"Show the money"

número 5, JUlIO 2007

a magazine about people and their cities exclusively for vueling passengers

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e mon

e e th m ow h S “ pasta” e d s o “Hablem

hablemos depasta showme themoney

¿Qué es el dinero? Un hombre ya puede sentirse exitoso si se levanta por la mañana y se va a dormir por la noche, y en ese lapso ha hecho lo que ha querido.

What’s money? A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night and in between does what he wants to do.

Una reflexión de Bob Dylan. A thought by Bob Dylan LING

LING

SUMARIO - CONTENTs

03 – Hablemos de pasta

Show me the money. Una reflexión de Bob Dylan

06 – Barcelona

Passeig de Colom 7.10 – 14.14 – 21.42

12 – Buenas Noticias

Para gente que usa el dinero para divertirse. For people who use their money to enjoy themselves

El dinero es divertido Este número de Ling trata sobre el dinero.

Ideas sencillas sobre qué hacer con él, pero sobre todo cuántas cosas increíbles puedes hacer sin dinero.

Un amor de verano, por ejemplo, no tiene precio.

20 – Vida Vueling

23 ciudades por descubrir. 23 cities that you can discover

22 – Hello! Granada

Ocho personas en la plaza Realejo. Eight people in Realejo square

30 – Diario ritual

Three newspaper kiosks. Tres quioscos de periódicos

32 – Swapping is priceless

Exchange one object for another one you’re interested in barter

Money is funny This issue of Ling is about money. Simple ideas as to what to do with it, but above all about the incredible things you can do without it.

A holiday romance, for example, is priceless.

Show me the money publi

36 – Mi Mundo en Málaga

Detectoaficionados en busca del tesoro escondido

38 – El dinero no lo es todo

Ángel conduce su taxi para ganarse la vida, pero sobre todo para registrarla

46 – For the love of money

Geovanny loves coins, and turns them into little works of art

50 – ¿Cuánto cuesta cambiar de vida?

La vuelta al mundo (de Anna y Pablo) en 10 años

54 – a full time poker player

Isabelle Mercier in casinos in Paris (and all over the world)

60 – ¿Qué puedo hacer con 5 euros?

Los lectores de Ling recomiendan. Ling readers recommend

62 – Family Album

The Limentanis produce the kind of sweetness you won’t find anywhere else

66 – Once santos

Según Daniel Samper, para ganar la quiniela del fútbol

70 – Keeping it

20 piggy banks that will teach you to save

72 – Dogs without owners

A story set in Milan, by Ernesto Ferrini

80 – 9 personas A MAGAZINE ABOUT PEOPLE AND THEIR CITIES exclusively for vueling passengers

Avistadas un sábado en la Plaza del Parque de Ibiza

81 – Experiencias

23 ciudades fascinantes. Discovering 23 fascinating cities

91 – How To

Cómo se hace la bicicleta en el fútbol

92 – An Athens drink Frappé, shaken not stirred

95 – La Gran Vida

Las aventuras de Mayer Aramburu

96 – Landing, pasatiempos a bordo

Sistema que garantiza un apacible vuelo. Ling invites you to play

Foto de portada: Esperanza Moya

LING

98 – Equipo

¿Quiénes somos? We are Ling LING

Photography by Paola de Grenet

Barcelona 7.10 Passeig de Colom This is the waterfront close to the Columbus statue and the Ramblas. A model of Columbus’ boat Santa Maria, a caravel, used to be tied to the mooring in the foreground; however, it was set on fire twice by arsonists, and not rebuilt again after the second time. The cable car in the background leads from a tower in La Barceloneta, which also houses a posh restaurant with amazing views, to Montjuïc.

Barcelona 14.14 The bridge leads to a big shopping centre called Maremagnum. There is a wooden platform running along the bridge, and some people like to picnic or sunbathe there while watching the big boats coming into port. If you don’t mind a slightly crowded environment, we recommend you go and eat a sausage or meat sandwich at the Xampanyería Can Paixano on c/ Reina Cristina, 7. It’s just a five-minute walk along the Passeig de Colom.

FERRAN MATEO (1975) expone actualmente BcnLed, con imágenes de San Petersburgo, Bruselas, Barcelona, Varsovia y Bucarest.

FERRAN MATEO (1975) is currently showing images of Saint Petersburgh, Brussels, Barcelona, Warsaw and Bucharest under the name of Bcn-Led.

Barcelona 21.42 A romantic walk around the port may be just the right thing for you on a warm summer night. If you’d rather have more entertainment, go up the Ramblas an turn right go for a cocktail at Margarita Blue (c/ Josep Anselm Clavé, 6) or left for absinth and live music on Barcelona’s tiniest stage at Pastis (Santa Mónica, 4).

Paola de Grenet (Italy, 1971) has done editorial work in England and Spain for a variety of book publishers and magazines. She has just inaugurated her new exhibition in Barcelona, after winning an award in the last edition of Foto Pres in Spain.

GOOD NEWS

BUE NAS NOT ICIAS PARA GENTE QUE USA EL DINERO PARA DIVERTIRSE FOR PEOPLE

WHO USE THEIR MONEY TO ENJOY THEMSELVES

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Adiós al dolor

A finales del año pasado, investigadores del Instituto Pasteur de París revelaron que habían descubierto en la saliva humana “una sustancia calmante del dolor (la llamaron opiorfina) que podía ser hasta seis veces más potente que la morfina”. A partir de entonces, otros centros de investigación han iniciado pruebas para tratar de sintetizar dicho analgésico y vender la patente a algún laboratorio farmacéutico. Roos A. y Frank R. participaron como voluntarios en un estudio realizado en Ámsterdam. “No sabemos cuál fue el resultado”, dijeron, aunque añadieron que cuando alguno sufre algún golpe o le duele la cabeza “nos buscamos de inmediato para besarnos durante horas”. Roos añadió: “Yo llamo a Frank incluso cuando alguien ha hecho algún comentario que me ha dolido”.

Bye-bye pain

Towards the end of last year, researchers at the Institut Pasteur in Paris revealed that they had discovered in human saliva “a painsoothing substance (they called it opiorphin) up to six times stronger than morphine.” Since then, various research centres have launched tests to try to synthesize said analgesic and sell the patent to a pharmaceutical company. Roos A. and Frank R. participated as volunteers in a clinical study in Amsterdam. “We don’t know the results,” they said, but added that if one of them gets hurt or has a headache, “we immediately get together and kiss for hours on end.”

Roos revealed: “I even call Frank when somebody has made some comment that hurt me.”

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good news

Doloroso caballero es Don Dinero

Visiones de gran altura

Lo mejor que puedes hacer en un vuelo de corta duración es leer: el diario, una carta de amor, la cuenta de tu dentista o Ling (afortunado de ti, que lo estás haciendo). Otra opción, si te ha tocado el asiento de la ventana, es leer el paisaje. Echa un vistazo hacia abajo. ¿Reconoces algo? ¿La sinuosa línea que ves allí, es un río o una carretera? ¿Un bosque o un campo de maíz? Gregory Dicum, autor del libro Window Seat Europe, tiene todas las respuestas. Dice, por ejemplo, que “en París puedes ver antiguos caminos romanos desde el aire” o que “las plantas son diferentes según en qué partes de los cerros crecen”. Después de leer y ver las increíbles imágenes de este libro, tu visión de Europa no volverá a ser la misma. También puedes contactar a Dicum en www.windowseat.info

Telling roads from rivers

The best thing to do on a short-haul flight is read. You could read a newspaper, your dentist’s latest bill, old love letters, or Ling (as you’re doing). Alternatively, if you’ve managed to get a window seat, you could read the landscape. Take a look now – do you recognise anything? Is that a river over there, or a road? A cornfield or a forest? You better ask Gregory Dicum, who has written a book on the subject. He will tell you things like, “plants grow differently on different sides of a mountain” or “in France, you can still see some ancient Roman roads from the air” or “the salt-evaporating ponds in Ibiza often look red from natural bacteria”. For more hints on how to decipher the landscape from 3,000 metres, read his book, Window Seat Europe. More information at www.windowseat.info

Una malhumorada mujer de Alicante, cuyo nombre permanecerá en secreto, vio cómo su furia crecía cuando se dio cuenta de que el autobús que esperaba no llegó a tiempo. Cuando finalmente llegó a la parada, la mujer empezó a gritar al conductor, un joven inexperto que se negó a contestarle y simplemente apartó la mirada, murmurante. Visiblemente enfadada, la mujer vació el contenido de su monedero en su mano, lanzó un puñado de monedas a la cara del conductor y fue a buscar un asiento libre.

Money hurts

In Alicante, a rather bad-tempered lady whose name shall remain secret got increasingly frustrated when the bus she was waiting for did not arrive on time. When it finally pulled up at the stop, she started shouting at the driver who – young and rather inexperienced – refused to answer and simply looked away, mumbling. Positively furious, the woman emptied the contents of her pu rse i n her hand and threw a handful of coins right in the driver’s face.

She then went to look for a free seat.

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¿Qué es verde y mide cuatro metros?

Ningún monstruo venido del espacio exterior. Algo mucho más simpático y comestible: un espárrago. En Málaga, un policía sevillano que buscaba trigueros campestres dio con el hallazgo, que medía cuatro metros y pesaba 19 kilos. Al llegar a casa, el afortunado recolector lo metió en la bañera, a fin de conservarlo. “Le he cogido cariño, no me lo quiero comer”, dijo. La redacción de Ling ignora si la popular marca Cojonudos ha tentado con su compra al sevillano; lo que sí es seguro es que la hortaliza merece tal apelativo.

What is green and four metres long?

Not some monster from outer space. It is quite nice and edible: an asparagus. A policeman from Seville who was looking for wild asparagus in Malaga discovered one measuring four metres and weighing 19 kilos. When he arrived home, the lucky harvester put it into the bathtub in order to preserve it. “I’ve taken a liking to it; I don’t want to eat it,” he said. We at Ling don’t know whether the popular Spanish asparagus brand Cojonudos (“Fantastic”) has put in an offer; we do believe, however, that the vegetable would deserve that name.

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buenas noticias

Lentas pero ruidosas

El amor entre tortugas también existe y puede ser apasionado.

El napolitano G. De Lucca dijo al juez que se veía obligado a poner una denuncia a una pareja de reptiles por “alboroto nocturno”. El acorazado ‘matrimonio’ habita el jardín contiguo al del demandante y, al parecer, en épocas de procreación pasa sus noches practicando la actividad más antigua del mundo, con el consiguiente choque de caparazones. Pero el dueño de las tortugas ya ganó la disputa.

Agentes de la policía se personaron para medir los decibelios del acto y concluyeron que no era para tanto; en todo caso, dijeron, estaban “en excelente condición física”.

Love’s labour

Turtles can fall in love, too, and passionately so. G. De Lucca, from Naples, said he was forced to report on two reptiles for “nightly disturbances”. The armour-plated couple lives in the garden adjoining the claimant’s, and apparently they spend their nights during procreation period enjoying the world’s oldest activity, which causes their shells to collide. But the turtles’ owner won the case. Police agents came to measure the level of decibels and determined that the whole thing wasn’t that bad; in any case, they said the two were “in excellent shape”.

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Estuvo al loro

Piera y Francesco T. eran un matrimonio estable en Pisa, hasta que su loro alteró las cosas. Piera cuenta que a Ugo (así se llama el ave) “siempre le gustó imitar la voz de Fran. Puede hacerlo de modo casi perfecto”.

La sospecha vino una tarde en la que Ugo se puso a decir frases inconexas, imitando un tono más cariñoso que el habitual en Francesco e insistiendo en un nombre: Lena. La irritada esposa revolvió cajones, hasta que encontró dos pasajes de avión para un fin de semana en París, a nombre de Francesco y de una misteriosa Magdalena. “Ya le eché de casa”, dijo. “A Fran.

Porque el loro, eso sí, se queda conmigo.”

Inconvenient witness

Piera and Francesco T. were a happi ly married couple i n Pisa, until their parrot changed things. Piera tells us that the bi rd Ugo “always loved i m itating Fran’s voice. He does it nearly perfectly.” She became suspicious, however, when one afternoon Ugo started saying random sentences in a much more affectionate tone than the

Justicia canina

one Francesco tends to use, and repeating the name Lena. The irritated wife searched through all the drawers until she found two plane tickets to Paris, issued for Francesco and a so-called

¿Quién dijo que la ley era aburrida? Un juez de Barcelona adornó su sentencia a una denuncia de daños y perjuicios aludiendo al clásico de Disney La dama y el vagabundo, película en la que dos perros se enamoran. El juez dio la razón a una mujer que presenció junto a sus dos hijos la muerte de su cachorrito devorado por un pastor alemán y la compensó con 2.000€ por daños. Más tarde comentó: “Como Walt Disney dijo al principio de La dama y el vagabundo, si hay algo que el dinero no puede comprar es el movimiento de la cola de un perro”.

