15. Telling the truth to women, a.k.a most embarrassing moment #2

Apart from my professions and various hobbies, I happen to be an activist in several matters.
One of the groups I am proud to be a part of is TITS (Truth Is The Solution), which aims for a better world for couples and for endangered species (a.k.a men) alike.
We believe that every woman deserves a true answer for her daily questions (such as, "do I look fat with that new dress?") and we hope that if every man in the planet stops lying and starting to tell the truth today, in a few generations evolution will create a new race of women which will make relations between sexes much easier and more pleasant for both sides.
Unfortunately most men fail to see to that point, and continue spreading lies everywhere in hopes that they could spread other things in return (those lousy lazy bastards).
As we are still looking for a better, less misleading name for the organization, we will continue fight for justice until the promised victory.

Not very long ago I went out with a lovely girl. We went to eat and then came to her place. In a semi-romantic moment, she held my hands and said she would like me to listen to her favorite song and put on a CD of Phil Collins greatest hits. She looked straight to my eyes and asked me if I liked it. As I saw clearly the advantage of lying or shutting up, I tried my best to avoid answering the question. However, soon enough I understood it was only the first track in a CD of over an hour of this horrid music, and as a founding member of TITS I had to tell her what I really thought of it. True, I could have phrased it a little better, and not share with her the only circumstance I could see myself listening to it again, but still- it was damned worth it.

Another funny instance of telling the truth to a woman, although what I said was heavily misinterpreted, was the famous dinner party story, a.k.a Most embarrassing moment that makes a good story #2.

I was invited to a dinner with good friends of mine in London. As they wanted to help me getting concerts there, they invited also a small concert organizer to dine with us.
From the very first moment I knew I didn't like that woman. She was annoying and kept talking to the children as if they were retarded (I remembered even as a child I hated these kind of people). At one point, after lots of wine was served to everybody in the table (including the children, if I remember right), she has decided to share with us a remarkable story from her long gone youth. This was her story. Please read it imagining a very high voice with lots of hand movements.

"When I was four, I was first brought to London. Everything looked so big and amazing, and I was in awe just walking down the streets. One day my father took me to the Madame Toussaud Museum, and there I found out there was a secret compartment, hidden behind a curtain, and a very long queue to that. I stood in line and waited, but when I reached the top of the queue, the usher told me it is forbidden for a young girl like me to see it. I was very disappointed and left the museum. The next time I came to London was more than 15 years later. Of course, the first thing I did was to run to Madame Toussaud and look for that hidden thing behind the curtain. To my great disappointment, it wasn't there anymore, and nobody working in the museum knew what I was talking about. Now- what do you think was there behind the curtain that could scare me so much?"

Without even thinking twice, I have replied- "a mirror". Of course, I only meant it in the metaphysical sense, meaning that our own existence is the most frightening thing we could expect, but I could very much understand after saying that word that it could be heavily misinterpreted.
As I feared, the annoying lady didn't have an existentialistic education, nor the least Jewish self humor. She turned pale, and for the rest of the dinner kept whispering to the person next to her, "I cannot believe he actually said it". However, unlike the other dinner party in France, where I really wanted to bury myself alive, here I couldn't hold myself from laughing out loud, as the situation was so ridiculous, and couldn't wait to come back home and tell it to my friends (or wait one year and create a blog).

Have your own stories? Wanting to join TITS? Small donations (£1,000 and above, please) are always welcome.

14. Tea with the dead

Good afternoon to all my devoted readers. Today we are proud to launch a new section in the blog- an interview, biscuits and tea (earl grey, of course) with a selected dead guest.
For the first celebratory interview we wanted to bring you the king himself, Mr. Elvis Presley, but we found out that he is actually not dead at all, and working 24/7 at a gas station in a small town in Idaho. However, the guest that agreed to come here is less fat, and even more talented than the king. Died only at 35, he was able to write some of the greatest music there is, and was popular with the ladies as much he is popular today with the kids (who know his famous chocolaty version). Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the one and only, Mr. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart! [fake applause is being heard from the computer's speakers]

W.A. Mozart: Thank you very much. Zis is a great pleasure to be here.

Daniel M.: Please, feel comfortable. Would you like some cream and sugar in your tea?

WAM: Only sugar, thanks.

DM: So, Mr. Mozart- how is it to be dead?

WAM: Well, not so good. To begin with, they put us all composers in one building, and you can imagine the noises I have to deal with- Mahler is just above us, and Boulez is my next door neighbor. I'm telling you, Beethoven is lucky to be deaf.

DM: Wait a moment, Mr. Boulez is still alive! I met him personally this summer.

WAM: Believe me, he is dead.

DM: So you know the works of Mahler and Boulez? I am sure it is very interesting for all our readers to know what you think of contemporary music.

WAM: Some of it I like, but mostly I am very disappointed. Ms. Spears has very limited harmonic progressions and Radiohead didn't release anything good after "OK computer".

DM: I meant classical contemporary music, but never mind. By the way, your English is very impressive. Did you talk to Britten or Ives in the last hundred years?

WAM: Hell no! I watch Television.

DM: Do you have television up there?

WAM: It's black and white and we get only Fawlty Towers and re-runs of Baywatch. But I love the opening sequence...

