'Dance Bars' Dubai

There is a certain special friend of mine S who, for the last year or so has been bitten hard by the Bollywood bug. On any night out, as long as he gets his chicken tandoori and gets to listen to some bollywood hits where he can imagine himself doing some Sharukh Khan moves - he is rocking. And for some reason, I always seem to forget about this before we decide to go out - [perhaps I'm hoping the bug has worn out] leaving me inappropriately dressed for the night to come.

Anyway. I go pick him up from the Fairmont Hotel - home to some of the best bars in Dubai. 'Come to the Cigar Bar,' he says. YAAAAYYY - 'We are chilling here tonight!', I think.

Yeah right, the next thing I know we are heading out in hunt for some Bollywood hotspots. A few phone calls to those on the underground Bollywood scene and we have 3 places to visit.

Place number 1 - Mehfil: Located in a 2-star hotel in a dodgy area over the bridge, we enter this nightclub/bar which is almost pitch dark, the only lights being dark red ones. Once our eyes got accustomed to the darkness, we notice there was nobody in the bar - however all the tables were reserved. Indian temple music - bhajans - were playing in the background and a group of young Indian girls, dressed in everything from an Indian sari to a short skirt with heavy make-up, were sitting on the stage in the club. 'What's happening here tonight?' we ask. 'Madam one show - vill estart now only in fiwe minats', says the dude with a full-on Indian accent.

Show? Girls? Temple Music? we decided to stay. Happens that the girls - known as dance girls of dance bars in India - were praying and asking for God's blessings before they begin strutting their stuff.

About 10 minutes later, the ritualistic music changed to a 'boom boom boom boom' bollywood song and one by one, the girls began coming to the front and doing what I would call some mixed form of bollywood movie dancing and pole dancing.

It wasn't sexy. It wasn't professional. The girls were not pretty. But the men - who started flowing in within half-an-hour were loving it. I felt quite sorry for the girls.

I was the only non-dancer girl in the whole club. Perhaps that's why the girls kept looking and and flashing wide smiles at me. Surely those were meant for the men, what were they thinking I would do? were they trying to lure me in? were they trying to tell me 'look what fun we are having here while you are sitting there'! or just happy to see a girl in the audience for a change - I really don't know.

What was more interesting to see was the sort of people that visit these bars. Mostly Indian, one Arab in his kandoora with his three sidekicks. All men. Age-group 25-60. Seemingly lower-middle class, probably sadly employed in some depressing job in Dubai, probably all living in Karama [a relatively cheaper, mini-India area in Dubai] Definitly all married. Definitly all sexually frustrated. Definitly all regulars.

We ordered food, had a few beers, the girls weren't very pleasant to watch, we left.

We ruled out spending more time in such bars. Landed up in my Columbian salsa hole. What a relief.

These are the sort of clubs in Dubai you will never hear about outside the city. As much as it was an experience of a kind, I would never go there on my own and was most comfortable only because I was with friends. I would never go there again.

Sangria disaster

Yesterday my family had the whole building over for dinner. About 35 people. [Yes, parents always wait for children to be home to do these sort of things!]

I offered to make Sangria [well, my version of Sangria]. It is a great drink, easy to serve and always does well.

I make two large bowls of the drink. The colour was deep maroon, the fruit was fresh and the alcohol had just the right kick. My dad was really excited to serve it.

'May I offer you a glass of Sangria - this Spanish drink that my daughter has made for today?' says my dad to the first set of guests that arrive.

Here I need to mention the fact that they were all Indian couples, with children.

A blank stare with 'what is it exactly?' were a majority of the replies. My dad has the gift of the gab, so quite effortlessly he managed to thrust a glass to everyone who wanted an alcoholic beverage.

Once they had the glass in their hand - the whole taking-a-sip-from-your-glass equation took new meaning.

First they look at it quizically. Something red with bits in it. Then they smell it. They they realise it has fruit in it and wonder - is this a drink or desert?