Magdalena. “I kicked him out already,” she told Ling. “Fran, that is. Because the parrot stays with me, that’s for sure.”

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Canine justice

Who ever said that law was dull? A Barcelona judge coloured his sentence in a recent damages claim citing the Walt Disney film Lady and the Tramp, a classic in which two dogs fall in love. The judge awarded a woman whose puppy was killed by a German Shepherd in front of her and her two children €2,000 in damages. “As Walt Disney said in the beginning of Lady and the Tramp, if there is anything that money can’t buy, it’s the movement of a dog’s tail,” he explained his sentence.

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good news

buenas noticias

El secreto de Ram

O Rei

Un ciudadano de Lisboa se encontraba en un museo de Pekín cuando, para su sorpresa y tan lejos de casa, vio en un lugar destacado un retrato del presidente de Portugal. Su extrañeza aumentó cuando se acercó a leer la placa explicativa, que rezaba lacónicamente: “Rey de España”. Siguió mirando carteles de aquella habitación y casi ningún mandatario se correspondía con su país. ¿Broma o negligencia? “En cualquier caso, los responsables del museo se comprometieron a subsanarlo”, comentó, aún desconcertado, al volver a Lisboa.

All the King’s Men

A Lisbon resident was visiting a museum in Beijing when, to his surprise, he saw a portrait of the Portuguese president. His astonishment increased when he came closer to read the explanatory plaque, which said laconically: “King of Spain”. Looking around him, he realised that the room was full of state leaders’ portraits, and that nearly none of the plaques corresponded to the painting. Joke or negligence? “The museum administration has promised me to rectify it,” he said, still slightly taken aback, on his return to Lisbon.

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“Me llamo Miguel y soy portugués. De profesión, diseñador; aunque dejé todo para ser un artista callejero. De eso hace ya unos diez años. Todo el mundo, en todas partes, me conoce como ‘Ram’. ¿Por qué ‘Ram’? Es una larga historia que se remonta a cuando era niño.

Como era fanático de Indiana Jones, una vez les dije a mis amigos, muy decidido, que de mayor iba a ser arqueólogo. Ninguno me tomó muy en serio; al contrario, la idea les hizo mucha gracia y empezaron a decir que algún día descubriría patatas en la tumba de Ramsés.

Insistieron tanto que hasta ahora, que tengo 30, aún me llaman ‘Ramsés’, aunque para la mayoría soy simplemente ‘Ram’, porque también lo adopté como seudónimo para firmar mis pinturas (Ramsés era demasiado largo). Con el tiempo, ‘Ram’ ha tomado un nuevo significado: ‘Rapid Aerosol Movement’, lo cual tiene sentido porque ese tipo de arte me interesa. Si preguntas por Miguel a cualquiera de por aquí, quizá nadie sepa de quién hablas. Pero si dices ‘Ram’, será otra cosa.”

My nickname is... Ram

“My real name is Miguel and I’m from Lisbon. I used to be a designer but I gave that up to become a street artist. That was over 10 years ago. Everyone calls me Ram. The origin of that nickname lies in my childhood. I was a big fan of Indiana Jones, so one day I decided that, when I grew up, I was going to be an archaeologist. Of course, no-one took me seriously and people made fun of me, saying I would discover potatoes in Ramses’ tomb. The joke stuck, and still today – I’m 30 now – I am known everywhere by the name Ramsés. Well, actually most people call me Ram now. I started using it as my tag name for painting. Ramsés was simply too long. Meanwhile, I also gave Ram a new meaning: Rapid Aerosol Movement. It fits and makes sense. So if you ask anyone if they know Miguel’s work, they’ll have no idea. Ram, however, has become quite well-known.

Busco gente para hacer ‘footing’ o ir en bici por el Jardín del Turia

Este anuncio fue publicado por Carlos Z. D., de Valencia, el miércoles 2 de mayo: Me gustaría encontrar a una persona con la cual poder salir un par de días a la semana, por la tarde, al Jardín del Turia para practicar footing o ir en bici. Soy chico,

tengo 34 años y mi único interés es practicar un poco de deporte acompañado, pues solo es muy aburrido.

Y ésta es la historia detrás del anuncio: “Trabajo como economista en una empresa pública y siempre he hecho deporte. Con ocho años empecé a jugar a fútbol en el equipo de mi colegio y hasta los 23 estuve en diferentes clubes, en torneos amateur. Después hice un cursillo de arbitraje. Me inicié con partidos de niños y poco a poco fui ascendiendo de categoría hasta llegar a la tercera división española; en total, 12 años en activo. Desgraciadamente, por una serie de circunstancias personales, he tenido que dejar el mundo del arbitraje. Por eso, acostumbrado a los ejercicios físicos, sentía que me faltaba algo con que llenar mis tardes libres.

De ahí surgió la idea de poner el anuncio, y en un par de días recibí el correo de una chica polaca que trabaja y realiza sus prácticas de carrera en Valencia. Ella estaba interesada en el tenis, pero yo jamás en mi vida lo he jugado, así que hicimos un trato: ella me enseñaba, y yo le mostraba Valencia y los alrededores de la ciudad en bicicleta.

Ahora estoy avanzando lentamente en materia tenística.”

Looking for someone to go running or cycling with in Turia gardens This ad was published on 2nd May by Carlos Z.D. from Valencia: I’d like to meet someone to go running or cycling with a couple of days per week, in the evening, in Turia gardens. I’m male, 34 years

old and my only interest is to do sport in company, because alone is rather boring.

And this is the story behind the ad: “I’m an economist in a public company and have always done sports.

At the age of 8 I started playing football at school, and I played for different clubs in the amateur league until I was 23. Afterwards, I trained to become a referee. I started with children’s matches and slowly moved up until I was in the third Spanish league; 12 years, all in all. Unfortunately I’ve had to quit refereeing because of a series of personal issues. But I was used to physical exercise, so I felt that I needed something to do in my spare evenings. That’s how I thought of posting the ad, and only a few days later I received a reply from a Polish girl who works and does an internship in Valencia. She was interested in tennis, but I had never played it, so we made a deal: she would teach me, and I would show her Valencia and its surroundings by bike. So now I’m slowly making progress in tennis.”

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videLaing vu

Guillermo Ocaña va al Partenón

Es el monumento histórico que siempre ha soñado conocer. Lo ha visto muchas veces en sus clases de la Universidad Complutense de Madrid (donde estudia Historia Griega) y en su habitación tiene hasta una réplica en miniatura que le regaló su novia.

Ahora, con cinco compañeros de curso, viajará a Atenas en uno de los primeros vuelos que Vueling ha inaugurado desde Barajas. Piensa visitar museos, ir a la playa, beber el famoso Greek frappé coffee y, por fin, el Partenón. “Estoy un poco nervioso”, admite, como si en lugar de un viaje de placer fuese a pedir la mano de su novia.

Vueling carried nearly 2 million passengers from Jan - May this year, 78.73% more than in the same period

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Say goodbye to washing-up liquid José Luis Iriarte from Malaga washes his dishes with vegetable ashes “because most washing-up liquids contain damaging compounds that end up in rivers and the ground water”. He explains that his wife Paula introduced a number of “domestic ecological measures”: they use biodegradable detergents (free of phosphate), soap bars without additives and vinegar to clean the floor. “And we don’t buy shampoo in small bottles to avoid throwing away a lot of plastic,” he says, and adds with a worried look on his face that every European consumes about 20 kilos of detergents per year. Paula also urges him to buy products that carry the Ecolabel (“the European certificate”) as another way to keep down environmental pollution.

Bautizo en el Charles de Gaulle Hace unos días hubo una fiesta en el Pavillon de Réception del aeropuerto CDG de París. Gran fiesta. Primero hubo un bautizo, luego el brindis con champagne y, para amenizar, un grupo de majorettes empezó a tocar clásicos de la música parisina. ¿A qué se debió tanta celebración en un aeropuerto? Resulta que Vueling acaba de inaugurar su primera base internacional en París, lo cual la convierte en la primera aerolínea española con una base fuera de España. Ahora se podrá volar con Vueling de París a Ámsterdam, Venecia, Milán, Roma, Barcelona, Madrid, Valencia, Sevilla, Santiago, Málaga, Alicante e Ibiza. Anfitriones e invitados comentaron que la compañía “ha crecido increíblemente” en tan sólo tres años (desde su creación en 2004).

The pleasure of being the first The new cabin of the Airbus-320 is much better than its predecessor, say those who have already travelled in it. One stewardess explained her experience: “The lighting is different, it creates a warmer and more pleasant atmosphere; there is more room for hand luggage; the reading lights and seating signs have been completely redesigned; it has a more stylised line, more comfort in general and, maybe most importantly, noticeably less noise inside the cabin.”

The first airline to use the improved version of the Airbus-320 is Vueling.

Alicante, Amsterdam, Athens, Barcelona, Bilbao, Brussels, Granada, Ibiza, Jerez, Lisbon, Madrid, Malaga, Mallorca, Menorca, Milan, Naples, Paris, Pisa, Rome, Santiago, Sevilla, Valencia, Venice.

23 cities, listed alphabetically, that you can discover in any order you like.

Málaga ya vuela directamente a Ámsterdam y a París (a sus aeropuertos principales). La primera conexión se inauguró el 17 de mayo, y la segunda, el 21 de junio.

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hello!

! e h LLo

granada

Entrevistas de Kati Krause Fotografías de Paola de Grenet

Estas ocho personas anduvieron por la plaza Realejo de Granada el lunes 7 de mayo de 2007, entre las 14 y las 16 horas. Aquí cuentan de dónde vienen. Y adónde van

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These eight people passed Realejo square in Granada on Monday, 7th May 2007, between 2pm and 4pm. Here they tell where they come from.

And where they’re going

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hello!

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hello!

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hello!

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hello!

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hello!

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hello!

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eye view

diario

l a u Rit

Three newspaper kiosks (that also sell magazines, films, sweets, soft drinks,

Tres quioscos de periódicos (y revistas, libros, películas, golosinas, refrescos,

collectibles, etc.). Together with fresh croissants, there is no morning ritual as pleasant as coming back home with a newspaper under your arm. Antònia, maría and Giuseppe know that better than anyone.

coleccionables, etc.). Junto con los cruasanes para el desayuno, no hay ritual matutino tan placentero como volver a casa con el diario bajo el brazo. Antònia, maría y Giuseppe lo saben mejor que nadie.

Palma

Antònia · Quiosco Reina · Passeig

del Born, 15

Valencia

María · Plaza de la Reina, quiosco número 19

Roma

Giuseppe · Edicola di giornali della Piazza Cairo 30 LING

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nd bar-

bject (or

Sunday Elena.

up again

ffer him ects for efulness

finding were on

shared

swappingis priceless

If you take money out of the flea market, every buyer becomes a seller and an object is worth whatever you’re willing to give for it Text by Kati Krause  Photos by Leonardo Faccio

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show me the money

Imagine a flea market: a mad clutter of old alarm clocks and cheap electronics, junk and gems, chandeliers and cowboy boots, and between the array of objects, there is the shouting and bartering of sellers and potential customers.

Now take money out of the equation, and every buyer becomes a seller and value takes on a subjective character. That is bartering: you exchange one good or object (or even service) for another one you’re interested in.

Ever year in spring, Helena from Barcelona makes flyers and sends them out via email, spreading the word: it’s time for the Trueketrón (‘trueque’ in Spanish means barter). One Sunday evening in mid-June, about 30 people came together on the terrace of her Barcelona flat. They brought everything they didn’t want or need anymore: clothes, books, toys, bags and lots of kitsch.

Regularly, objects that someone exchanged the previous year show up again as their current owner has decided it is time to swap them for something else.

People spread their possessions all over the terrace and mark them with their name; so if somebody is interested in, say, Josele’s jeans, he or she simply has to find Josele and offer him something in return. If Josele doesn’t like any of the objects he is offered, the person who wants the jeans must first swap one of their objects for something that Josele will accept. At some point, there were 15 people locked in a chain of bartering, haggling over objects and trying to convince each other of the beauty and usefulness of whatever they were offering.

“You don’t really need any of this stuff,” said one attendant who had just swapped a CD of his own music for a pair of mint-green curtains with a quilt pattern. “It’s about finding something you like. And some of these things make great presents.” He went off to examine a pair of Captain Hook-style costume hooks that were on display next to some porcelain elephants and a set of ping-pong bats.

But it’s not just about bartering: people bring food and drinks and sit together in the ‘chill-out area’, chatting. “The Trueketrón helps you to do things without money, or at least to get rid of the idea that without money you can’t ‘own’,” explains Helena. “And while we’re here, we have a good time and meet new people.”

