lots of exotic plants (some Sequoia redwoods can be found in the Palacio da Pena ground), stunningly designed rooms (the blazons room with its ceiling painted with the emblems of the Portuguese royal family and many others, at Sintra Palace) and more. The Moorish Castle is from even earlier. I found it hard to edit down my pics for instagram!

shape over shape over colour over shape over colour #sintra palace #yellow #blue #arabic architecture

A photo posted by b (@studioincovent) on Jun 23, 2015 at 9:41am PDT

On my grandmother

10 years on, here is what I never want to forget about her:

- her cooking. Hearty, simple, epitomised in her ‘salmis de palombe’ (a stew of wild doves my granddad would have hunted) and her pasta with cheese gratin (so crusty on the top, so cheesy in the middle. I have never managed to replicate it)
- the blue/purple/flowery colour of the blouses/aprons she would always wear over her clothes. Always useful for cooking, gardening etc
- her habit of wearing lots of layers of clothes and cranking up the heating. Gosh we were always so hot in her house in winter!
- the self-deprecating way she always said she just knew nothing: ‘enfin tu sais moi je n’y connais rien!’
- her evening TV ritual: 6.30pm = quiz show ‘Questions pour un Champion’. That show is still running and everytime I hear the jingle, I am transported back into my grandparents’ front room again.

What made me cry during the final song of this concert?

Was it its minor key?

Was it its story of childhood memories, powerlessness, and sad resignation?

Was it because it came after two other sad songs - one written for a best friend who 'lost her battle with depression' ('you are a goldmine, you are a prize for winning!'), the other based on the last words of a coal minor, trapped underground and slowly losing air ('oh, how i love you Mary...')?

Was it because the earlier folk harmonies had taken me back to that summer we went mountaineering with dad, aged 14, and, deep in the Pyrenees valleys where the car radio wouldn't catch any signal, the only tape we had to hand was his bluegrass mixtape? (Mr Sandmaaaaan bring me your dreaaaammm)

Cheesy dance films I have to see this year

Did the 1980s turn out to be the best decade for dance in films? Sure, Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire were queen and king of the box office back in the 1930s, performing in classics like Top Hat, Shall We Dance and Swing Time, but for sheer range of movies that were about dance and the people who lived for it, it seems to me like the 80s can't be beaten.

As a kid in countryside France with two older sisters, Flashdance and Dirty Dancing were watched pretty much on loop on the family 'magnetoscope' (VCR), and I have a blurry memory of a bit of Chorus Line too. With their stories of dancing against all odds and living for one's passion, they resonated within our young hearts. And of course the soundtracks just made us want to dance ourselves!

The other day, I stumbled upon the trailer for White Nights, a 1985 drama starring Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gregory Hines. It looked completely over the top: the Soviet dancer defecting to the US, his capture in Siberia after an emergency landing while on a plane journey to Tokyo, his run-ins with a US tap dancer who himself had defected to the USSR, and their ultimate plan of escape. Cold War movie meets ballet and tap - that just sounds too ludicrous not to be enjoyed (no matter how damning the reviews)! Plus it includes Lionel Ritchie's Say You, Say Me in the soundtrack. And also stars Helen Mirren and Isabella Rossellini!

After I shared it with an ironic comment on Facebook, my sister commented: 'I love that film! We used to watch it every Sunday! This scene stills make me cry, like Helen Mirren in it'. I don't remember it at all, but White Nights is definitely on my list of films to watch this year, especially as it includes choreography by Twyla Tharp (see previous link) and bits from Le Jeune Homme et la Mort by Roland Petit.

After a bit of digging, I've come across a few more 1970s and 1980s dance films I just have to see asap. Clearly the success of Fame, Flashdance and Staying Alive got the Hollywood machine excited, a little too excited even as cheese got piled on top of even more cheese.

On 'New Year, New You'

Walking along the Regent's Canal on a crisp January morning, on our way to the gym.
'Notice all the runners today, with their new tops and flashy accessories...' I say.
'It's January' he replies 'oh dear look at that one blobbing along...'
'Come on' I say with mild exasperation (My new year hope is to be less negative and critical of others), 'it's commendable! Give them credit, at least they are making an effort. Maybe they are training for the marathon, for all we know!'
'No - I'll only applaud them in March, assuming they haven't given up...'
'Some people don't even try!'
'Yes and you know who they are? They are the happy ones.'

Laos trip stocktake

Lost in Laos

- bright blue Uniqlo hooded fleece jacket (probably in some Luang Prabang restaurant I had to run out of to catch a bus)
- digital camera (dropped in a stream at Kuang Si waterfalls)
- SD memory card with photos (I put it in my jeans pocket after the camera went under water, and I reckon it fell off the pocket when I got into my swimming trunk to swim in the freezing, turquoise water)
- travel pillow (in a cafe in Pakse)
- hiking boots (not technically lost, but had to abandon them after they did not survive the exploration of stunning caves, developing several holes in their sole)
- my breath, on several occasions
- 3 kilos (we cycled a fair bit and it was hot)


Nearly lost in Laos

On a sad anniversary

Dear Brigitte. On this sad anniversary (five years already, it really hits me), I want to free myself of some memories that return to haunt me way too often. If I remembered them once a year (like today, for example, which would make sense) it would be fine, but they return more often and I do not understand why. So here they are.

The joy of seeing that my partner calls me at work, transformed into immense shock.
Crying over my desk, crying bent in half on my chair, the pain is so intense I cannot stop myself.
Quickly, quickly running to get home - I manage to stop myself from crying on the tube (it must be the weight of strangers' gazes, you see I am becoming so British dis donc.)
My mother in tears hugging her granddaughter.
My brother who does not want to come and see you behind that curtain, and my uncle who puts his arm over his shoulder and says 'come, come, you have to say good bye'.
Your sister, heartbroken, crying, turning her face away from you, holding this big wardrobe, as though she is holding for dear life (dear life... hum)
My cousins singing along softly to Renaud's Mistral Gagnant ('il faut aimer la vie, l'aimer meme si le temps est assassin et emporte avec lui le rire des enfants, et les mistrals gagnants')
And the tears, the cries, the howling, the weeping.
And the kids playing Playstation in the living room because life continues right? Yes it continues.

Today I will feel a bit lighter, more joyful. You understand it I hope? We miss you.

On a Saturday night

Decide to go out because you want to see your friends. Think that you've had a great day so far and maybe you are pushing your luck to try and extend this feeling into the night: staying home, eating rhubarb fool while watching some edgy crime drama would comfortably do it anyway. Anxiously wonder if you might miss out on something whatever decision you make. Go out. Your friends leave early in the end, not in the mood for the crowd and the commercial music served by the DJ. Decide to feel your fear of being in a club alone and stay anyway. Dance alone. Dance with people. Dance some more. Listen to a drunk female dental nurse compliment you about your smile and advise you to always floss. Tell her you learnt that lesson the hard way, thank you. Make a note in your mind of a great remix of some song you don't know, that you will easily find on the internet the morning after (yikes, you won't be able to proudly tell people you don't know any Taylor Swift songs anymore!). Cycle back home, feeling teary. Maybe you are just tired. You experienced some good times, yet they seem diminished in your memory because you did not have anyone to share them with. Talk to the love of your life about it all. Sleep peacefully.