They can't throw it, nor leave it on the table and ask my dad the bar tender for another drink, so they forcefully take a sip with an expression that says 'what's this fruity pink thing I'm drinking on a Friday night, where's the whisky!?'

You'd think they'd atleast finish the meagre glass full that they were given but leaving it on the table for an extended period of time seemed like the better option. However, some of them actually did drink it all; infact they drank the glass so quickly that all the fruit remained in the glass and then they asked for forks to eat the fruit (!). And nobody asked for a refill.

What a disaster!

Arrested in Germany

I was arrested at Munich International Airport [on my way back to Dubai] for not having the right documentation to land in Germany. It was just like the movies.

Innocent morena enters airport. Two large and burly and very German men approach her, flash their ID and ask her where she's coming from and to show them her passport.

'Sorry but you do not have the right documentation to be here, and you are under arrest for being an illegal trespasser.' What?

Yup. See I had a visa issued by Spain - not by Schengen; but Spain is Schengen right? Nope, not with the visa I had. I knew I couldn't travel outside Spain, but since I was only in transit - I didn't think it would be a problem. Lesson learnt - even if you are 100 % sure, check again!

Sat in German police headquarters at the airport for about an hour. Totally confused and a bit scared to be between armed men, somehow I had a nerve to bombard them with questions.

I was surprised at how nice they were to me. There was nothing Hitler about them, answered all my questions in monosyllables, but answered them nonetheless. Perhaps it was because I was a girl.

Then they brought out a filled Criminal Record – with my name and my charges spelled out under some act of Germany’s penal code.

Then those papers were sent to a public prosecuter who must have been in a good mood because he told the guys to stamp my passport and let me go.

Phew. I really enjoyed my jug of German beer after that.

Good Morning?

I woke up yesterday in my bedroom with a feeling that I had awaken from a beautiful dream. Like I never left my bed in the first place and 6 months in Spain were a figment of my imagination. Thank goodness for the pictures and thanks to the guys who emailed me. I needed the proof.

Went to have a drink with my best friend yesterday, to the same places we have been frequenting for over 4 years. Had the same drink, bumped into the same people. Again needed a pinch to realise that I had been away. Somethings don't change. They never will.

Malls still stink of expensive perfumes, the newspapers still write the same rubbish with aim to continue brainwashing all readers how hot and happening Dubai is. The drivers on the roads are still assholes, the prices are still going up, new clubs are still opening. The air is still too polluted to breathe in, the weather is still to hot to be outside. Arabs are still complaining about the Malbaris, the English are still dating the Filipinos. Everyone is still working their ass off. Everyone still wants to be a millionaire.

Dubai as a city is the contrary though. It's a place that will only stop changing when white elephants conquer the world.

Buildings seem to have popped up from nowhere. One of the 3 bridges has disappeared - or perhaps I just got lost amidst all the mierda construction happening around. Lanes have been added, cars on the road have trippled, new roundabouts, more Starbuckses, more people in malls, more malls, no parking. The parking lot outside my house has turned into a mosque; I hope I'm out of Dubai before it opens.

I thought I'd feel all nostalgic, warm and tingly to be back seeing family and friends. Sure it is great to see people you care about but I can't help feeling that I have left a large part of me behind.

The familiarity and sense of belonging I felt in Spain within living there for 6 months, I have never felt having lived in Dubai 8 years. Que fuerte!

Anyways. I'm here for a month, then I go to India for a bit. Hope to be back in Spain early next year.

Have books to read, went and got some Spanish language CD's today. Will spend this month trying to get published and keeping up with the Spanish. Vamos a ver.

Random last day in Valencia

Today was my last full day in Valencia. The sun was shining, a light yet chilly breeze in the air.
A few random yet ultra cool things that happened today:

- 8am phone call from long-time close friend, wondering where I was.

- Gave my email address to the 55 year old crepe guy down the street. He said he'd like to write to me and send me some photos one day when he buys his own camera.

- Went into the main Cathedral [shamefully] for the first time, attended mass - and ate the 'body of Cristo'. [curiosity kills the cat?]

- Ate a pure vegetarian meal that was actually pretty good.