Barter all over Europe Amsterdam: Exchange services at www.noppes.nl Barcelona: Barter market, Plaça de la Virreina. Every Sunday before the official change of season. Or email Helena to take part in the next Trueketrón: trueketron@gmail.com Madrid: Trueque en Acción · www.ecologistasenaccion.org Naples: Associazione Bidonville, Via G. Summonte, 17 · www.fieradelbarattoedellusato.it Paris: Association Les Buttes à Morel · Tel. +33 0680215228 Sevilla: La Talega, Asociación de Consumo Ético · www.palimpalem.com/latalega Valencia: La Casa del Temps · www.casadeltemps.org

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a c S u b en del

o r eso tesco ndido mi mundo en Málaga

Fotografías de Ryan Gratzer

“Hola, nuestro nombre oficial es Federación Andaluza de Detección Deportiva, y nacimos en enero de este año.

Formamos parte de la Federación Española de Asociaciones de Detectoaficionados, FEEADA, compuesta por quince asociaciones. La sede está en Málaga; yo me llamo Germán Rodríguez y soy su presidente. A veces, al comentar nuestra afición, nos miran con cara de sorpresa y tenemos que explicar lo que hacemos. Nuestras cinco actividades autorizadas son: búsqueda de minerales metálicos, de objetos perdidos, campeonatos, colaboraciones y descontaminaciones.”

“Los últimos meses han sido muy moviditos, con todo el lío del barco inglés Sussex en Algeciras, que guarda el mayor tesoro sumergido del que se tiene noticia. No vamos a comentar el caso, pero creemos que las cosas se podrían haber hecho mejor.”

“Nosotros no buscamos restos arqueológicos ni entramos en zonas restringidas, sembradas, protegidas o privadas sin permiso del dueño. Hay un código ético muy estricto; llevamos carné y permiso certificado. Elegimos normalmente la playa, el campo o los ríos (en el caso de la bateo-detección de pepitas de oro). Usamos detectores de metales, bateas de plástico e instrumentos para cavar: el escardillo, el almocafre, la chapulina, la picaza (que en cada sitio los llaman de manera diferente).”

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show me the money

Quizá te encuentres con uno de ellos un día, bien temprano, paseando por la playa o la montaña.

Notarás, curioso, su mirada concentrada, barriendo el terreno con aparatos extraños. Te saludarán a lo lejos y seguirán con lo suyo. No buscan fortunas pero, para ellos, cada pitido de sus detectores es un posible tesoro.

Germán Rodríguez nos cuenta por qué

“Dejamos todo tal como lo encontramos. A veces incluso mejor, porque las pilas y metales tóxicos que encontramos los llevamos a reciclar. Respetamos el entorno natural: formaciones geológicas, especies botánicas, zonas de nidos o cría. Nuestra afición es inocua, y resulta interesante para la ecología y nuestra historia cultural.”

“Cuando uno empieza con esto, le echa bastantes horas. Va por rachas. Tras ‘la fiebre’, se toma con más calma. Un aficionado estándar sale de tres a seis veces al mes. Te llevas sustos; en zonas de la Guerra Civil te puedes encontrar artefactos sin explotar. Hay que avisar a la Guardia Civil y ¡no tocar nada! Una vez encontramos un Dos Caballos oculto en mitad de un olivar. ¿Cómo llegó allí? Vete a saber.”

“Nos llaman maquinistas, detectoristas, ‘piteros’, detectoaficionados. Esto no se hace por dinero; es una afición. Existe un anhelo (cualquier ser humano lo tiene) de encontrar cosas perdidas. También cuenta el buen rato que compartes con los amigos, en sana competencia. Sólo en Málaga somos más de 100, y a veces se hacen quedadas. Hay más hombres que mujeres, en una razón de 10 a 1, más o menos. Tal vez porque se hace un poco duro eso de andar por el campo, cavando, ensuciándote las manos. Otros dicen que es porque la mujer suele ser más práctica y el hombre tiene más pájaros en la cabeza. Y como esto es mucho imaginar y poco lograr...”

“El Reino Unido es el país europeo con más tradición. Allí hay unas 200 asociaciones que al año recuperan más de 70.000 objetos antiguos perdidos. Los ciudadanos pueden ver cuáles son en la base de datos del PAS (Portable Antiquities Scheme), su proyecto oficial de recuperación, patrocinado por el British Museum, el Ministerio de Cultura y Deportes y las dos Federaciones de Detectoaficionados, entre otros. En España, de las 24 que hay, 15 están en nuestra Federación.”

“Para orientarnos no usamos nada demasiado científico; el truco es tener referencias físicas, aunque el GPS ayuda a los menos ‘boy-scouts’. Solemos quedar bien temprano, por aquello de ir con la fresca en fines de semana de verano. Escogemos una zona y la peinamos. Al terminar, el que ha tenido más suerte invita a una cerveza. Qué menos.” www.detectomania.com

El que busca, encuentra Comunidad y debates: www.detectoaficionados.com Base de datos de todos los objetos encontrados en Inglaterra: www.finds.org.uk Directorio cartográfico español, o cómo llegar a cualquier rincón: www.dices.net Hacerse con un buen equipo: www.eurodetection.com Especializados en monedas: www.tesorillo.com LING 37

De su primera etapa como taxista, cuando era sólo un veinteañero, a Ángel López Saguar le quedó una espina clavada: poder registrar de alguna forma las cosas que le ocurrían o le contaba la gente. Después transcurrió una etapa en la que trabajó en publicidad y publicó tres discos (es músico profesional por encima de todo).

Pero cuando supo que volvería a hacer taxi, decidió que era la oportunidad que estaba esperando para saldar esa antigua deuda consigo mismo.

Aquella vez, en lugar de una grabadora de audio o vídeo, apostó por una cámara fotográfica, y así estuvo durante cuatro años, capturando imágenes con ojos de testigo.

En 2005 publicó una selección de esas fotos en el libro Madrid, licencia para mirar (Ediciones La Libería).

Ahora, con nuevas imágenes, no descarta empezar a alistar una segunda parte.

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el dinero no lo es Fotografías de Ángel López Saguar Textos de Leticia Timón

o d O t Las fotos de Ángel López Saguar, un taxista en Madrid que conduce su coche para ganarse la vida, pero sobre todo para registrarla

“Con este trabajo pue de s c onocer a mucha gente i nteresante, y si a demás ha ces una carrera larga, h ay muc ho s q ue t e c uent a n t o d a su vida.” La chica vestida de geisha, por ejemplo, acababa de llegar de Japón y le contó que el la también era fotógrafa profesional en su país.

Por otro lado, “la gente famosa (Almodóvar, Estopa, Marta Sánchez) no suele poner reparos cuando les pides una foto. Imanol Arias conocía a m i hermano de u na ca mpa ña de publicidad que hicieron juntos, así que cuando subió al taxi, llamé por teléfono a mi hermano y se pusieron a hablar.”

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Esquina clásica de Madrid: la del cine Capitol en La Gran Vía. Los ojos de los modelos de los carteles parecen mirar directamente a su cámara.

Un beso en Barajas.

“Yo no miro la foto, es la foto la que me mira a mí. Supongo que debe ser también una cuestión de instinto y de ir fijándote en lo que hay alrededor, porque nunca sabes la sorpresa con la que vas a encontrarte.”

A veces todo tiene su explicación.

En este caso, los encargados de un espectáculo de caballos que se presentaba en la ciudad solían sacarlos a última hora de la tarde para que les diera el aire. “Yo lo sabía, y fui a propósito para fotografiarlos.”

Desf ile de novias pa ra l a fot óg rafa Bet h Moyses, qu ien prepa raba u na ex posición para el PhotoEspaña de hace unos pocos años. Ángel pa sa ba t a m bié n por allí e hizo su propia fotografía.

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No era primavera ni otoño, sino un calurosísimo dom i ngo de vera no en u na plaza del centro de Madrid.

“Y entonces las vi, con sus rebequ itas, tan juntitas, t a n est up end a s, que me parecieron encantadoras.”

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“A veces, las escenas cotidianas dan lugar a las imágenes más curiosas, interesantes o sensacionales. Los car teles publ icitarios dan mucho juego en este sentido.”

“Cualquier persona o situación puede ser protagonista de una foto”, dice Ángel. Al principio usaba una cámara ref lex, con lentes profesionales, que ahora ha cambiado por una compacta digital.

El pasado y el presente se u nen de forma insospechada. Los circuitos ‘ teat ra l i za dos’ que se realizan en Madrid permiten jugar con el tiempo, como estos goyescos de hace dos siglos que conviven con los peatones actuales.

Madrid regala detal les cu riosos, por lo que Á ngel prefiere esperar a no llevar a nadie en su taxi para fotografiarlos. Aunque a veces no ha podido resistir la tentación de sacar la cámara delante de un pasajero e inmortalizar el momento.

LING 45

for the love of money Text by Kati Krause Photos by Paola de Grenet

photography by antónio nascimento

Geovanny u. Castañeda loves coins. That’s why he collects them and turns them into little works of art.

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As a child in Puerto Rico, Geovanny used to dream of treasures: big chests full of gold coins. 40 years later, he has amassed his own treasure, although he keeps it in a backpack rather than a chest. And instead of guarding his treasure jealously, he hollows out the coins and sells them.

Geovanny doesn’t know how many coins he has, but his collection weighs about 25 kilos. He started collecting them about five years ago and brought them all the way from Hamburg to Alcalá la Real, in the Spanish province Jaén, and four months ago to Granada, where he lives now. There, he sits in cafés or in the street, bent over a little jigsaw and cutting patiently away. For him, it’s like meditation and the more intricate the coin, the better. Finishing one can take 45 minutes or several days, depending on design and material.

People buy his coins when they see him at work, or bring their own coins of sentimental value to him to be worked on.

In total, he has cut around 4,500 coins, and sold nearly all

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of them. In Germany, a Nazi once asked him to hollow out a coin from the Third Reich. Geovanny obliged, in return for €500; however, he cut out the Swastika symbol completely and stuck it to the frame with glue. “The first time it got wet, the coin fell apart,” he giggled.

His favourite pieces are a unique Pakistani coin from 1948, and the Irish 2p, for the fine Celtic symbol and beautiful metal it was made from. His most valuable one is a 100-year-old coin from the German Reich. His collection contains many old coins that are not produced anymore, and some valuable collectibles, although he doesn’t work on those.

Geovanny always wears a coin around his neck – in the photo, one from former Rhodesia (today Zimbabwe). He never sells a coin he has worn, but gives it to someone special.

If you would like to get in touch with Geovanny or enquire about a special coin, email him at gcastaneda@gmx.de

LING 49

photography by antónio nascimento

¿Cuánto cuesta cambiar de vida?

50 LING

Anna Callau y Pablo Rey dejaron casa, trabajo, familia y amigos para dar la vuelta al mundo. En un principio pensaron que lo conseguirían en cuatro años, pero han pasado siete desde que salieron de Barcelona y aún no han completado su recorrido. Lo único que tienen claro es cuánto les ha costado el viaje hasta ahora: 700€ mensuales, el precio por el que alquilan su piso Texto y fotografías de Leonardo Faccio LING 51

SHOW me the money

El oficio de Pablo Rey era vender ideas. Es guionista publicitario, llegó a fundar su propia agencia y antes de cumplir los 35 años había ganado algunos premios y el dinero suficiente para comprarse un piso en Barcelona. Pero dice que la mejor idea de su vida se le ocurrió a Anna Callau, su novia: cambiar de vida, dejar lo que tenían hasta ese momento y dar la vuelta al mundo. “No tiene que ser costoso”, pensaron, y después de hacer algunos cálculos dieron con un cifra austera y bastante aproximada que, siete años después, ya saben que necesitan de media para recorrer el planeta: 700€ cada mes.

Cuando salieron de casa, en el año 2000, estaban convencidos de estar dejando atrás también sus rutinas laborales, la vida sedentaria, el estrés urbano. Anna había estudiado Empresariales y siempre había tenido una vida tranquila, muy casera, casi sin moverse de Barcelona. En cuanto a Pablo, a pesar de haber venido de Argentina, también se sentía perfectamente instalado y cómodo en su ciudad adoptiva. “Pero ya me veía: publicista consagrado, con un puro en la boca, y yo no quería eso. Quería conocer el mundo. Es así: cuando vas detrás de tu sueño, luego viene lo demás”.