DM: I see. What about your own compositions? Did you have a chance to listen to any of them performed since you died in 1791?

WAM: I heard Badura-Skoda playing some of my sonatas. It was extremely slow and very boring. I hated it.

DM: Were you in the actual concert?

WAM: No, I watched it on Youtube.

DM: So, you have internet as well!

WAM: Not anymore. Since Wagner has downloaded some Nazi propaganda last month they blocked all our building access. But I get sometimes a wifi signal from the painters block.

DM: Wow, I didn't know you were so modern up there. Is the older generation keeping up as well?

WAM: Are you kidding? Bach is composing only with Finale, and it saves him so much time with all the counterpoint. Only last week he composed 500 new cantatas.

DM: Is there a chance to hear any of this music?

WAM: When you are dead, there will be.

DM: I understand. What else? Are you and Constanze still together?

WAM: Constanze is so 300 years ago! As everyone else, I have also been with Clara Schumann and Alma Mahler, whom I married 20 years ago.

DM: Congratulations!

WAM: We have some kind of an open marriage- she lets me go out with other dead women and I let her try and complete my Requiem.

DM: This is absolutely fascinating. I could continue talking with you all day, but unfortunately our time is up. Just one more personal question- in your a minor sonata, the vorschlag should be on or before the beat?

Hallo und herzliche willkommen zu KV467. Die person ist nicht...

Well, I guess I will have to wait another 300 years for this answer, or simply ask my teacher.
Please send me your ideas and suggestions for future dead guests. Our motto is- if he is dead, he can be on our blog. Until next time, have a wonderful day and don't forget to feed the cat.

13. A true story about sex, lies and witchcraft (II)

Well, I was trying to avoid continuing this post as much as I could, but due to some unexpected popular demand I am obliged to finish up this sad and cursed story.

For the sake of my new readers who are too lazy to scroll down the page and read the previous entry (god bless them), and for those who intentionally skipped the first part, because it was too long (god rest their souls) here is what happened, in two phrases: I was invited by M., a well known pianist of a nationality in which every second woman has a mustache and is not Mexico, to come and stay in her desolated farm, to study and assist her, while being completely disconnected from society. After some of the loneliest weeks of my life I fell in love and starting going out with her daughter B., which, of course, didn't help my relationship with M.

M. had four daughters, J., the oldest, who had 4 kids of her own, M., who was living in California and was high on weeds, B., my girlfriend at the time, and A., a dog breeder and one of the funniest and most misanthropic people I've ever met (I still remember her very first words to me, meeting at a party- "I'm A., and I hate people"). When she was in the farm we were enjoying marathons of bad movies, while I was trying to poison her dogs. Once she obliged me to teach her how to say- "I want to fuck you" in Hebrew (not my idea, promise), and after that, these were the first words she said to me whenever we saw each other again. One time, the Belgian ambassador was dinning in the farm, and it turned out that his wife was Israeli. I was sitting just in front of her, when A. came to table, shouting- "Daniel M., I want to..."

Another important character in our story is R., M.'s close friend and 4-hands partner, who was also in love with B., my girlfriend, and absolutely hated me for being with her. Every time it was possible he was saying bad things about me, and finally, when I went to Brazil with M. and B., he managed to convince her I was trying to steal her money (!), and run away.
And so, after coming back from heaven, I was doomed in the farm. M. was barely speaking to me and I felt even worse staying there by myself. In a rebellious act, I went to the place that was as opposite to her as possible- Juilliard.

I was moving to the big apple (future posts will deal with this time), and started a continuous, painful period of a long distance relationship with B.. Her mother was still mad at me, and every phone call with B. has started like that: "Daniel M., I love you so much. By the way, my mother told me it's a shame you were not killed in a car accident". During that year we broke up, and more or less around that time her mother had discovered, finally, that I was fully innocent and was calling me to apologize. She had invited me to do some concerts with her; had commissioned an opera from me; and wanted me to be part of her new pretentious project in Japan, "Art Impressions".
As I like adventures, and a part of me is semi-masochistic, I agreed. But the worst was still to come.

**********************

In summer of 2005, I came back to the farm for preparations to the project.
The project was supposed to be a five day festival, each to include a piano recital, which was to accompany dances, series of bizarre acts and other things I will soon talk about. There were five pianists- M., R., myself and two young talented brothers, aged 8 and 10. Each day had a very modest theme- The world, death, life, children, and recreation. I was to represent... life.
[who thought of death? Raise your hands!]

First thing I had discovered coming to the farm was that B., who was not my girlfriend at that time, was working on that project and was starting to flirt right in front of me with a guy from Venezuela, who was also coming to help with the project. Although I am known for being calm and relaxed most of the time, I didn't forget my Mediterranean hot blooded manners. After a series of manipulations I didn't know I had possessed, I won her back. After one evening I saw it was a mistake, but it was too late for me.

Meanwhile M. was furious at the Japanese, because in promoting the festival they had put her name in a bigger font than the other pianists, and decided to cancel the project there and move it to another location. After one day, this very expensive thing (over 3 million Euros) found a new place, in the beautiful coliseum in Alhambra, Granada- Palacio Carlos V.
The other people involved in the project started to gather in the farm. The list of these most extraordinary people includes:

"Fish" (this was the nickname of this woman, as she looked like a local market fish seller, and I forgot her real name)- Stage director and designer. Was chosen for the job after M. had seen one of her street shows and mistakenly thought she is capable of running a big thing. Hated B. and Diego.