- Spent 10 hours chatting with a guy I met 2 days ago. [ Can you believe it?]

-My flatmates cooked me dinner [my last dinner] that was devoured by our beloved dog Franky. I had a kebab.

- My flatmates also took the day off tomorrow to drop me to the airport!

- I witnessed a real cry session [Yes in sadness of my departure!] by people I have spoken to twice in my life. [I've got my dams ready for my flatmates]

- My wisdom teeth have begun growing out again. It's a sign. [?]

-My bag weighs 19kilos! I had brought 30.

Still don't feel like I'm flying yet.

Spain: Photos

Never posted any photos but here are some that sum up my stay here. They are all disorganised, but, oh well.

Knot in my stomach

I cannot believe I am leaving Spain in 3 days. 3 DAYS. I feel like I came here yesterday. Time flies so fast it scares me sometimes.

The weekend was my last weekend dancing. Wanted to say goodbye to the people I have been dancing with for the last 6 months, 3 times a week. Tried to, but since I had never spoken to any of them before [don't even know their names yet], felt weird and pointless. Besides, when I return to Spain - I will go dancing in Valencia again.

Had a little pizza and beer party at home over the weekend. Got lots of [big] books in Spanish as presents. Lovely, but I wonder how I'm going to take back all of them. Said goodbye to everyone with an earnest will to see them again.

Yesterday was my first day in 6 months with without school. I was done with school anyway. 494 hours of Spanish is a lot. I hope to be in touch with a few of my teachers.

It's amazing the friendships I have made here in 6 months. Don't know if I made such friends in Dubai over 6 years! I have offers to come back and bunk with them when I need to, offers to leave stuff at their homes if I need to, numbers of their friends in Madrid for when I come back. It's so nice when help is offered genuinely.

When I left Dubai, I was ready to leave. Left excited and relieved to be out of there. Now it's time to close this Valencia chapter and I have a big knot in my stomach.

Can't get myself to pack. Don't have an appetite. On the contrary, I'm quite stoic about it all. I don't think it has sunk in yet.

Will be shuttling between Dubai and India in November and December. If all goes as planned, I should be on a plane to Madrid sometime in January to begin another chapter in my life.

*sigh*

494 horas

Llevo casi 6 meses en España con 494 horas de clases de español. ¿Que fuerte verdad? En una semana estará en Dubai para dos meses [por lo menos] y tengo miedo que voy a olvidar todo que he aprendido.

Es que ahora estoy en este punto de aprender una lengua, que es muy vulnerable. Tengo más o menos todo…o bueno, mucho, lengua en mi cabeza, pero aun no ha asimilado totalmente. Si tuviera 1-2 meses más, pienso que hubiera ido en un lugar que es imposible olvidarla. Que pena que no tengo este meses. Pero bueno…

Claro que estoy planeando cosas a hacer para que no olvide mis invertidas 494 horas de español. He comprado para leer: Memoria de mis putas tristes – Gabriel Garcia Marquez; Once Minutos – Paolo Coelho [que he leído en ingles]; y El adios de los nuestros – Javier Menéndez Flores [no tengo ni puta idea que es este, pero es un regalo que dice es facilísimo a leer]. Voy a leer todos en dos meses.

Tambien, conozco un Cubano y un Colombiano en Dubai, voy a pedirlos que hablen en español conmigo. Intentaré hacer un intercambio o algo asi. [Pero primero tengo que reanimar nuestra amistad] Y hay un grupo de tias Latinas en Dubai. Quedan a menuda para tomar algo y charlar. Voy a apuntarme en este grupo.

YYYYYY…escribiré aquí en español a veces a molestar todo.

*suspirar*

Si olvidaré este lengua, voy a llorar!

Should I have?

Yesterday as I was leaving my local videoclub, a guy approached me [yes in the middle of the road] and said "Perdona, you are beautiful, can I take you for a coffee sometime?"

Totally put on the spot, I said that I only had a week left and that I'm not sure I have time.

To which he said "you have the most beautiful eyes I have seen, what about tomorrow? day after? you pick a time and place."