El dinero que ahora les basta para vivir proviene del alquiler de dos apartamentos que Pablo compró durante su mejor época. Por eso cuando vuelven a Barcelona, una vez al año, no tienen donde dormir. Esta vez no ha sido distinto. Ambos me reciben en casa de

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la madre de Anna, un sexto piso en el barrio de Sagrera que hace las veces de lugar de descanso, búnker para planear el próximo trayecto y almacén de recuerdos, pues allí también guardan todas las cosas que han comprado o sencillamente les han regalado desde que iniciaron el viaje. En cajas de cartón tienen tapices, botas, piezas de coche y una colección de 1.400 botellas. “¡Son su tesoro!”, exclama Anna como una advertencia ante cualquier comentario sobre Pablo y su cargamento de botellas.

Cuando comenzaron, pensaban completar el recorrido en cuatro años. Pero desde los cuatro meses se dieron cuenta de que eso sería totalmente imposible. “Nos encariñábamos con la gente que nos invitaba a sus casas, y así nos fuimos retrasando”, cuenta Anna. Desde entonces han transcurrido siete años, y esperan no pasar de diez (“aunque nunca se sabe en estos casos”).

Lo único que tienen claro es que les falta Europa, el continente más costoso, y para ello han pensado en otra idea: “El trueque”, dice Pablo, y extrae un libro que piensan intercambiar (o vender, ¿por qué no?) en el camino. Se titula La vuelta al mundo en 10 años y son sus memorias de viaje: historias de aventuras (o a veces de peligro) que también aparecen en www.4x4x4continentes.com, y que algún día esperan publicar en otro volumen de mayor formato.

“Por ahora somos ricos en tiempo para cumplir nuestro sueño, y eso, por el momento, es suficiente.”

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LING 53

SHOW ME THE MONEY

memoirs of a full time player IN CASINOS IN PARIS (AND ALL OVER THE WORLD)

An interview by Renée Kantor Photography by Eric Harkins

Isabelle Mercier is a poker player. And not just in her free time: it’s her job. She travels the world, free of attachments and with a clear conscience. She has won about €400,000 in the last three years. She doesn’t play for the money (well, she does a bit, of course) but rather for the pleasure of winning.

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SHOW ME THE MONEY

Isabelle’s first great victory occurred at the age of three. While her cousins were playing with toy cars and dolls, she would hang around with the grown-ups watching them play cards. She was then to experience the adrenalin rush of winning.

“I particularly remember one night I was in a good position to win the 70 dollars that were on the table. I only had five measly coins so I asked my father if I could borrow some money. He said no. So, I took the risk and I won!”

Now, at the age of 31, Isabelle Mercier doesn’t have a car, a house, bills to pay or even a partner. Since January 2004, she has been frequenting the best casinos in the world with just two bags that she leaves with security, a laptop and her favourite book, Ask and ye shall receive by Pierre Morency.

So what is it that you want from life?

“To be the world champion poker player.”

Poker is an act of faith and persistence. She’s 1.58m tall, weighs 42 kilos and has earned about €400,000 over the last three years.

But living from poker is not easy. She remembers a day when she lost €2,000 in only 30 minutes. It was like someone had stabbed her in the back and kept twisting it in further for... about 40 hours.

She only left the table once she had made her money back (€2,005 to be exact). In a trance-like state, she returned to her room and slept for two days straight. Sticking to your guns has its repercussions.

She lost €2,000 in only 30 minutes. It was like someone had stabbed her in the back and kept twisting it in further for... about 40 hours On the great Champs-Elysées you find yourself among luxury clothes stores interspersed with fast food chains. I find myself at number 104. A discrete door made of opaque glass framed by two towering men who guard the ‘temple’. Seeing the signs for Backgammon, Black Jack, Baccarat, Rummy and Poker I reassure my-

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self I am in the right place. It’s the Aviation Club de France, one of the most prestigious playing circles in the world, especially since it included poker on its list in 1995. I walk up the stairs, hand in my ID and, after crossing a great big curtain of smoke, Isabelle appears.

She has chestnut brown hair, pale skin with a few freckles on her cheeks, and her turquoise eyes fix themselves on me as a long distance runner might gaze at the finish line. She’s nice. She smiles. I know she has just given me the once over in just a few seconds. She can’t help it. A poker player’s instinct never leaves you.

“I have such a highly sensitised type of perception that sometimes it’s too much. Lots of people like having a coffee and watching the world go by. I can’t because when I look at people, I see thousands of things; I imagine what they’re like, if they’re happy or not.”

Isabelle pronounces her ‘r’s like the French but the musicality with which she sings her vowels betrays her Canadian roots. She was born in Victoriaville, a small town between Quebec and Montreal. Only child in a middle-class family, she was always a spritely kid, with a clear idea of who she was and, most of all, a passionate liking for cards. In her family, playing cards was part of the routine and she preferred to have a good hand than to play with her dolls.

“As a kid, what I liked about poker was the social aspect, being with the grown-ups. What I like about it now is the challenge of never completely being in control of the situation. It’s an easy game to learn, the rules are simple. It’s all about seeing who is best at controlling the minds of their opponent. When I have a good hand or I manage to bluff well, I can almost feel myself vibrating with excitement!”

Thanks to poker, she feels more alert, alive and most of all, stronger. She decided to study Law because all of her peers went to university and to dedicate one’s life to poker wasn’t well looked upon. During the day she slept. At night, life would regain its pulse: she worked as a croupière in the Montreal casino until six in the morning. She admits that she spent more time sleeping in than taking notes at the L’École du Barreau, a prestigious law school, and that she only passed thanks to a friend giving her all her notes.

“That’s how I managed to pass all my exams, and can you believe it... my friend who always went to class failed!” At 24, a qualified lawyer, she started her first job in a firm and ran away after just 20 minutes.

“Wake up really early? Wear a suit? Punch in? The same routine day in day out? Answer to a boss? Never!”

After breaking her contract, she sold her car and with what little she had, she went to Paris. Officially, she went to study for a Master’s degree at the University of Sorbonne, but in reality, that was just an excuse to change her way of life. Her studies were the only concession she made to her true passion: the hunger to have experiences so much more intense than most would ever have in their lives. For five years she worked as the public relations manager for the very same Aviation Club de France where they now spoil her as if she were a precious jewel. And she must be one, as she is one of the few poker players to have her own sponsor: PokerStar, a website

and true ‘Hall of Fame’ of the heroes of the game. Here, she has seen some of the big name players pass through, like the Danish Gus Hansen, one of her coaches, or the Chinese Johnny Chan, also known for his cameo in the film Rounders, which starred Matt Damon and John Malkovich.

In those years, Isabelle dreamt of a stroke of luck like Chris Moneymaker’s (there are some names that have a ring of destiny in them, aren’t there?), who in 2003 bet $40 on a gambling website and by the time he turned off the computer had won $2.5 million.

The free time that Isabelle spent on learning her craft were to benefit her in November 2002, when she won her first big prize: 53,697€ at the Master Classics of Poker in Amsterdam, with which she ‘assaulted’ Paris’s chicest of chic clothes shops afterwards!

Her surname, Mercier, and her aggressive way of playing have led to the nickname No Mercy

What would you say was your relationship with money?

“I have totally lost the notion of the value of money. I hardly ever have it because I spend it immediately. Since I was 14, money hasn’t existed for me. It’s never been a concern. Easy come easy go. If I want to do something, I do it immediately. I never save or keep it. I just try and make back anything that I have spent. I win more and then I spend more.”

The way in which Isabelle spends her money is proof of how little it matters to her. She stays in five-star hotel suites, eats in the best restaurants, travels in business class, buys expensive clothes and invites her friends to visit from other countries and pays for them. Her changes of mood and her achievements are directly linked with her financial situation. For Isabelle, a huge loss just means that she’ll hammer harder and with more vengeance at the next game. These days she doesn’t have to play ‘cash games’ where there are no limits to betting quantities. She almost always plays at international tournaments, where you have to pay up to $25,000 just to participate. But that’s not a problem for her: PokerStar pays for her flights and inscriptions to almost 12 tournaments a year.

In exchange she wears a PokerStar t-shirt at the games and plays online – promoting the website.

She always knew that she would have to make her own opportunities in life. With a Master’s degree from the Sorbonne under her arm, she left everything behind again – house, friends, salary – and went to Las Vegas. The first eight months were really hard.

She shared a room with seven guys, washed her clothes by hand and ate little, badly and not often. Until in 2004, in Los Angeles, she participated in a World Poker Tour Ladies’ Night and was crowned female world champion. She suddenly became a star in the world of poker, where women players are the exception, not the rule. Seen up close Isabelle is a rare mix of fragility and bravery.

That’s to say, she may seem petite and small-boned but she could take on the world.

“I’ve always managed to get what I want, and no-one can tell me to do something I don’t want to or don’t like. I love poker, the freedom it gives me, of learning to manipulate someone else using intelligence.

It’s a social game that requires talent. During a game you have to pay attention to everything; people’s breathing, facial expressions and people’s faces when they are bluffing.”

Players often claim that poker is one of the most violent things you can do sitting down.

Her surname, Mercier, and her aggressive way of playing have led to the nickname No Mercy. In the last few years, typical poker clichés have been changing. The image of gangsters smoking cigars in clandestine rooms at the back of a bar downtown has been replaced with luxury tournaments in all five continents. Isabelle has her own ritual before each game: a full bath, with candles, music and more interestingly, little notes around the mirror saying “I’m going to win this tournament”.

In order to be in a fit physical state for these marathons of between 13 and 15 hours for five days running, Isabelle prepares herself as a top ‘mental athlete’ should. She writes down the details of all her games in her poker diary and she imagines, plans and decides on formulas with which to baffle her opponents. Poker is a game of deceit and one never knows how best to make their opponent believe them. Every night she reads over her notes and does memory exercises with a pack of cards by removing a card from the pack and then trying to guess which card is missing. Finally, before going to bed, she repeats her mantra: “I’m going to win this tournament.”

In poker, to win means making money. And a lot of it. Isabelle reinvests a part of her winnings into more tournaments that aren’t covered by her sponsor. Another amount goes to her ‘backers’: those who, for example, offer to pay her admittance to a tournament at $20,000 in exchange for half her winnings. But the great

LING 57

part of her earnings goes on her personal vices. She spends at least seven months of the year in Las Vegas where she pays $300 a day for a suite, where instead of just one marble bath, there are two. In the Bellagio, where she spends a lot of her time, there are 3,200 rooms, 17 restaurants, an ‘oasis’ of four hectares, a replica of an Italian village and a casino of 9,000m 2 where Ocean’s Eleven was filmed with Brad Pitt and George Clooney. It’s quite understandable that Isabelle would find refuge in a place where excitement and stimuli can distract you from having an existential crisis. It is the perfect picture of triumph.

Isabelle is not afraid of being alone. She always has people around her, following her like the tail of some bright comet. When they aren’t her fellow players, it is her family or her four best girl friends, all single. Her last relationship was when she was 21. “Since then, I have had various adventures. Anyway, whenever I like someone, they’re usually the ones that don’t notice me.”

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Don’t you think this game is a little too addictive?

She pauses. Insinuating the idea of addiction to the game is the same as trying to warn a broker about the dangers of speculation.

“This is my job, my career, my profession. I can spend any amount of time I like without playing. It’s not an addiction, this is my passion.”

She looks at me for a moment as if I were an ignorant child.

What is the most attractive thing about poker?

“It’s a marvellous world. The players know how to appreciate life, they take risks, they have fun, they eat when they are hungry and sleep when they are tired; there’s no security and no routine. The only rule of the game is to do what you feel like doing. There are a lot of brilliant minds in this little world.”

Tomorrow morning she is meeting with her banker, then going to the hairdresser’s before getting on a plane to Las Vegas to participate in her next tournament, The World Series of Poker. Out of the more than 10,000 participants only 1,200 are women. Something tells me she’s going to do alright.

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¿Qué

SHOW ME THE MONEY

puedo hacer

?

5€

entu ciudadcon

sólo

What can I do in your city with 5€?

“Si tuviera 5€ y no hiciera demasiado calor, iría a tomarme un spriz con Aperol (vino blanco, agua con gas y Aperol) con patatas y un tramezzino (sandwich a la italiana) en el pub L’Olandese Volante que está en Castello in Campo S. Lio. Los encargados son jóvenes y sobre todo intentan siempre conocer a LAS clientas… pero son muy simpáticos (esto lo dice mi amiga Claudia…).

Lo mejor es ir justo antes de cenar, cuando se ha puesto el sol… ¡y acompañado de una amiga!”

Stefano Rossi, italiano, filósofo, 24, Venecia

“Una tapa de caracoles exquisita y una cerveza bien fría en el bar de El Bolilla, todo un personaje.

Los caracoles valen 1,50 y la cerveza, 1€. Está en la calle Arcos, al lado del Mesón de Paco. Si vas a El Bolilla, seguro que repites la ronda. Eso sí, no andes despistado: es un bar de culto, para entendidos, con un horario bastante extraño. Igual abre a las 10 y echa la reja a las 12h, aunque tenga clientes dentro hasta las 16h. Lo recomienda un caracolero.”