Diego- Choreographer. Spanish to his bones (looked like a strange tormented version of Don Quixote), and a very weird character. Every morning was waking up at 4 am for a series of yoga exercises, which didn’t help him to get calmer, as he simply refused to work with “Fish”, threatening to kill her and run away.

João- In charge of the lights. Was working in movies, but never did theater before. Was always drunk, and never knew which buttons he should press.
In the public general rehearsal, I was playing Bartok’s Out of Doors night-music in a complete darkness, only because he thought “night” meant black-out...

Mauricio- Director of the nature. Do not ask me what this title suppose to mean, but that was his job title. A very strange Italian guy, who told everybody he was an architect, but later was found out to be a fraud. While he was there, he convinced M. that the most necessary thing to do was to bring a special 2 tons stone, all the way to Granada, to be put in the middle of the stage.

Tanaka- Japanese painter. Was brought all the way from Japan only to paint a Japanese letter for two seconds in the third day of the festival. Did not talk to anybody during the whole month of rehearsals, and except one unforgettable phrase, was totally mute.

Dominique- French hermit. One of the coolest older guys I’ve ever met, Dominique was sleeping on trees, was walking around with some sort of a tent on him (sadly, with no underpants, fully exposing his valuable organs while he was sitting), and was a world specialist for harmonic singing- a technique that allowed you to whistle the overtone series while singing a fundamental note. Was brought to the project to unify the five days, and gather everyone on stage to experience the harmonic singing.

Frederic- French philosopher. Was brought to the project in order to sit down on the stage and draw his ideas while listening to the music, half naked.

And so, the craziness has begun. From the start, it was clear that “fish” didn’t know what she was doing. Her stage designs were all very nice and imaginative, but her direction was pretty much the most awful thing and wasn’t even a bit related to the music. The tension between her and Diego has become more and more clear and it was obvious that something is going to explode very soon.
One night Diego has confessed he is in love with M., and is going to try to get rid of “fish” as soon as possible. R., who was a friend of “fish”, became soon also an enemy. The following evening Diego told everyone he is refusing to continue working with “fish”, and is going to do something radical. The next morning he was nowhere to be found. Apparently he was to pack his suitcase and disappear, walking the whole 20 km from the farm to the nearest town by foot, before 6 am.
The only thing that was left after his departure was a note in R.’s room, saying: “Thank you very much”. For the next three days R. was sure it’s a note from Diego, who is going to come back and try to kill him. After a close investigation, I found out that this note was written by the guy from Venezuela who was simply writing a thank you note for borrowing a pen from R...

It was only two weeks before the first concert, and there was no choreographer for the whole show. On the internet M. found a Dutch guy, who agreed to do it for a ridiculously high price. As money was never a problem for that production, she agreed immediately. Meanwhile, Mauricio has found a rock that could fit his plan and figured he needs 20,000 euros in order to take it to Spain and back. Of course, no problem!

I had a lot of free time that month. The recital wasn’t a big problem (the biggest challenge was to play in time with the dancers) and my main concern was to make Tanaka speak. He looked like a Zen master, the kind that will say one sentence every three years, but that one sentence will change your life for ever. And then, one day, I was successful. I was walking past him in the fields, and suddenly he said these profound, unforgettable words: “You know, cigarettes in France are so much more expensive than here. I don’t care, as I’m not a smoker, but still!”. What a man.

Well, we somehow managed to put something together and bring everything to Spain. Nothing made sense at all- it looked like a surreal show that would seem strange even to the biggest Monty Python fan.
On top of that, we were asked to put on the most bizarre costumes. Yours truly was wearing a transparent gaza tape which was painted in red, and was obliged to dye his hair to red as well, and play barefoot. I do have pictures, but I will not sell them to save my life.

Upon coming to Granada, everything that could have gotten wrong, went wrong.
João was fired on the first evening, and the lights were now operated by a 12 year old boy, pressing random buttons. Mauricio’s stone didn’t come on time, and he begged to cancel the whole festival. Tanaka, who was needed only for five seconds was entering in the completely wrong cue, causing some of the dancers to fall of their feet. In the opening night one man was shouting some things from the audience and looked terribly familiar. It was Diego, in the most impressive Hollywood-like entrance. After each night Dominique was doing his harmonic singing with the artists and the public. I am telling you, if aliens didn’t land that week on earth, they probably do not exist. Nobody understood the general story (I forgot to say- there was a story, unifying everything, but it was so strange even us players didn’t get it) or the meaning of the five days, and everything looked so bad, it could almost gain a cult figure among the various mental hospitals around the world.
In the fifth and last day, M. has invited a famous Moroccan singer to sing 5 minutes before the last piece. After 50 minutes, she refused to go out of the stage, and was forced to go away by “fish”. When everything was officially over, there was no party, and everyone were just running away to their homes. I didn’t get payed, as B***** got bankrupted the next month, and didn’t see M. for another two years.

B***** was completely burned by a fire one year ago and was sold to a rich banker this summer.