My reflexes were totally saying no, so he gave me his name and telephone number and told me to think about it and call him if I want to.

A bit flustered, and flattered - I walked home. Now this has happened to me before, but the reason I am writing this post this time, is because this dude was actually quite handsome. His name was Roberto: bright blue eyes, tanned, long hair in a pony tail, clean teeth, jeans and a dark blue T-shirt.

Not hot-that-you-want-to-jump-on-him types, but charming in his own way. And I began to think - how many times does a good-looking man approach you -pleasantly enough, says something nice and asks for a bit of your time.

Yes my first thought was - what kind of decent guy stops you on the street and asks you out? But then I thought, what's the difference if he was on the street or in a bar? or in a shop or at work? How else do you meet guys? There is no right-or-wrong way.

So why didn't I want to go? Perhaps it's a bit desperate? but then again it isn't much different from a blind date or an exchange of telephone numbers in a night-club. Does it matter that he approached me on the street?

How much do you need to know a guy before going on a date? when I start to get to know guys, we become friends; friends that you don't want to date because they have entered the too-much-of-a friend zone.

Guess it all boils down to what you want. There haven't been many times that it has been crystal clear that I want to be with someone. However, irrespective- it's always been disastrous. My luck with men stinks. Perhaps that's why I have my guards up too high.

Hmmm.

I can't call him anymore as my memory has failed to remember his number. But if I did, perhaps I would have. But then again, he was Italian. Guess I can imagine what he really wanted. But then again, wouldn't you be upset if he didn't?

We women are complicated.

IHT-Letter to the Editor

The first time I wrote to an Editor (as me and not as Ford Motor Company), and it got published! All of it! [Blogging and PR]

Armpit Dinner

"I'm going to buy things to munch on, but bring what you want to eat," said the birthday boy pre-party.

"Ok so I will bring 4-5 tortillas de patatas," I reply.

"No no, I am buying those and drinks, and snacks - just bring what you would like to eat for dinner, for yourself."

Was totally lost. What do I bring? A bocadillo? or kebab? but how do you share that? are we meant to share the food we bring? is it a potluck? felt stupid to ask, so initially I thought I'd take a bocadillo, but then thought it would be embarrassing if we were meant to put our food in the middle to share. Didn't have time to prepare anything for 20 people, so I decided to eat a bit at home and not take anything.

I was the only one without my food. [Which was fine because there was more than enough food to pick on]. Everyone had their non-sharable sandwiches. Aparantly this sort of dinner is called 'cenar de sobaquillo' - which translates to 'dinner of armpits'' because it's like carrying your bocatillo under your armpit for dinner; like bringing a folder to a meeting. Que raro verdad?

Reminded me of the 'dabba parties' we used to have in school as children.

Estoy de bajón

Hoy estoy poco de bajón, para nada. Vaga y muy neutral. Quería hacer muchas cosas pero estuve enfrente de ordenador todo el día, leyendo basura de todo el mundo. No hacia nada de importancia. Pero bueno.

Cuando tomas una pausa de tu vida, como yo, con 6 meses en España; 99% estas maravillosas. Sabes todo, sabes que vas hacer, que quieres de tu vida, donde quiere vivir, y todos las cosas te da alegría profunda. Pero a veces, levantas con un dolor en tu cabeza, y piensas – ¿que estoy haciendo? ¿donde es mi trabajo? que no puedes vivir así para siempre.

Luego piensas, vale, vamos a ver, que puedo hacer: relaciones publicas, escribir, hablar español, bailar. Entonces piensas, que puedes hacer bien – ¿para qué gente te pagará? Nada.
Porque puedes hacer todo, pero nada bien.

Ya lo se, mis objetivos de futuro se solucionará mis preocupaciones. Ya lo se, mañana levantaré y todo estará bien. Pero hoy no veo luz en el fin de túnel.

No estoy triste. No estoy deprimida. Un poco solo, con nadie para hablar basura que necesitas hablar a veces.

Pero quería escribir un poco. No era mi intención escribir en español, pero venga – aquí tienes.