Lolo Valverde, empresario, 37, JEREZ

“A medianoche del fin de semana en Alicante puedes asistir con 3 euros a un espectáculo nocturno en Clan Cabaret.

Puedes ir a bailar a cualquier local gratis del casco antiguo. Con el cambio vas a un fotomatón y te llevas un buen recuerdo de la noche.”

David Sanjuan, 29 años, contable, ALICANTE

“Por 2,40€ puedes visitar el Museo de Mallorca (si ya estás jubilado/a es gratis) y con lo que te sobra puedes comprarte una ensaimada, aunque no muy grande. Así unimos cultura con gastronomía.”

Carmen Morata, 62 años, ama de casa, MALLORCA.

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“The most curious visit you can pay is the Museu Nacional Dos Carros, which shows a luxurious collection of carriages. They are a real works of art. Adult fee is around 3€. With the rest you can take some “bicas” (black coffee) in whatever bar of Lisbon (don’t forget to give some tips!).”

José Manuel Cadenas, 40, Electro-medicine engineer, LISBON

“With 5€ in Paris this summer, you can avoid roasting on the city’s metro network for a whole week by taking advantage of the new Velib’ rent-a-bike service. Sign up automatically 24/7 at any of the hundreds of bike stations spread out all over the city.

Pick up the bike at one station, drop it off at another. You can take an unlimited number of journeys of less than thirty minutes for one week.”

Alex Rume, teacher, 31, PARIS

“With 2 or 3 euros I would buy that famous Italian ice-cream and I would taste them in Piazza Navonna (the tastiest ice-cream I have ever eaten) or a “tartufo”. With the rest I would throw them in the Fontana Di Trevi. The first coin to come back to Rome, the second to find the love and third to get something you really wish. “ Maribel Marín, 23 years old, student of Marketing, ROME

“Una tarrina de helado en Los Italianos, la mejor heladería de Granada (Gran Vía, 6, frente a la Catedral). Tienen más de 20 sabores y nunca sabes con cuál quedarte. Por 5€ puedes comprar medio litro de helado (¡una tarrina enorme!) y combinar varios. A mí me encanta el de chocolate, naranja y plátano.”

Pablo Rubio González, repostero, 26, Granada

“En Menorca una buena opción son los bocadillos de L’Antic (Plaza de la Conquesta s/n, Maó). Todos están entre los 3 y los 5€ según el relleno, y se puede escoger entre tres tipos de pan, normal, chapata o de cereales. Es una buena manera de salir de un apuro porque no son los típicos bocatas, sino que les han puesto una pizca de creatividad, y además el sitio tiene encanto.”

Marta Fernández, dependienta de tienda, 25 años

“Un batido natural de plátano, mango y guayaba, sentada en un sofá antiguo del Café con Libros de la Plaza de la Merced. Un consejo: elige el puf turco con espejitos. La luz es tenue (la terraza es demasiado escaparate) y puedes hojear uno de los miles de libros y revistas de segunda mano que tienen en sus estanterías. El favorito es Alicia en El País de las Maravillas ilustrado a todo color.”

Laura Gil, relacionista pública, 29, MÁLAGA

“Puedes ir al mítico cine Navas (en la calle del mismo nombre) los lunes y miércoles, para ver cine independiente en versión original a 2€. Y si te perdiste una película de estreno reciente, escoge un martes o un viernes; lo puedes hacer por tan sólo 3€.”

David Sanjuán, contable, 29, ALICANTE

“¿Con 5€? Ve a Princi, en Via Ponte Vetero, 10 (metro Cairoli-Castello), una de las mejores panaderías de Milán. Pagas sólo un vaso de buen vino que cuesta 3,50€, ¡y puedes degustar cualquier cosa que haya en el mostrador! Todas las especialidades son muy originales y golosas, como las pizzas calientes o los paninni de queso.”

Rosaria Jucker, suiza, estudiante, 18, Milán

“Llevarte directamente al Banco, pero al que está en rue du Bailli... Este pub irlandés (The Bank) es ya toda una institución en Bruselas a pesar de su corta vida. Elige entre el surtido de cervezas belgas e irlandesas, que aquí conviven sin problemas. The Bank ha recuperado un antiguo banco del barrio; lo comprobarás cuando visites los lavabos, situados en la antigua sala que custodiaba las cajas de seguridad.”

Anne Preston, inglesa, diseñadora, 37, BRUSELAS

“Un viaje en el teleférico que recorre Madrid desde el Paseo Pintor Rosales hasta la Casa de Campo. Los parques, las cúpulas, el horizonte... ¡Es como si Madrid fuera de repente interminable! Si sólo pagas billete de ida (3,20€), al bajar puedes comprar un paquete de pipas y pasear por el lago de la Casa de Campo. Y si pagas ida y vuelta (4,80€), traslada el paseo a La Rosaleda (sí, donde dan los premios a las mejores rosas cuando llega la primavera).”

Mercedes Puente, aparejadora, 31, Madrid

“La primera ronda de chupitos en el Acme, para cinco bocas.

El pub Acme es como el ‘Todo a 1€’ en versión bar: los chupitos te cuestan 1€, y la variedad de preparados asciende a más de 80. Aquí algunos: Equipo A (absenta, anís y vodka), Mariachi (tequila, tabasco y sal), Galleguito (con licor de orujo), Ángel (whisky y orujo), Vaquero (whisky y ron), Conde (tequila, ron, whisky y cointreau). Si el barman se enrolla, es posible que por 5€ te tomes siete de ellos.”

Raluca Modoiu, rumana, estudiante de Filología Hispánica, 22, SANTIAGO

“Un refrescante mojito del mexicano La Yaya, en Monseñor Palmer, 2 (una calle que desemboca en el Paseo Marítimo de Palma). Los preparan sin sucedáneos, con lima y azúcar moreno auténticos. Además, por 3€, puedes tomar varios tipos de cerveza mexicana que no encuentras en otros lugares, como la Tecate. Ah, y aunque se sale del presupuesto, vale la pena acompañar la cerveza con el guacamole artesanal, que es delicioso.”

Franco Abarza, argentino, cámara de televisión, 23, mallorca

“Una crêpe de beicon con champiñones en el café del Teatreneu (en la calle Terol del barrio de Gràcia). Todas las crêpes no sólo son sabrosísimas, sino de buen tamaño y combinaciones originales (tienen nombres como Montecristo y otros que no recuerdo). Esa misma originalidad la aplican a sus bocadillos y a sus tortillas (pues no sólo de jamón y patatas vive el hombre). ¡Ah, y cualquier plato cuesta sólo 4,20€!”

Fabrizio Del Piero, italiano, ingeniero de sonido, 41, Barcelona

LING 61

The Limentanis produce the kind of sweetness you won’t find anywhere else IN ROME

FAMILY ALBUM Text by Laura Bauerlein Photos by Lisbeth Salas

From left to right: Graziella (88), Elisabetha (46), Sandra (43), Vilma (57), Cinzia (35).

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LING 63

SHOW ME THE MONEY

TODO DA VUELTAS

The Ditta Limentani bakery is called the Antico Forno del Ghetto. It got its name because it’s old and because it lies in Rome’s Jewish ghetto. But among locals, it is better known as the Burnt Bakery, because the roasted seeds and baked goods are covered with a black crust – which, apparently, makes them even tastier.

The bakery was founded by the Limentanis over 200 years ago, and has been on the same street corner ever since. Today, it is run by five women from three generations of the Limentani family. In the tiny space, they produce sweet Jewish pastries filled with dried fruit, nuts and ricotta, always using ancient family recipes.

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The Ditta Limentani bakery is still on the same street corner in Rome’s Jewish ghetto, on Via Portico d’Ottavia 1. Try the Torta di Ricotta, available with cherries or chocolate, and don’t be put off by the black crust on the pastries – it’s “la cottura sua”, meaning: just the way they’re supposed to be.

Graziella, 88

Elisabetta, 46

Sandra, 43

Vilma, 57

Cinzia, 35

It was my great-grandparents who started this bakery. As a child, I’d be the one who stayed at home while my brothers came to work here. But they grew older, and my younger brother Settimio and I had to carry on alone. Our shop has been here, on this street corner, ever since I can remember – and before that, because it’s a lot older than me! There used to be many businesses like ours in this area, but today we are the only Jewish-Roman bakery left. I’ve spent practically all my life in this shop, but now that I have reached a certain age, I’m taking it slowly. I still come here every day, though.

Graziella is the official grandmother here, but she’s not the only one: I have a granddaughter, too! She is four years old now.

I haven’t worked here for long, although it’s my family’s business. I used to run a business together with my husband, just like my sister Sandra did before she came to work here. Our husbands have nothing to do with the bakery; they have their own things going on. In here, it’s just us girls!

I have worked here for about ten years. It’s a small space but there’s a lot of work to do!

On religious holidays, we have to prepare tons of stuff – sweet pizza with candied fruit and almonds are very popular; cookies; the traditional Challah bread that’s a must for any ceremonial table when the prayers are being said. And we cater for private celebrations too: for weddings, Bar Mitzvahs and the like. There are so many things to prepare! But our speciality is ricotta pie – Grandma Graziella invented it herself, about 50 years ago. It’s all kosher, and it’s all delicious...

I’m the daughter of Graziella’s brother Settimio. I was literally raised on pastries!

The five of us share the work between us.

We all know how to do everything, but it’s not like we all crammed in here at all times. We do shifts. Someone always has to be behind the counter, and someone needs to watch the oven. Besides the sweet stuff, we do Bruscolini – roasted and salted pumpkin seeds. People buy it by the kilo and haul it away in big bags!

I’m the baby of the group. But I’ve worked here for quite some time! In the summer, it can be a pain to be here: the heat that comes from “the laboratory” in the back, where the oven is, is already crazy, and when the sun shines in through the windows and the air in the shop starts heating up, you just wish the space was a bit bigger. But other than that, it’s cosy in here.

LING 65

Once s o t n a S a l e i n i u q a l r a n a g a r pa Una apuesta de Daniel Samper Pizano

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LING 67

show me the money

–P

onga al negro de centro delantero –me aconsejó Carmencita–. Ese puesto es para gente que sienta mucho el fútbol, como los negros.

Mi primera reacción fue exigirle a Carmencita respeto por la noble figura de San Martín de Porras (El Negro) y la segunda, reconvenirla por el tufillo racista que adivinaba en su comentario.

Pero Carmencita es el ser más bueno y carente de prejuicios que conozco, y además empecé a pensar que quizá tuviese razón: un 9 como San Martín de Porras podía ser lo que necesitáramos allá arriba. Hasta entonces, al ver su pequeña estatua con una escoba en la mano, yo suponía que debía ejercer las funciones de barredor, detrás de una defensa de tres hombres, y allí lo había dispuesto en las últimas tres semanas. Pero fueron tres fracasos en que no alcanzamos a llegar ni a los ocho aciertos, así que opté por seguir el consejo de Carmencita.

–¿Y entonces, quién atrás? –le pregunté con dudas.

–Meta al alto, que hasta ahora no ha jugado.

El alto era Ceferino Namuncurá, un mestizo argentino flaco y espigado que no me había atrevido a alinear porque su canonización aún tarda un poco y apenas está catalogado como beato, que en materia de fútbol organizado viene a ser una categoría parecida a «amateur a prueba» o «juvenil no profesional».

Puse a Ceferino atrás y no quise introducir nuevos retoques a una alineación que, con un poquito de suerte, podría darnos un buen premio en las apuestas futbolísticas de España. Así pues, saltaría a cancha ese fin de semana con un equipo de apoyo a la suerte formado por San Felipe de Jesús, mártir mexicano, en el arco; en la zaga, San Lorenzo, San Pablo (siempre es de agradecer un tipo duro atrás), Namuncurá y San Expedito, a quien, por su nombre, cabría atribuirle la velocidad que necesita un carrilero.

En el medio campo, la astucia jesuítica de San Ignacio de Loyola, el pétreo Simón llamado Kefas y el melifluo y engañoso San Bernardo Abad, porque la mitad del fútbol consiste en timar al rival.

Adelante, San Francisco de Asís, ídolo de la tribuna, el mentado San Martín de Porras (El Negro) y San Juan Bautista.

Ya casi estaban pisando el papel de la quiniela con las once pequeñas figuras, no más altas que un cigarrillo, cuando Carmencita formuló una observación final: –Saque a San Juan Bautista, que ese jamás hará un gol de cabeza.

Me pareció pertinente, y cambié a la víctima de Salomé por un cura desconocido que había comprado mi mujer en Ronda, Málaga, al que le atribuía propiedades milagrosas. Fue así como debutó San Leopoldo de Alpeindaire en mis apuestas futbolísticas.