B. is now married to a successful doctor.

M. is living in Brazil. Still crazy, but still plays the piano like no one else in the world.

Daniel M. is now partially living in London, completely addicted to earl-grey tea and writing this blog instead of doing more useful things in life.

12. How addicted to Facebook you really are

Facebook is a wonderful thing, isn't it? What better way is to start the morning and see the guy you like has poked you, or the girl of your dreams has sent you a likeness quiz.

True, there are certain drawbacks; you may find yourself growing random plants, receiving "are you a hottie?" invitations from your teacher and especially learn that a single day has only 24 hours in it. I strongly believe that every man and woman should look on the mirror at least once a week, and ask himself or herself: Am I addicted to facebook?
Well, almost all of you got to this blog by reading it in my facebook's status, so you must be somewhat addicted. In order to see how much you are, please answer these 9 simple questions:

1) Have you been bitten by vampires already?

a. You mean, like Dracula?
b. I have been bitten by Zombies. Does that count?
c. I am a level 4 overlord with a strong army.

2) What's your goal in life?

a. Be happy.
b. Have more friends in Facebook than my best friend.
c. Get married, so I can change my status on Facebook.

3) How did you break up with your last boyfriend?

a. Met him at a fancy French restaurant and left him with the bill.
b. Sent him an SMS.
c. Changed my status to "Single" and added the "are you interested" application.

4) What's the most romantic phrase someone has ever said to you?

a. Me Tarzan, you Jane.
b. I really want to poke you now.
c. Darling, will you throw a sheep on me?

5) What kind of Facebook geek are you?

a. You are the DEVELOPER. You like to be in control of things, and dominate others. You will not start the day before changing your status.
b. You are the APPLICATION MASTER. Your motto in life is- if it exists, you must have it on your page.
c. You are the OBSESSIVE PROFILE PICTURE DIVA. No need for explanations.

6) Are you a "home" person, or an "online now"?

a. What's online now?
b. Home.
c. OMG! Susie is online now!

7) To help finding your perfect match, answer these defining questions:

KFC or McDonald's?
Britney or Shakira?
Diet Pepsi or Pepsi Max?
Sandals or flip-flops?

8) Rate the things that are most important to you, from the most, to the least:

$
$$
$$$
$$$$
$$$$$

9) And, finally- name the actress. Any actress.

Your score will be shown in the next screen. Please invite 20 friends to continue.

11. Behind the scenes of Daniel M.'s blog

Due to some angry letters I have received during the last days, demanding why the blog is not published every day to their lazy enjoyment, I have decided to reveal the secrets behind the blog, and share with you the 10 painful steps each and every post has to pass before it is proven worthy of publication. If a post fails to pass one step, it is being destroyed immediately and the process starts from the very beginning.

Step 1: Daniel M. is thinking hard of a subject that could interest his 2.5 readers.

Step 2: The post is being dictated to a group of 13 drunk monkeys, who are then typing it on the new "Macbook Air" computers, specially bought for this purpose.

Step 3: The result doesn't make any sense, and Daniel M. has to rewrite everything by himself.

Step 4: Everyone is having cookies.

Step 5: The initial draft is sent by email to Michelle, an Australian babe and to Prof. Henry Schubb from Yale University, to make sure the post can be understood both by the stupidest and smartest person in the planet.

Step 5: If their approval was gained, the post is then transferred to Xu Yian, living in a loft in Paris, who is translating it to Chinese (Mandarin) and then back to English.

Step 6: More cookies, followed by some more cookies.

Step 7: If all is well, the post is then transferred to a reading proof group, consisting of 20 people, who are doing this degrading job as part of their prison service.

Step 8: Some typos and errors are being inserted to the post, in order to make some of the readers lose their already shuttered sanity.

Step 9: The post is then published online.

Step 10: The post is being rejected, obliging Daniel M. to remove the pornographic photos and video materials. The censored version is then what you see in front of your eyes.

Well, I hope you understand me better now. As you are reading these very words, I am getting an email from Xu Yian, saying he has finished translating "a true story about sex, lies and witchcraft, part II", which means it will be online very soon. Meanwhile the monkeys behind me are typing what looks like "the hitchhiker's guide to REAL New-York", but it's really hard to see from here. I would like to end this lousy post by a quotation of Helen Keller, said moments before her death, that can still be relevant to this day and age:

10. Valentine's day special

Another day has passed, and Daniel M. is sitting comfortably on the rocking chair in front of the fireplace, lighting up his old pipe, while petting Jabbar, his beloved Iguana. As he is enjoying the silence of another beautiful Saturday evening, the parrot screams from the other huge living-room: "Attention, attention- you've got mail!"
Daniel M. remains still and doesn't move a bit. Instead, he taps gently on the champagne glass, and an old man with a short mustache enters the room. This is Alfred, the obedient butler, who was serving the house for the past three decades. "Yes, master. What can I do for you?", he asks politely. "More champagne please- and bring me the mail, will you? I haven't had the chance to run all these seven floors downstairs today". Daniel M. continues to pet Jabber calmly, barely looking back at Alfred. "Right away, sir. Right away". Alfred disappears and is coming back in almost a second. "Here is your champagne with today's mail, sir, and also a small chocolate from Teresa. She asks to send you her love". "Good, good", dismisses him Daniel M. impolitely, "and now if you please, close the door after you leave- I would like to be alone".
Alfred obeys quietly, and Daniel M. remains by himself, sorting out the letters.