Voy a llamar mi padre.

No quiero saber si hay un millón errores en este artículo.

Dinner at Nacho's

Went to a friends house last night for a wonderful Spanish dinner of pizza, beer and flan. Yes it was Spanish because the pizza had tuna, jamon serrano and alioli, and was from the one-and-only Telepizza; the beer was Cruzcampo, and the flan was home made with 'pan de Calatrava' [ I still have no clue what that is].

Topics talked about yesterday were very enlightening to say the least: how in Valencia you get paid Euro50 for donating sperm but you don't get a room nor Play Boy - you need to use the bathroom [ FYI, women get paid Euro700 for donating their eggs]; how tonic water comes from India (?), how Wikipedia is the best invented encyclopedia and how apparently in India, there are boats in the ocean that have programmers and call-centres operating from there so that they do not have to bide by any laws. Really?

Anyway, amongst us there was a particularly interesting Mexicana who swims oceans for a living, and had just finished swimming the Strait of Gibraltar. How cool!

She swims in the ocean because there is a kick swimming in unknown natural territory, and the danger is something that stimulates her. If her left arm is tired and in pain, she knows how to block the pain with her mind and continue. Every morning from 7am-12noon she is training, then she goes to university as she is a law student. She is 31.

A very likable person, down to earth, bubbly but with a pleasant tone of maturity. However, for the kind of swimmer she is, [with all due respect], she is fat!

Ok not fat fat, but big - plump perhaps is a better word. How can that be? After 5 hours of training everyday? isn't swimming supposed to be the best form of exercise as it claims to use every muscle of your body? It is supposed to build muscle and increase your metabolism, leaving you lean, firm and fit.

No doubt she must be fit, but lean and firm are adjectives you wouldn't even think of when you saw her. I found this very bizarre and if I had had a wee bit more to drink, I would have asked her why she doesn't look like Janet Evans.

Another thing I enjoy is the way people react when you say you live in Dubai. 'What? Really? Woooowwwwwww'! is what I get most of the time. Perfect city, artificial islands in the sea, good money no tax, strange/stunning architecture, skiing in the desert, beach...Abha what else do you want? they ask me. DTCM - well done. Your whole multi-million dollar marketing plan seems to be shaking ground.

This is when comes the question: so why do you not want to live there? I could never answer this question without gabbing on about things like no culture, no personality, no soul, no freedom, artificial etc etc - never seemed a very convincing reply to most the people I chat to. But yesterday, all I said was that 'it's pijo'. This word which you could translate literally as something ''pretentious or overprivileged", immediatley made sense to everyone and the discussion was over and done with. See people pijo are hated tremendously in Spain. They symbolise everything that goes wrong with having too much money. And that is precisely the problem with Dubai.

Someone please come and hit me over the head if something happens and I decide to live in Dubai again.

Strange day. Strange post.

Had a very strange evening a few days ago. Haven't spoken about it to anyone, and am not going to blog it for the sensitivity of it. But need an outlet, so will attempt to relay this evening without using the 6 essential elements to any story: Why, What, How, Who, When, Where.
[this is going to be interesting]

How many times have you done something you didn't want to do, with someone you never would do in your conscious mind, at an hour you would rarely be up and exposed on the street. How many times have you allowed your vulnerability and trust get the better of you. How many times have you woken up with a nightmare of what happened feeling disgusted and nauseous. One minute you tell yourself - 'What were you thinking!' and the next you brush the thoughts aside and pretend it's no big deal, people do worse things, and blame it on being human and alcohol.

What you did is not dangerous or abusive; nor is it out-of-the-blue fucked-up. You are not sure how you are missing a few items, but they are replaceable. You are fine, people involved are fine, people not involved are fine. Had it happened 10-years ago, I would have laughed it off. But at my age, it just goes against everything you think you stand for. Adjectives such as responsible, respectable, dignity and self control explode in your face. You are stoic, slightly bitter, and want to erase every millisecond of that day. You question what on earth is going on with yourself.