Cada semana, cientos de miles de españoles sellan la papeleta de la quiniela y señalan en los quince partidos de la fecha los posibles ganadores o empates. Un solo ganador absoluto puede llevarse al banco más de un millón de euros, pero no es malo acertar en catorce, trece o aun doce. Con menos de diez rara vez el apostador gana unos mangos.

68 LING

Ese fin de semana, con Porras como ariete y Namuncurá atrás, acertamos en cinco victorias en casa (1), tres empates (X), y un triunfo como visitante (2). Eran sólo nueve casillas positivas. Nos faltó un resultado para haber ganado 6,47 euros. Habíamos fracasado nuevamente.

Nuestra afición a la lotería futbolística había empezado años atrás. Carmencita es la asistenta colombiana que tres veces por semana sacude el polvo y ordena el caos en nuestro apartamento de Madrid. Alguna vez en que nos quejábamos los tres –mi mujer, Carmencita y yo– por la carestía de España y la falta de plata, a Carmencita se le ocurrió una idea: –Yo he visto que usted no se pierde ningún partido de fútbol por la televisión y lee todas las secciones de deportes –dijo–. ¿Por qué no llena la quiniela? Con todo lo que sabe se la gana de seguro.

Empecé a decirle que procuro no montar casino con mis afectos y que odiaría perder tiempo haciendo cola para sellar el formulario, pero a mi mujer le había sonado el asunto e intervino. Si yo aportaba mis conocimientos de fútbol y Carmencita sellaba el formulario, ella aportaría los pocos euros necesarios para la apuesta más sencilla. En caso de acierto, dividiríamos el botín entre tres.

Me pareció divertido, y acepté. Pero al cabo de tres meses pude saber que los «conocimientos de fútbol» sirven poco para derrotar el azar en las quinielas. Fue entonces cuando Carmencita resolvió ayudar a la suerte y mezcló el cielo con la tierra de simoniaca manera. Un viernes, después de haber sellado la papeleta, descubrí que, en vez de depositarla sobre la mesa de entrada, Carmencita había puesto sobre el formulario una pequeña estatua

Cada semana, cientos de miles de españoles sellan la papeleta de la quiniela y señalan en los quince partidos de la fecha los posibles ganadores o empates.

Un solo ganador absoluto puede llevarse al banco más de un millón de euros

de Santa Teresita de Jesús. Desde tiempo atrás mi mujer y yo nos habíamos aficionado a comprar muñequitos de superestrellas del santoral que encontrábamos en nuestros viajes. Con el tiempo, la colección pasaba ya de ochenta pintorescas figuritas, la mayoría de ellas adquiridas en su tierra natal. San Martín de Porras, por ejemplo, había llegado en la maleta al lado de Santa Rosa de Lima y Santa Teresita de los Andes después de un viaje al Perú, y Ceferino Namuncurá formaba parte principal de mi equipaje de mano como recuerdo de una visita a Buenos Aires. Teníamos santos de decenas de países, que habían alabado a Dios en varias lenguas. Algunos tan populares como San Antonio, siempre con el niño a cuestas, o Santa Lucía, con los ojos en una bandeja, que se encuentran en cualquier tienda de parroquia. Otros mucho más escasos y lugareños, como el Padre Cruz, portugués, o aquel San Leopoldo de Alpendaire que desilusionó el día de su debut como puntero derecho.

Era una sacra manada de efigies kitsch que divertía bastante a nuestros amigos –muchos de ellos proveedores del rebaño– e inspiraba temor y veneración a Carmencita. De allí le había nacido la idea de encomendar la quiniela a Santa Ana, madre de la Santísima Virgen y persona con buenas conexiones celestiales.

Ella podría inclinar a nuestro favor los dados de Dios. Pensé que lo mejor era darle juego a las devociones y supersticiones de Carmencita, pero me pareció oportuno señalarle con todo respeto que las mujeres no son buenas futbolistas. La prueba era que, tres semanas después de que Santa Ana, madre de la Santísima Virgen, comenzara a amadrinar las apuestas, nuestros resultados eran peores que antes.

La objeción era razonable, y, sin decir palabra, Carmencita devolvió la benemérita dama a su lugar en la repisa de los santos, y la reemplazó por una imagen de San Lázaro y su perro que siempre le había llamado la atención. Ante el estupor de mi mujer, que a partir de ese momento me declaró lunático, objeté la alineación de San Lázaro.

–Mire a ese pobre hombre –le dije a Carmencita–. Está lleno de heridas y de llagas. Además, se apoya en una muleta. ¿Usted cree que está en condiciones de jugar unos partidos tan difíciles como los del domingo?

Optamos, de común acuerdo, por un Santiago Apóstol, caminador insigne y, por ende, hombre de buen estado físico. Y Carmencita lo reforzó con una portentosa y alba imagen del Papa Pío IX vestido como para jugar con el Real Madrid, que habíamos comprado en una tienda del Vaticano en 1989. Ese día llegamos por primera vez a diez aciertos, recaudamos el equivalente a doce euros y entendimos que era preciso organizar alineaciones colectivas: estábamos otorgando demasiada ventaja al azar.

Han pasado nueve años desde entonces, y aumentan simultáneamente la santoteca y los fracasos. Ya son más de doscientas diez fechas sin ganar un solo premio (de hecho, apenas hemos

logrado recompensa en tres ocasiones, por un total de 61,58 euros).

Mientras tanto, hemos despilfarrado una fortuna en formularios y la colonia de santos se aproxima a las ciento setenta figuras de distintos patrones. Ensayamos a San Martín de Porras a lo largo de la primera vuelta del campeonato español del 2005, y cada vez jugó peor. A partir de ese año, desesperados, optamos por los equipos mixtos. Con la dulce Teresita del Niño Jesús conseguimos otro diez, pero descendimos a tres miserables aciertos un fin de semana en que nos jugamos el todo por el todo y plantamos una oncena estrictamente femenina.

Mi mujer arrojó hace rato la toalla, es decir, la billetera, y yo me ocupo de financiar la quiniela. Carmencita participa cada vez más en la selección de resultados y hemos tenido duras polémicas acerca de si atacamos con tres o con cuatro muñequitos.

La semana próxima vamos a arriesgarnos como nunca antes.

Habrá millón y medio de euros en juego. Escogeremos una alineación equilibrada y en la punta izquierda, como quien no quiere la cosa, plantaremos una efigie en que aparecen reunidos los tres pastorcitos de Fátima. Serán trece en la cancha, pero camuflados en sólo once peanas. Como portera, Santa Rita de Casia, abogada de imposibles.

Y que sea lo que Dios quiera.

Daniel Samper Pizano (Bogotá, 1945) es escritor y periodista. Su obra reúne más de 30 libros, entre los que destacan la novela Impávido coloso, la biografía Les Luthiers de la L a la S, y Viagra, chats y otras pendejadas del siglo XXI. Desde 1986 reside en Madrid.

LING 69

th 20 at pi w gg yo il y b u l t an to e k saach s ve

ke ep in g it

show me the money

Skull-shaped piggy bank from Divi Bernat in Palma de Mallorca (Plaça Major shopping centre, stall 13) · Tin piggy bank from Casa in Alicante (Parque Vistahermosa, Antonio Ramos Carratalá St.) · Demijohn piggy bank sent in by Antonio García, 47, a truck driver from Jerez · Motorcyclist, Sleeping Beauty and Money are from Regalos Ásterix (Noly Vera) in Santiago (Doctor Teixeiro, 22) · Car accident piggy bank from Regalos Box in Palma de Mallorca (Jaime, 10) · Frog and Fashionable Cow are from the El Regalo shop in Palma de Mallorca (Jovellanos, 8) · Travelling/Traveller’s piggy bank sent in by Néstor Carrasco, 18, a student from Jerez · Horse, Gnome, Meiga (Witch) and Pilgrim are from the Moucho Marx shop (founded by Bea and Mike Stetson) in Santiago (Plaza Cervantes, 13) · Artistic Cow and Mr. Beer-belly are from the Xabec shop in Palma de Mallorca (Via Sindicato, 44) · Money Box from Images d’Artistes in Paris (Rambuteau, 85) · Clay piggy sent in by Marta Carlos, 22, a shop assistant from Jerez · Black-andwhite Cow from L’Epoque in Palma de Mallorca (Plaça Major shopping centre, shop 60) · Piggies from Tarca Menaje in Barcelona (Pla del Palau, 5-6)

Where else to find piggy banks · Juguetería Multicolor, Madrid (Arenal, 3) · Fernando Méndez Anticuarios, Valencia (Caballeros, 16) · Palacio del Juguete, Barcelona (Arcs, 8) · Juguetes Pinocho, Malaga (Ayala, 96) · La Judería Anticuarios, Sevilla (Judería, 5) · El Museo del Juguete Valenciano, Ibiza · 1, 2, 3, Famille, Paris (Rue Desaix) · Città del Sole, Rome (Via della Scrofa) · Cucciolo, Milan (Via Giussepe Meda, 17) See if you can match the piggy banks that appear in the photos with the descriptions above.

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LING 71

Dogs Without Owners A story by Ernesto Ferrini窶オllustration by Katja Enseling

fiction

1.

I learned about the kidnappings from Fritter, at the bar of a French restaurant near my house, and if it wasn’t for the fact that the papers had picked up the story, or at least part of it, I would have thought he’d made it up. A fantastic creation, I would have said.

In those days, I ate lunch in the Piquenique every ten or fifteen days, always with my elbows on the bar and a book in my hand. I had just moved to Porta Genova, a working-class neighbourhood that, after the arrival of several famous designers, had experienced something of a renaissance in the last decade, and the restaurant had appealed to me at once. The furnishings were blond wood and wrought iron, recreating what I imagined to be a very Norman or Breton atmosphere, while the food tended towards the eclectic, sometimes abandoning French tradition completely. Aside from sporadic conversations with the owner, who stood barricaded behind the counter, most of the time I ate in silence, a fork in one hand, a book in the other.

One day, while I was waiting for my food and looking out the window, Fritter appeared: less than five feet of humanity wrapped in an imitation leopard-skin coat. While we bumped into each other rather frequently in the neighbourhood − at the bakery, the café on Via Montevideo, the old butcher shop − it was the first time we had done so at the Piquenique, and we had never spoken. After hanging his coat on a rack in the entrance, Fritter crossed the room and, not without difficulty, climbed up onto one of the stools at the bar.

Once he had settled in, his chubby legs dangling above the floor, he ordered an espresso. Outside, a fine mid-autumn rain was falling, licking the elegant, austere face of Milan, a face of stone facades and passers-by in long black coats.

“What dreadful weather!” Fritter said, removing a pink scarf.

The owner, who looked like a popstar imitation of Don Quixote, agreed without turning around. His attention was focussed on the stream of black liquid jetting out of the espresso machine, as if the quality of the coffee depended on the intensity of his gaze.

When the last drop had fallen he placed the cup on a saucer, between a small bar of chocolate and the obligatory little spoon, and returned to the till, where several customers were waiting in line to pay.

Fritter railed against the weather for a solid minute: the fog, the humidity, winter in general. His voice, harsh and affected, a voice of wasabi and strawberries, was difficult to ignore. After two

74 LING

or three more random comments, he stretched out his hand and introduced himself. By this time, I had closed my book.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “I’m Fritter.”

He never mentioned his real name. Everyone, absolutely everyone, called him Fritter. While I sensed something slightly pejorative in the nickname, I got the impression that Fritter took it in good humour. Maybe he’d always had it, like a mole or an old scar over his eye, and by hearing it so much had got used to it. Whatever the case, it fit him to a tee.

I’ve forgotten how the conversation went or what led us to the subject of our occupations, but, for certain, Fritter was the one who brought it up. He had worked all his life in a cabaret in Porta Venezia, he said, in a transgressive but refined establishment, with music for dancing and live shows.

“In my prime, I had my own show” he said proudly. “Every Thursday, a bit just for me.”

From what I could gather, the act was full of feathers and sequins. Fritter parodied the character played by Michel Serrault in The Birdcage – although “parody” is perhaps a euphemism here.

Other nights, he waited tables and helped behind the bar. When he turned fifty, his body no longer obedient to his commands, Fritter had opted for early retirement. In addition, the old guard had been almost entirely relieved, and Fritter had begun to feel out of place.

Fritter crossed the room and, not without difficulty, climbed up onto one of the stools at the bar. Once he had settled in, his chubby legs dangling above the floor, he ordered an espresso. Outside, a fine mid-autumn rain was falling, licking the elegant face of Milan

Unable to sleep, he would drag himself through the early morning hours like a bloated fish on the hot pavement.

“The new boys weren’ t bad,” he said, “ but I m issed my friends.”