On the first pile he puts all the numerous fan mail he has received. He opens up only two of those. "Daniel M., you have saved my life. I was about to move to London, but thanks to your p...". Boring, he thinks to himself and opens the next: "Dear Daniel M., my name is Amanda, and I have a confession to make- since I am reading your blog I have lots of troubles with my boyfriend, and I think I am in love with you. What should I do?". Daniel M. is putting the letter in his waistcoat and is moving to the second pile, where he was putting all the personal mail he has received. He found out that Aunt Celia has died this week, and that he inherited more than 3 million dollars. As this is merely a pocket money for him, he throws the letter away.
On the last pile he puts all the commercial stuff, dealing with discounts and promotions for various uninteresting products, such as Shrimp flavored dog-food and Chinese rap songs for your baby. One advertisement is catching his eye- "Buy your wife a diamond ring for Valentine's day, and receive two free rings for your two next wives". This ad is reviving some sort of emotion on his otherwise very still face. Yes, Valentine's day is approaching, he thinks to himself, and I cannot escape it also this time.

Valentine's day is Daniel M.'s most hated day. For some reason, he is left alone every single year. If he has a girlfriend, she is in another country that day. If he doesn't, he is constantly reminded of that by all the kissing couples that are happily walking below his mansion.
Well, nothing to complain, he thinks. His recent choices were very poor indeed- in the past year he was falling only for girls who were either not interested in him in the first place or who already had a boyfriend, and his semi-obsessive nature didn't allow him to realize that or give up. "Well, we had at least some success this year, didn't we, Jabbar? And anyway, who needs women when I have you around?". To these words, the iguana went from his lap to lie near the fireplace, which made Daniel M. think once more. "Now, what should I offer my trustful readers for Valentine's day- should I write about women and their dangerous minds? No- too banal. What about suggestions for acrobatic sex positions or erotic oil massages? Nah- too basic. Anyway, I have to write about something, but what should it be?". He turns to the table once again and reads another fan's mail- this time from a male reader: "Dear Daniel M., when I first heard you are writing a blog, I was thrilled, as I thought to myself- finally some class among all this garbage on the net. However, while reading your last topics I saw you are no different from all the others around. Just pure vulgarity, without any bits of culture. I am very disappointed". Daniel M. jumped from his chair. No one should dare accusing him for lack of culture. For this Valentine's day he is proud to offer his readers the 10 books that he will be happy to take to a desert island, providing that he won't be charge for excess baggage.

1) Yaakov Shabtai- Past continuous. This is, by far, the best novel ever written by an Israeli (much, much better than all these Amos Oz and A.B. Yohoshua that are so popular nowadays), and one of the greatest, most original books written in the last 50 years.

2) Fernando Pessoa- The book of uneasiness- This book, written in a diary form, is unbelievably touching and profound.

3) Felisberto Hernandez- stories. My favorite unknown author, a pianist and composer himself, who was living in the beginning of last century in Uruguay. Unfortunately, both the two books that were translated to English, are now out of print and are extremely hard to find.

4) Georges Perec- Life a user's manual- Not for everybody's taste, but one of the most peculiar books by one the most peculiar authors.

5) Italo Calvino- If on a winter's night a traveler. Well, although not my favorite- still does win me over by its originality and sense of humor.

6) Ernesto Sabato- The tunnel- the perfect book for the obsessive person.

7) Jorge Luis Borges- Ficciones. If you didn't read it before- this is a must.

8) Eduardo Mendoza- The mystery of the bewitched crypt. If you just want to laugh, that's one of the funniest books I read last year.

9) Lao Tzu- Tao te Ching- As Eastern philosophy is a very "in" these days, this is the most beautiful book I know.

10) Malcolm Lowry- Under the volcano- 12 last hours of the drunk British ambassador in Mexico. A genius masterpiece, although a very difficult read.

Finally, for all those of you who have a special one, go fuck yourselves (in the positive, literal meaning). Otherwise, have a beautiful and safe Valentine's day".

Daniel M.'s pipe was running low. Jabbar the iguana fell asleep in front of the fireplace. It was getting colder, and Teresa's chocolate was just the thing he needed.


There were some inaccuracies with the above information. Daniel M.'s Iguana does not name Jabbar, for instance. To find out the real name, text LOVE to the number 079-DANIELMBLOG. £5.99 per text, roaming charges might apply.

9. The hitchhikers guide to REAL London

Millions of people visit London every year. Heatrow Airport is Europe's busiest, and one of the world's biggest airports. Most of these people come to take pictures of the Big Ben (which they can easily find, within a click away, on the internet), see the boring weekly ceremony of the Queen's guards (which they can, again, find on youtube.com), and blend into million other Japanese tourists in Oxford street.
Some of them, god forbid, are even coming here to stay. Nobody knows why. Unfortunately for them, the only guides they can get are the fake ones- Lonely Planet, Time Out London, and so on. These are only recommending hotels and restaurants, and do not address the real issues that are important for you. In order to answer these burning questions, I have written the concise hitchhikers guide to REAL London.
In order to avoid my usual cynicism, I have started with the good things first:

* Weather- Yes, you are reading right. The weather in London is actually not bad at all, and at least much nicer than it is usually thought of. It is not raining that much and when it does, it is like someone is sneezing at you. True, it can be gray for long times, but while my dear friends in Europe and North America are freezing to death in the winter, I am getting a nice tan here. Well, almost.