No I didn't hurt anyone. No I wasn't hurt. No I didn't take drugs. It was a stupid, stupid day of which I hope nothing will repeat ever. Perhaps my feelings are just exaggerated because I have had time to let them fester. Guess there are better things to worry about.

*Sigh*

I feel better now. I think.

Valencia Salsa Congress 2006

Wow. What a super 3 days, (I should say nights) of dancing. I didn't do the day workshops at the congress this time, chose just to watch the shows and dance all night instead. Hmmm...guess I didn't do justice to my one-and-only hobby that I am passionate about. But you know what, unless you have a decent partner (confirmed!) to dance the workshops with, it's practically useless. There is nothing worse than getting stuck with some dude for an hour who cannot dance to save his life (but thinks he his Mr. Hotshot), it is torturous. Although the list of instructors was fantastic, I didn't want to take that chance. Besides, I think if you make it a point to try and catch the good dancers to dance during the fiesta, in that 5 minutes of dancing with them, you could learn way more than in a an hour long choreographed workshop. Anyway, the minute the workshop is over, you don't remember anything you've learnt; well I don't anyway!

Performances were incredible as usual. Swing Guys (Italy), Latin Motion (Australia), Nuno and Vanda (Portugal) and Adrian/Anita were performances that just rocked the stage.

And, the crowd gave a standing ovation to Valencianos Pady and Nico; Nico (she) is 80.
She came on stage with her line 'Salsa no tiene edad!' (Salsa has no age); and then was tossed up in the air, pulled through the legs and lead into a triple spin. INCREDIBLE. Unfortunatley I have no pictures.

I am disappointed with myself for not dancing with the instructors this time. Normally, I'm the first one to take a large slurp of my rum-and-coke and have the courage to ask one of the world-champion-instructors to dance. My experiences have been extreme: either highly encouraging, or disastrous. When they encourage your dancing, happiness knows no bounds, you are in the clouds for the next 2 days atleast. But when you don't manage to dance well with these hot-shots, your confidence hits a tremendous low.

One of the teachers (Adrian - definitly one of the hottest instructors I know of) actually asked ME to dance, night 1 of the Congress. We were in a hall where the AC was on full-blow, it was freezing and when I was dancing with him, I kept wanting to sneeze! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?
So obviously I was so unfocused, couldn't dance with him at all; his 2-minute long free-style said it all. Was awful.

Anyhow I promised myself that I would catch him over the next few days to dance again. But I don't know why, I just didn't. Perhaps I was afraid of letting him (and myself) down again, and rather not dance, than dance badly and feel like I can't dance the rest of the night. It's like you rather dance with people you know dance well with, just to keep your spirits up.

No. Bad excuse. I should have danced with him. Mierda. Isn't it amazing how your conscience plays games with you when you don't want it to! *sigh*

Spot the latest on the hippy market

Public Relations and Blogging

Caught an article published recently in IHT on public relations and blogging. With the investment by PR firms like Edelman in monitoring the blogosphere, and then making fake blogs - varied thoughts come to mind about blogger transparency and the ability or inability of successful PR activities directed towards bloggers.

Monitoring the blogosphere is one thing, but PR companies would have to tip-toe very discreetly around the blogosphere if they decide to use it for positive ´messaging´ purposes (as they call it).

Bloggers that write, review, rant and rave about brands or products do so because they want to. It will be interesting to see how PR manages to influence bloggers or use blogging as a marketing tool because it would go against what bloggers stand for: real, untainted opinion. Besides, the intelligence levels of bloggers (and their readers) must not be undermined, surely they will see through subtle PR tactics.

Having said that, will PR companies start having a blogger-list on their media lists? will they end up paying/bribing influential bloggers to blog for them? Will these bloggers compromise the integrity and credibility of their blogs for a few bucks or a nice lunch? Will their readers buy that?

We read blogs because of their genuinity - they are real voices of ordinary people. In contrast, blogs on big-brand websites have no credibility, they are advertorials and I doubt they get a decent hit rate.