They, he explained, had either left Milan or died, which for Fritter came to mean one and the same thing. I waited for the moment of silence that normally follows the mention of dead mates, but Fritter didn’t bother paying anyone any respect. Instead, he smiled mischievously and asked me what I did for a living.

I had finished eating and was in a somewhat of a hurry to get back to the office, that is, my apartment. Without going into detail, I told him I was a writer, while at the same time lowering one leg from the stool until the tips of my toes touched the floor.

Fritter must have picked up on my attempt at escape. He interrupted a comment about how desperately he wished he knew how to write in order to ask me, looking somewhere between alarmed and surprised, if I wasn’t going have another coffee. And as I took a moment to answer, he turned to the owner and ordered me an espresso.

The owner moved his six-foot-two frame towards the coffee maker, and I settled back down on the stool. The restaurant’s two waiters, an Albanian and an Ecuadorean, fluttered between the tables, carrying the final orders of the day or dirty plates and lipstick-stained glasses, while the rain picked up, thudding against the large windows like an army of suicidal beetles. Fritter resumed his chatter, and I resigned myself to listening until my coffee arrived. Bringing one hand to his chest, he raised the other in the air as if he were carrying an invisible tray, his open palm turned back in a highly affected gesture.

“I must admit, my young friend,” he said, looking as if he were going to pout, “I’ve led a troubled life. A life full of grotesque, entertaining, pathetic, and scandalous moments. A life cleaved by stories. And yet, look at how funny things are: if divine providence were to touch the tip of my nose with his magic wand and grant me the power to write, I would make my debut with a story that had nothing to do with me at all. A story that concerns me only as an observer and a listener. But I’m too old to believe in fairies. Divine providence stuck me with a toad’s body, which, after being kissed by the beautiful prince, turns into another toad, and after that, disappears forever. This late in the game, waiting for a miracle is a waste of time.”

Fritter shifted uncomfortably in the stool. Keeping the story to himself, he said, would be silly. He’d rather tell it to me, without any obligations, for the simple pleasure of telling a good tale. And then he began to speak.

“You probably never heard about the kidnappings. The case wasn’t such a big deal to begin with: local story with no deaths or injuries. However, the version that I’m going to tell you is from Tagliaferri, the policeman who was responsible for the investigation”

2.

“You probably never heard about the kidnappings. At that time, we’re talking about October or November of 2001, everything disintegrated in the apocalyptic climate of 11 September and the war in Afghanistan.

Anyway, the case wasn’t such a big deal to begin with: local story with no deaths or injuries. Nothing more than an article in the newspaper and one or two mentions on the television news. However, the version that I’m going to tell you isn’t from the press but from Tagliaferri, the policeman who was responsible for the investigation.

“I met Tagliaferri in a bar on Via Tortona that no longer exists.

A bar suspended in time. Quite hair-raising, actually. It seemed to have been decorated by a Polish peasant with atrocious taste.

Stuffed ducks hanging from the walls. You add it up. Yet it was nearby, and it stayed open late. I had recently resigned from the cabaret and was paying the price for years of working at night.

In order to kill the tedium and combat insomnia, every night I’d polish off half a bottle of red and half a bottle of white; never beer, though, because it makes you fat. At those hours, the faces in the bar were always the same: five or six night owls anxious to exorcise

LING 75

fiction

“‘They’re kidnapping dogs,’ he said. Over the last two or three weeks various police stations in Milan had received reports of missing dogs. The statements of the victims varied from case to case, though they all shared certain elements which Tagliaferri considered unusual”

the distressing itch from the cold sheets, up for anything but the return walk home. I, you might say, was the woman of the group.

I knew things the rest didn’t, understood things they couldn’t understand. It’s true, I liked to talk, but I was also a good listener, and every once in a while I’d hand out a choice piece of advice. In this way, I earned Inspector Tagliaferri’s trust.

“One night, Tagliaferri showed up in the bar just before closing time. Grudgingly, the bartender granted him ten minutes to drink a beer. The others, already on their way out, exited the bar, and the inspector, a bottle in his hand and an expression on his face like a dog that had just been kicked, came and joined me at my table. As if we’d been talking for half an hour, he said that the situation, in fact, was bleak. Very bleak. ‘Fritter my friend,’ he stressed, ‘this is going from bad to worse.’

“At first I thought he was talking about life in general, or the weather, or the rent, or the chaos in the Middle East, what did I know, and I half-heartedly agreed. Let’s be frank about it, Inspector Tagliaferri was not known for his optimism. Resigned to a fate in which providence had abandoned him completely, he believed in misfortune the way others believe in God, or the free market.

Every cloud concealed a heavy shower, every smile a snare. I suppose he had good reason for it, being fortyish, poor and alone as he was. At work, and for reasons I can’t say, he’d joined the ranks of the blighted, lumbered with petty details and cases of little note. Also, his self-assured look worked against him, and coming from me, king of the toads, you can take my word for it. My friend Tagliaferri was barely five feet four inches, the minimum height

76 LING

required by the police, and in place of personal possessions, he accumulated weight. He dressed poorly, too, even for a policeman, and, deadly sin of decorum, tried to hide his baldness by combing the remaining long strands across the middle. On good days, and these were few, he looked like a cross between Jack Nicholson and Maradona. Still, he accepted his fate as a born loser with a kind of mild tranquillity. The only thing that terrified him was declining further. Death, on the other hand, did not seem to bother him in the least. One night, we night owls were in the bar, pondering love and life and treacherous women, when Tagliaferri said the reason he didn’t put a bullet in his head was because he’d seen a couple of French divers on television swimming underwater with dolphins.

He didn’t know exactly where they were, though he assumed somewhere in the Mediterranean. ‘Before I check out,’ he’d said, ‘I want to swim with those creatures, just like those damned Frenchmen on television.’

“Returning to the night in question, I told you that I had responded to the inspector’s despair with indifference. What a bore! I thought. Another bloody lecture. Yet, as if he could read my thoughts and was going to prove me mistaken, he sank into a stubborn silence which suddenly made me worry. ‘Is everything all right?’ I asked him. Tagliaferri took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. He raised the bottle by the neck, holding it between his thumb and index finger, and swung it gently, as if performing an act of self-hypnosis. The liquid mimicked the swinging in little waves that barely climbed the wall of glass before returning to the centre and then up the other side. After a minute or so, he set the bottle back down on the coaster and fixed me in his gaze.

‘They’re kidnapping dogs,’ he said.

“The inspector did not provide many details. Over the last two or three weeks various police stations in Milan had received reports of missing dogs. The statements of the victims varied from case to case, though they all shared certain elements which Tagliaferri considered unusual. Still, given the fact that the priorities of the police are quite remote from the canine world, and even more so in those days of fear and war, the crimes had received little or no attention. Yes, madam. Of course, madam. We’ll do everything we can to return your pet to you safe and sound, madam. Nothing more. The complaint went straight into the drawer. “‘Until yesterday morning,’ Tagliaferri had said, ‘when they swiped the boxer of the wife of a Green politician in Sempione Park, close to the Arch of Peace. Around lunchtime, the husband arrived at the police station to file a complaint and, quite by chance, learned of the other kidnappings, as well as the absolute indifference of the police. Well, Legambiente hit the roof. WWF hit the roof. The National Canine Defence League hit the roof.

This morning,’ Inspector Tagliaferri continued, ‘the first reporters appeared. This afternoon, my boss called me in. And after handing me a stack of files, he assigned me to the case.’

“I responded enthusiastically to the news,” Fritter went on.

‘Bravo!’ I said. ‘It sounds like an important case.’ Tagliaferri pierced me with a fierce look of his blue eyes. ‘Stop talking drivel!’ he reproached me. ‘Politicians pressing for new and stricter antiterrorism laws, the police on maximum alert, and here I am following the trail of four mangy little beasts! Kidnapped canines! This case is a punishment,’ the inspector said. ‘Fritter, my friend, this

case is the beginning of the end, the last stop on my descent to a desk in some godforsaken administrative office.’

“Soon the bartender cleared the table and turned out the lights.

We waited on the sidewalk while he pulled down the metal shutter and then walked in silence to the corner of Tortona and Bergognone, where we bid each other goodnight and went off in different directions.

“After that night, Tagliaferri visited the bar less and less. He’d arrive after midnight, and never stay more than thirty or forty minutes. He’d drink a beer leaning against the bar, follow our conversations with half-closed eyes, and not say a word. Once, I asked him how the investigation was coming along. By then, the wave of abductions had hit the neighbourhood: two or three dogs, including my upstairs neighbour’s Pekinese, a nasty, abominable little creature, had disappeared. Tagliaferri seemed satisfied with his progress, optimistic even. He said that he had questioned all the victims and determined the modus operandi of the kidnapper.

To begin with, the crimes were perpetrated in one of three parks: Sempione, Solari or The Public Gardens. The animals, moreover, were not snatched away from their owners or forced into a moving van; rather they abandoned their owners.

“‘A bloody ghost!’

Tagliaferri said. ‘A ghost without any motive, demands, or ransoms. Enlighten me Fritter, my friend, because I don’t understand. Is it a silly joke? A hidden camera or something?’”

“‘Apparently,’ Tagliaferri explained, ‘the dogs follow some guy dressed in blue. Entirely in blue. Some victims were unaware of his presence, or didn’t connect it to the disappearance of their dogs, but the ones that did, two or three that is, described the scenario in almost exactly the same terms. The guy –for the sake of convenience I’ll call him Blue –approaches the animal he intends to kidnap and begins a kind of ritual that the witnesses compared to

yoga, or tai chi, or the steps of some tribal dance. He then starts capering spasmodically about, emitting a choked, high-pitched whistle, like a tropical bird, that agitates the dogs, an agitation you might describe as being playful. At this point,’ he went on, ‘Blue makes as if to leave, running several yards and then coming to a sudden stop. The animal does the same, barking and moving its tail. Then they start off again, and come to another sharp halt.

According to the witnesses, they repeat this movement about a dozen times, advancing in a straight line, or in a spiral, until Blue finally takes off running like a demon. And this time, he doesn’t stop. The dog, it goes without saying, doesn’t either.’

“A week later, I saw Tagliaferri in the bar again. This time, he was seriously in the dumps. The investigation, he said, had led to a dead end. One lead after the other had foundered in a muck of misunderstandings and banal coincidences, while in the meantime animals continued vanishing without a trace to the tune of one or two dogs per week. The suspect might as well have been a ghost. Blue visited the parks, performed his canine rituals, and escaped with his hairy haul in broad daylight, without anybody so much as raising a hand to stop him. Even worse, the witnesses had been unable to provide a valid description apart from his clothes, or better yet, the colour of his clothes. “‘A bloody ghost!’ Tagliaferri said. ‘A ghost without any motive, demands, or ransoms. Enlighten me Fritter, my friend, because I don’t understand. Is it a silly joke? A hidden camera or something?’

“I suspected Tagliaferri wasn’t waiting for an answer, so I kept my mouth shut. And after a few seconds, he unwound his terrible ordeal. He was fed up with the investigation. Fed up with spending entire afternoons waiting among the trees in the park for nothing to happen; or for it to happen in another park. Fed up with absurd questionings. Fed up with taking down the breeds of dogs in his notebook. Fed up with dreaming about dogs. Fed up with dreaming he had been transferred to an administrative office and, looking out the window, discovering a line of dogs stretching infinitely into the distance.

“When I suggested he take a vacation, Tagliaferri stared at me with a stricken expression. For an instant, I had the awful feeling that he was going to cry. Instead, he burst out in mocking laughter.

‘A vacation,’ he said, splitting his sides. ‘That’s a good one.’

“I never saw him at the Tortona bar again.”

3.

The remaining customers in the Piquenique crossed the room. They hesitated for an instant in the threshold, scrutinizing the sky for a sign that did not appear, and then, between laughter and festive groans, hurried out the door. They disappeared across the street, three or four grey figures running off in the rain.

The owner uncorked an already opened bottle and served three glasses. He had been following the story of the missing dogs from his side of the counter, tending to matters of the till without much care. Fritter smiled; he rubbed his eyes with both fists, a childlike gesture that hinted at the fat, mischievous boy he must have once

LING 77

fiction been. Raising his glass, he held it between his lips for a moment before resuming his story. Some months later, he explained, in the middle of March, a cousin of his lent him her summer apartment in Camogli, a fishing village which, like most villages along the Ligurian coast, now serves mostly the tourist trade. By then, Fritter’s insomnia had grown worse. After a sleepless night, he would collapse into the chair of the first café he encountered, or at dusk pass out from exhaustion only to awake in the middle of the night.

Tired of tossing and turning in bed, one morning, slightly before dawn, he went down to the village. The fishing boats rested in a corner of the beach, next to a basilica, though a few could be seen outlined against the sky in the middle of the sea. Fritter figured the cafés would open soon, so crossing over towards the port, he sat down to wait. The first rays of light were beginning to appear.