Okay- that's basically it. Now for the really bad things:

* Price- Welcome to hell. When you are renting a small room at a flat with 3 other people extremely far off the center for £450 per month, you know that something is wrong.

* Transportation- Transportation is a huge problem in London. Due to the horrendous traffic, buses are moving slower than marijuana-smoking turtles, and not only they drive on the wrong side of the road, they don't know how to drive on it. I am almost getting killed twice a day (and three times on good fridays). However, that's nothing compared to the tube. I can recall only two journeys when there were no technical failures and everything was running smoothly. It is so rare, actually, that when all underground lines are working without failures at the same time, they will announce it proudly in the speakers. Usually the train is stopping somewhere and the conductor says- "Due to a signaling problem, we were forced to wait. We will be on our way shortly". I never understood what signaling problem meant, nor did anyone else I asked. Other than signaling problems you will hear sometimes nice announcements such as, "Due to a person under the train, there will be delays on the district line", all in a calm and polite British accent. The days when an announcer will say- "Due to an alien invasion, there will be minor delays on the circle line", are not that far off.

* Streets- London is huge. Much bigger than any other Western capital city, and even bigger than that. There are millions of streets in the city, with hundreds of variations- Oxford street, oxford lane, oxford circus, oxford road, oxford parkway, oxford parkway mews, and so on.
In order to find all of those, someone invented the notoriously small-font book called "A to Z", containing all streets in London. This someone was later responsible, so I am sure, of the center for the blind at King's Cross, as it is virtually impossible to see anything in it, let alone differ between all of those tiny little dots.
There are not so many funny street names in London, but I lived once near Swallow street. I know that's a name of a bird, but still, it is quite awkward to say that phrase- "Darling, are you going to Swallow tonight?"

* Women- Ever thought that most English men are gay? Well, you were right- but, I really cannot blame them. Apart from Kate Moss, almost all British girls are between ugly enough to extremely ugly. Last week, in my search for a room in London I have found a place, whose owner told me, without blinking, that she works as a stripper. Now, dear Gentlemen, if I was to see only 10 percent of her bare flesh, I would run to call the police.

* Classical Music- If you think Elgar is a contemporary composer, then London is the place for you! Only here you will be challenged with daring programs, such as Mozart's Jupiter Symphony followed by Mendelsshon violin concerto. And you thought that the IPO was conservative... The audience is not much better thought, barely clapping and cheering, acting as if they were, well, at a classical music concert.

* Food and drink- London is notorious for it's bad food, and rightly so. It is really bad, ridiculously expensive and all in very little portions. One of the popular chain restaurants, La Strada, is offering as an appetizer Caprese salad, which is basically one small tomato cut in four, with a small mozzarella cheese on the side, for the generous price of £7.90.
If you are fed up with those prices and have the possibility to cook at home- you have got a choice between three supermarkets: Tesco (mom, why does this chicken have three legs?), Sainsbury (For the million time, I don't have a Nectar card), and Waitrose (papa, let's not have caviar EVERY day).
Alcohol- London pubs are very nice, but finally when the alcohol starts working, the conversations become less boring and the British girls get less ugly, you have to leave because it's 23:30- closing hour.

* Christmas- Starts in London before Jesus was even conceived, on the 5th of November. After this date, it is virtually impossible to walk in Oxford circus. Actually, if one man starts walking in the beginning of Oxford circus on the 5th of November, he will arrive to the other side on Christmas eve.

* Oxford circus- The most awful place in the western world. Dante's real definition for hell. Avoid like the plague, if you can.

Well- time's up. I promise to update this guide another time, and you are welcome to leave your own ideas about London, and life in general. Until then, drive safely home, and regards to your wives.