I think the blogosphere will loose its charm and purpose of ´raw communication´ if it gets tapped successfully by manipulative marketing personnel. Fellow bloggers, let´s not let that happen.

Steve McCurry Exhibition Valencia

Steve McCurry's fame drew me to an exhibition (just down the road from home!) of his photos from South Asia, set up as part of the International Journalism Congress that begins here tomorrow.

The photos covered mainly India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Afganistan, Yemen, Tibet and Nepal. They were spell-binding. Each of his photos told a story vividly that you could sense the minute you saw it. His use of colour and light is very easy to appreciate as he brings out the best of everything in it's natural surroundings - be it a wall, a tree, a person, or an animal.

Having said that, something that confused me about what I felt of his art was that all his pictures were so familiar to me, especially the ones from India. Naturally, I am Indian - but every picture - be it from Bhopal, Jodhpur, Varanasi, Bihar, Delhi or Mumbai, made me wonder how he saw modes of real human suffering (eg poverty, homelessness, floods, desert-storms) and normal existence (eg a full train, tea-pickers, farmers plowing a field, street children playing Holi, a lady in her chaniya-choli walking into her house, a child sleeping) and turned them into photographic art that today people pay money to see and pay a fortune to own. Surely these people have absolutely no clue that they are familiar faces to every other educated person in the world. They will die never knowing that some dude saw in them what nobody else did, captured it and framed it. That they, in a way will always be immortal.

Movie Review: Laberinto del Fauno

Very interested in watching a movie that combines the era of the Franco regime in Spain and fantasy, I went to watch Laberinto del Fauno - written and directed by famous Mexican director Guillermo del Toro.

It was horrible!

2 hours of watching the Franco hijos de puta (as they say) torturing their opposition left me sick to the stomach, not allowing me to appreciate the innocent and intriguing fantasies the little girl indulges in, perhaps demonstrating her way of dealing with the trauma - the whole point of the film!

Blood, bullets, torture, knives, torture, guns, blood, wounds, blood. That's all I can remember of the movie. What a shame, because the fantasy built characters had great amounts of imagination and signifance that my brain just wouldn't comprehend because of the goriness of the scenes before and after. They ended up to serve as comic relief more than anything else.

If you can't stand blood and torture scenes, do not go watch this movie. If you do, don't buy popcorn.

Terrible Cycle. Absolutely Pathetic.

Most weekends - Thursday-Saturday, I am out dancing 12-6am. So come Sunday and at 4am I am wide awake. Till about 3 weeks ago, this wasn't a problem, as I had school 9am - so would HAVE to get up, and would catch up with a power nap in the afternoon - Monday would be the only bad day, Tuesday back to normal.

But the fuck up now is that I have class at 3pm and it is impossible to get out of bed before noon, especially now that it's chilly. Now it's almost 3am here and I haven't yawned yet. Tomorrow I will wake up around noon (even though my alarm is set for 9am, as always), get dressed, fix lunch, go to school - back at 8pm. Whole day gone. It's terrible! I wish I could say 'but I'm burning the midnight oil', but other than endlessly reading online and watching absolutely pathetic yet addictive Big Brother (Gran Hermano) debates, I've been good for nothing.

Another thing that has been bothering me, is that since I land up reading for hours online - my book-reading has gone for a toss. Reading online is great, but you land up reading such a plethora of random stuff - articles, blogs, poems, rants - you don't read anything concrete; although you have been reading for 3 hours, you don't feel like you have read anything substantial. I started 4 books when I got to Spain: a Noam Chomsky, a Bill Bryson, a Jorge Bucay (which I will finish tomorrow, even if I have to be up all night), and this other really stupid Spanish book on cowboys. I haven't finished any. Terrible. I also started this journalsim course from LSJ (thinking oh I'll have loads of time in Spain)- did 6 assignments in the first month, then the Spanish-English contrast wasn't working, and haven't read assignment 7 yet. Absolutely terrible.

Time to fix things, beginning with my sleeping/not sleeping schedule.I have told my flat mate to pour water on my head before he goes to work if I'm not up by then. I hope I don't punch him.