8. My private war with old ladies in London

So you are a young and aspiring student, just coming to London, all happy and optimistic for your bright future.
Unfortunately, unless you are the only son of Bill and Melinda Gates, after a few hours you will be out of money, and you will figure out that the places you were thinking of renting, and looked expensive already, are priced for one week and not one month as you previously thought. Annoyed, you will make some phone calls to your relatives and few connections, and will be referred to various old ladies, all very well connected, who would be extremely happy and willing to help you starting up. You will be invited to come up for tea, and will gladly accept their offer. Upon entering their house, you will find out that you have entered another realm, with a different sense of time. The carpets will smell of maggots and you will notice that the big grandfather's clock is ticking twice as slowly. Everything will be either green or brown, and the numerous paintings of the walls will be by a distant relative of Monet, who was, sadly, much less talented than him.
If she has a dog, it will be miniature- the kind that could fit into her purse. Her cat's meow will resemble the sound of an annoying squeaking door. They will both give you a grumpy and superior look, saying- "this is not proper, the way you are wearing your scarf on". You would imagine these dogs are only peeing on selected trees, and the cats only catch mice after their tea break.
You will follow her to the large living room (with a grand-piano from Chopin's time), and she will prepare tea for you, asking- "do you take it with sugar?". You will sit in the comfortable green couch, and then she will ask you some questions about yourself. If you are married, she will ask why don't you have children. If you have a girlfriend, she will enquire why you are not married. If you are single, she will smile and say- I have just the one for you!, and show you a picture of her neighbor's daughter, so ugly that you will lie and tell her you're gay. There will be a moment of silence, after which she will offer you some biscuits. The biscuits are clearly pre- WWII and you are trying to find a moment when she is not looking at you, to throw them away.
Would you like some more tea?, she will ask. No thanks. Are you completely sure? Yes, I am. Because I am going to have another cup. That's nice of you, but three cups of tea one after the other are enough for me, you will reply. She will pour another cup for you anyway, just in case.
She will then tell you some irrelevant stories from her past, and won't make pauses in her sentences. Finally, in the middle of one of them, you cannot take it anymore, and will ask for the bathroom. Her bathroom will be a very big place, usually full of pictures of very corny jokes, such as- "that's pee time!", and so on. Near the toilet you will find, hidden, a deck of cards, and out of boredom, you will shuffle them for yourself. Soon you will discover there are no aces in the deck, and be left with the dilemma- should you ask her about it, and reveal you have touched her property, or continue living with the mystery? You decide the latter. But when you come back and she continues her endless stories (it seemed that she went on by herself while you were in the bathroom), this stupid thing is always on the back of your mind, and won't give you rest.
After an hour of more stories you are trying to say one word, and reminding her you came to ask for her help. Ah, yes, of course! she will say. We have to wait for 6 o'clock, then I will call my friends. Are they out of home, you ask. No, but it is 2 cents cheaper after six. It is only four in the afternoon, and you have to wait two more hours. After that, she will talk with her friends, who will also invite you for tea and old biscuits- and this whole story will repeat itself, until one of them will tell you she is also renting at a very cheap price (for London) her tiny room in her attic, and you will agree. Then you will be terrorized every morning with complains- you boiled hot water for 2 people instead of one, the glasses were not sparkling after you washed them, and so on. Meanwhile your clothes will stink so much lying in the room, and no one would like to speak with you. Unfortunately, even suicide is not an option, as the window is securely shut, to prevent you from getting some fresh air. Desperate, you want to run away. But you have no where to go- because they are lurking for you on every corner, waiting you to make your first mistake...

But enough I say- no more! I won't tolerate this terror one more second. Today, I am able to look straight into their little beady eyes, and say, in a clear and proud voice: I don't want your help, tea or old biscuits! I don't care if Churchill himself ate them, but they are too old now for me. Do not cough in my concerts, do not give me the bad look if I happen to yawn in the street.
And please don't call to invite me for tea, I will call you. I promise. After six o'clock.

7. A true story about sex, lies and witchcraft

It is 3am, and I'm in a beautiful apartment in the center of London, waiting for an email from the States to find out if I must leave today (and I already missing my flight back to Berlin as I type) or can stay for another week. I will update this post online, if something happens.
While I wait for this email to come, I am going to share with you whatever I can remember from the most strange, bizarre and unique period of my life- the (so far) untold story of the curse of B*****s (full name cannot be revealed without being sued or killed).

It all started when my first girlfriend (the one with the father from the previous post) has pushed me in going to a masterclass of a famous pianist from a country which is on the border with Spain, but is not France. This woman (let's call her M. for now) was living in a farm, completely isolated from the world, in the midst of wild nature, and was making a public masterclass in the farm every couple of months. I knew the woman from various recordings I had at home, and was very curious to see what is it all about. The application forms we have received were unique as well, and were full of questions like- "Do you prefer playing with a metronome or follow the music's own pulse?", "Is your body going after the music, or you prefer sitting still?", "Is nature part of your true-self?", and so on. It looked a little New-Age for my taste, but I didn't mind so much at the time. We both applied and got accepted (later we found out that there were only 6 applications, and all got accepted). When we got to the airport, her (then) assistant picked us up, and we drove 5 hours to the farm. After a long while on the highway, we took a strange exit on a very bumpy road and drove into what looked to me, total nowhere. One hour later, many olive trees have appeared and then we got there. I think it was evening, and the place looked just stunning. Below millions of stars, the torches of the farm were lit and I felt I arrived to a place of such misterious spirituality I was never seen before. M. was not there to welcome us, and the maids showed us to our room.
The farm was all designed by M., and every room had its own theme. One room (the only in the 16 rooms of the farm I never got to sleep at) was called Maharaja, and was full of Indian and Persian carpets and other goods. Another room was the Blue Room, and was filled with silken scarves and blue perfumes. All was, I must say, in the best taste possible. Each room had its own bathroom, and a big fireplace. Needless to say that couples that stayed together in such romantic atmosphere made good use of the very comfortable double-beds.

The farm was all built in a ח shape and had, besides the various rooms, a big tower that served as a library, a large swimming pool, beautiful dining room, several large living rooms, a huge wine cellar and a very big concert hall. Five minutes walk you could go to the river, visit the hens and wild pigs, look at the stars and the moon and think you are at least the next Fernando Pessoa.
I have just got an email, and I have promised you an online update. One second:
"non stop action every night- do you have what it takes?", no, I think it's not the email I was waiting for...
Back to our story- The next morning we had a fantastic breakfast and started the masterclass.
The masterclass schedule was unique- we had Yoga in the morning, various exercises connecting the body to the music, shouting exercises (I was best by far), poetry reading and a little bit of music as well. Most of the lessons were dealing with connection between body and music, and trying to differ between various "energies". I may seem a little reluctant and cynical about it now, but there were definitely some interesting things there.
In one exercise my girlfriend had to blind-fold me, and make me follow her by producing soft hums. Being the naughty girl she always was, she made me follow her to the bee-hives, almost fall in the pool, and go up the hand-rails above a rocky bottom.
Lunch and dinner were always terrific. The farm was totally vegetarian and organic (people who brought chocolates were nearly shot on the spot... Later, when I was living there, I bravely conducted an illegal chocolate trade) and every meal started with a different home-made soup, which was, by no comparison the best I ate in my life. Almost all the main dishes were an original variation on a theme by Bacalão (the country's official dish). After a few days I could not see fish anymore, and my dreams were full of grilled, juicy steaks.
Well, in order not to make this post another version of war and peace, and get to the interesting parts of the story, I will just say that I had a lot of fun that week, and me and my girlfriend came back a second and third time.
Another email: "Give your woman what she needs. Enlarge your..."- fortunately no need for that. How do they know I am not a woman, anyway? I am going to sleep, it doesn't look like I am going to receive any real emails tonight.
*****

Well, the second and third times I have been to the masterclass were not that different.
In the third time M. took me aside and asked me if I would be interested to stay there for a year, taking lessons from her and living there for free, and in return I will have to give a weekly piano lesson to the children's choir [M. had a nice project in which she took the children of the nearest villages, to form a children's choir. They came to the farm every week, and had their rehearsals in the big hall].
As I had no other plans that time (I was just finishing the academy), and it all looked very exciting to me (private lessons with M., living in this beautiful farm, being away from home for the first time), that I have agreed without thinking twice.

This farm, B*****s, was full of the most strange people I have ever met in my life. It was as if you were not looking for the farm, it was looking for you (like in a horror film).
If I was even the most retarded, untalented half-brother of David Lynch, I would make a film or a TV series that would make "Twin Peaks" look like Sesame Street.
Just a very little assortment: A young attractive girl who was working at the kitchen was caught cheating with the husband of the personal secretary of M., on the night before her wedding; a maid who upon her first day of work was called "Thersa", by mistake, changed officially her name the following day; the cook was offended by M.'s comments on the food one day, tried to poison her and ran away with lots of jewelery and electronics, and so on- there are so many stories to tell, and I am tired to say even ten percent of them all. The reoccuring theme was that every week someone new would enter the farm, gain the love of M. and the trust of everybody, and then get fired or disappear mysteriously.
A fine example of that was Tadeu, who was brought to the farm from Brazil to help M. with her daily schedule and teach me the language, in exchange for voice (!) lessons. He was not the best teacher, to put it mildly, and it didn't help that he didn't speak a word in any other language.

The year was staring with some disappointments for me- I never got any lessons from M. (for the 8 months I was there, I got only one lesson), as she avoided teaching me, and much preferred to talk about agriculture or running a piece through for me.
Teaching the kids was strange as well- I never had any teaching experience, not with total beginners, children and especially in a language I could not say more than five or six phrases (and most of them were related to female organ parts).
It was a very strange time for me. I was breaking up with my girlfriend, M. was away most of the time, it was extremely cold outside and I was left in the farm almost by myself, completely isolated from society. It was like being stuck in the most beautiful prison in the world, and with no one to talk to! Tadeu was the only person who was there, besides the maids, and I started talking to him. It appeared that he had major disappointed in his love-life, and I was trying to help him as much as I could. In a two hours long conversation (I was very proud of myself), I was talking with him about women, the differences between men and women, and their expectations, only to find out a month later that he is gay... More activities with him included tarot, reading my astrology map, talking with the dead, and other normal stuff.
So, the loneliness continued. Unlike what I thought, I didn't practice or composed more during that period, I only felt lonely- more than ever before and after that. (the short story, "hope", that appears on this blog was written in this time).

Then she appeared. In an almost Holywoodian entrance, came to the farm a beautiful, angelic woman. Everywhere she passed I could almost hear violins in my mind, an imagine a halo above her head, like a Catholic painting. Upon an investigation, she appeared to be M.'s third daughter, a Child Psychologist, who came to the farm every weekend to work with the choir children. Drawbacks- she was almost 8 years older than me, the daughter of my teacher and she had a boyfriend (a reoccuring theme throughout my life). I barely spoken to her, so much I was in awe with her presence. Every week I was counting the days before she came to the farm, and all of the situation felt a little like from "Die Schöne Mullerin".
Then she canceled her coming one week, and the next one and the one after that as well. I got sick and couldn't wait to see her. During that time I had composed songs for the choir that didn't have words, as I didn't know the language well enough to write the lyrics as well. After three weeks of absence, she finally came to the farm, and I asked her to help me write the words for my songs. It was a lot of fun, and a good opportunity to get to know her. One day we took a stroll to the river on a full moon's night, and one thing led to another.
She was very discreet at first- barely speaking to me during the day, speaking and much more than that during the night. She was afraid her mother will find out and kill both of us, which most certainly happened. But more on that, in the next post.