At the head of the wharf, some men were talking in a circle. At first, Fritter thought they were fisherman, until he recognized one of them. It was Tagliaferri.

“I riddled him with questions,” Fritter said, smiling. “Where had he been all this time? What was he doing in Camogli? How was the investigation coming along? The inspector glanced at the boats tied to the pier, and said he had a few minutes to spare before pushing off.

We left the wharf and entered a café that had just opened its doors. The inspector had lost weight, or at least it seemed that way to me, and his voice sounded different, as if he were speaking in a different language, or as if he were translating himself from another language, one incomprehensible and remote. One Thursday night, he said, on his way home, his cell phone had rung. It was nine o’clock, an unusual hour for him.

“Who was it?” the owner of the Piquenique urgently wanted to know.

“A colleague,” Fritter said. “To let him know that a guy had just called with information about the kidnappings. An informer, or something like that.”

“What he did he say?” I asked.

“Nothing much really,” Fritter said, shrugging his shoulders.

“He left an address: Argelati 42, no, Argelati 44, now I remember.

Tagliaferri wasn’t far from there, so he went and had a look. The front door was open, and he went up to the third floor. He didn’t have to knock to realize the door was unlocked. A trap, he said to himself. A bloody trap. Without giving it much thought, he took out his regulation Beretta and stepped through the door, but the apartment was empty.

Fritter did not know exactly how much time Tagliaferri spent inside the apartment. Fifteen or twenty minutes, maybe less.

“The inspector checked all the rooms in search of a clue, but found nothing,” Fritter said. “When he was about to leave, he heard a laboured screech, and it wasn’t long before he connected it to the whistling sound that the witnesses had attributed to the suspect.

The inspector leaned out of the window. On the opposite sidewalk, a man dressed like the Lone Ranger seemed to be challenging him with his gaze. Tagliaferri recognized him at once, and Blue made as if to run, just as he had with the dogs, advancing a few yards and then coming to a stop. Tagliaferri wondered whether he should call for backup or act on his own. He decided to chance it. ‘Hey!’ he shouted out from the third floor. ‘Wait right there! I need to

78 LING

ask you a few questions.’ To his surprise, Blue nodded his head in agreement. The inspector hurried back down into the street, but the suspect was no longer there. Then, a few hundred yards ahead of him, at the corner of Argelati and Fumagalli, he spotted him.

After Tagliaferri had run for half of a block – more like trotted really, since any attempt at high speed would have been impaired by his pitiful physical condition – Blue performed two or three playful hops before disappearing around the corner.

“A chase,” the owner of the Piquenique said.

“A game of the pursued and the pursuer,” Fritter corrected him, taking a sip of wine. “The hunt went on for nearly a mile, always in fits and starts. Blue kept a secure distance with grating nimbleness, but the inspector didn’t give up. Bathed in sweat, he left Via Fumagalli behind and found the suspect waiting for him on the other side of Naviglio Grande, leaning against a parapet of the canal. Tagliaferri crossed Naviglio, went past the jam-packed bars on Via Casale, and came to the square of the Porta Genova railway station. Then it started to rain,” Fritter continued. “A real downpour. A thousand times worse than this rebellious shower.”

Fritter indicated the large windows of the restaurant, or rather the water dripping down the panes. “Blue,” he resumed, “had climbed the numerous steps of the pedestrian bridge that spans the railway tracks and connects the centre of the city with Via Tortona. Tagliaferri had done the same, and the two of them now found themselves standing face to face, just eighty yards of wooden plank between them.”

“Two gunslingers in an old Western,” I said.

“Doc Holiday and Johnny Ringo in Tombstone,” the owner added.

“Tagliaferri was thinking exactly the same thing,” Fritter said.

‘When will he draw and shoot me dead.’ Yet his opponent went down the other side, making his way along Via Tortona. For a moment, the inspector feared he was leading him to his own apartment, which was not very far from there. Blue, however, went around the block and doubled back to the bridge. Tagliaferri was confused. To be honest, he could just barely make out a flickering blue ghost going off in the rain, a blue shadow thirty yards ahead that, instead of returning to Naviglio or taking Corso Colombo towards the centre, went down Via Ventimiglia: a dead-end street.

The inspector repressed a smile and advanced slowly. The rain, in the meantime, had got worse, noisily pounding the cars parked along the railway wall like a bass drum. Tagliaferri became afraid; he sensed his vulnerability. He could barely see through the sheets of rain, and the only thing he could hear was the large persistent drops. For the second time that day, he took out his revolver. He advanced cautiously, crouched down like a cat, or a rat, feeling the ground with every step. Suddenly, a blue figure flashed to his left, just a few steps away, and Tagliaferri squeezed the trigger, three times; he didn’t even hear the shots. Then he began twitching like an obsessive, his mind gone blank, arms dangling at his sides.

After an indefinite amount of time, which in the Camogli café Tagliaferri remembered as seeming eternal, he moved closer to his target. When it came into view, the only he could do was smile.

It was a poster.”

“A poster?” I asked, disappointed.

“Le Grande Bleu,” Fritter said.

“You mean, the Luc Besson film?” the owner said. “Impossible.

It came out in 1988.”

“What do you want me to say?” Fritter said. He was annoyed.

“It’s what Tagliaferri told me. That he had advanced, almost on tiptoe, to the end of the street and fired at a poster of the Le Grande Bleu. A blue poster, all sea and sky. And in the centre, silhouetted against the turquoise brilliance of the Mediterranean, were the tiny figures of a man, half of his torso sticking out of the water, and a dolphin leaping over his head.

“And then what happened?” the owner asked.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to know,” Fritter said, “but Tagliaferri looked at his watch and said he had to go. On the way back to the wharf, he mentioned the tourist agency. He’d come across it by chance: a small operation devoted to whale and dolphin sighting in the Ligurian Sea. That morning, they were leaving in search of dolphins. If conditions permitted, you could swim with them. A terrible thought gripped me. ‘Is this your first time?’ I asked him.

Tagliaferri smiled. ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said. After that, he shook my hand and jumped aboard.

Fritter looked at the owner and me without saying a word. He then explained that five or six other people were on the boat, all dressed in raincoats and sports shoes. Seagulls cawed over their heads, vanishing behind a castle tower. Fritter saw the sky, and thought the morning was shaping up to be a magnificent day. And this thought, for reasons he was still unable to grasp completely, had plunged him into a deep melancholy. He would have liked to learn more about what the inspector had been doing all that time, but by now the motor was spitting out an unbridgeable roar. Tagliaferri waved, and the boat headed out to sea.

Ernesto Ferrini (Lima, 1971) is a writer. He has published La tristeza de los burros (Planeta) and is about to publish El último diluvio, a crime novel set in Milan.

4.

Soon it stopped raining, and I went back to work. After that, my life was like a rollercoaster: my first child was born, I published my first novel, and I passed a kidney stone that made me cry like a baby and left me catatonic. For months, I hardly even visited the neighbour-

hood. Nor did I cross paths with Fritter. In a way, I had forgotten altogether about Tagliaferri and the kidnapped dogs.

A few days ago, though, the story hit me like a freight train. I was waiting for the tram, at the stop on the corner of Montevideo and Solari, facing a corner of the park where, set off by a metal fence, dogs relieve themselves. Suddenly, I spotted Fritter behind a large oak, dressed in blue from head to toe: a naked Smurf. He seemed to be lying in wait for the four or five animals chasing each other around the dog park. Despite the distance between us, he appeared to be making a face, his lips pursed. I continued watching as the screeching orange bulk of an old tram appeared. Not a single dog seemed to notice him.

Translated from the original Spanish by Kevin Krell

LING 79

Un turista despistado cruza varias veces la plaza. Seguramente acaba de llegar del puerto y busca su hotel. Con su gran mochila a la espalda se pasea acalorado, más perdido que un personaje de Lost.

En la mesa contigua se sienta él. Perdón, ella. De hecho es él, pero respira feminidad: pelo blanco y largo, camiseta ajustada y con escote, tejanos y zapatos de tacón. Pide un café con leche y media tostada con queso. ¿Se acaba de levantar?

Una chica de look hippie se pasea por todas la terracitas cantando con ayuda de un radiocasete.

Después pasa el sombrero. Siempre hay cantantes buenos y malos en la calle; en su caso, quién sabe si conseguirá para un café.

Aquí tenemos al más ‘cool’ de todos.

Lleva un corte de pelo fashion, gafas oscuras de pantalla ancha y a su perro, un labrador beige. No deja de saludar a todo el mundo en las terracitas, incluidos los camareros.

9personas

avistadas un sábado de junio entre las 14.30 y las 15.00 en la Plaza del Parque de Ibiza. La mayoría se acaba de levantar. Algunos van a la playa; otros, a desayunar Textos de Ivonne Arañó Ilustraciones de Adrià Fruitós

Una rubia con flequillo, pareo al cuello a modo de bufanda y hawaianas ha quedado con una amiga en la plaza. Se ponen los cascos y suben a una moto que está aparcada en la acera.

Destino: la playa.

¡Vaya, vuelve a estar aquí! Es Javi Party: pelo largo peinado con coleta de trenzas, ojos azul clarísimo y su clásica perilla. Ha empezado la temporada y él sabe dónde se celebran todas la fiestas en Ibiza (las legales y las otras).

Entre tanto fashion y guapo, aparece una abuelita con su nieto. El niño va en una minimoto de juguete y la abuelita le sigue al lado, con la cesta de la compra llena de verduras y una barra de pan.

80 LING

EXP ERIEN CIAS Vas por la calle y descubres un lugar fascinante. ¿Qué es lo primero que se te viene a la cabeza? Compartir tu descubrimiento con la gente a la que quieres. Invitar a tu pareja. Llamar a tu mejor amigo para contárselo. Convencer a tus compañeros de trabajo de que dejen de hacer lo que estén haciendo y que vayan a encontrarse contigo inmediatamente. Eso es compartir una experiencia inolvidable. Eso es Ling.

You walk down the street and suddenly discover a fascinating place. What do you do? You share your discovery with the people you love. You invite your other half. You call your best friends to tell them about it. You convince your colleagues to stop whatever they are doing and come to meet you immediately. You share an unforgettable experience. This is what Ling is all about.

LING 81

ALICANTE

Comida para el amor

El Azahar tiene el tamaño de un dormitorio común. Que eso no te eche para atrás; su reducido espacio te asegurará un entorno inmejorable para una cena romántica (pero no olvides reservar). El dueño, Paco Ramón, lleva a sus espaldas 30 años de experiencia en cocina alicantina, y se nota: sus platos de arroz son simples y tradicionales, pero tan extraordinariamente buenos que los clientes los piden hasta por la noche. La mejor excusa para un paseo romántico después de cenar. Alberola, 57 · De miércoles a domingo · Tel. +34 965121348

ÁMSTERDAM Música con intérpretes, o sin ellos

El museo oficialmente más pequeño de Ámsterdam está dedicado por completo a las pianolas. Es el Pianola Museum, ubicado en una antigua estación de policía en el Jordaan, donde los rollos de las pianolas están guardados en lo que antaño fueron las celdas. El tercer viernes de cada mes se organizan conciertos de jazz, ragtime y otros estilos musicales de los trepidantes años veinte. Si lo pides, hasta puedes tocar un rato una de las pianolas. O al menos fingir que lo haces. Westerstraat, 106 · Los conciertos empiezan a las 20h · 8€ · www.pianola.nl

Tazas para llevar Debes haberte sentado alguna vez en algún bar o restaurante y haber pensado, “Mmm, me encanta esta mesa”, o “Bonita cuberteria. Me pregunto de dónde la han sacado”. En el Café Latei probablemente la han conseguido en mercados de antigüedades o rastros. Toda la decoración es de segunda mano y todo está a la venta, desde el papel ‘vintage’ de la pared hasta la taza de la que estés bebiendo. Aparte de eso, el Latei también ofrece un café buenísimo, bocadillos y pasteles. Te irás de allí con el estómago lleno y con una silla bajo el brazo. Zeedijk, 143 · Abierto todos los días · Tel. +31 0206257485 82 LING

experiencias

ATENAS

El mejor jazz de Grecia

Desde hace 25 años, las siete noches de la semana, suben al pequeño escenario del Club Parafono intérpretes de jazz (y blues) dispuestos a ofrecer una nueva sesión de música en directo. Es el lugar perfecto para los devotos de este género, pues se dice que el Parafono no sólo ofrece el mejor jazz de toda Grecia, sino que aquí han tocado, de los buenos, los mejores. De sus paredes cuelgan cuadros y fotografías de los que han actuado en su escenario semicircular. Es imposible no dejarte llevar por la música en un espacio iluminado por luces secundarias que conducen tu mirada a un escenario vestido únicamente con una cortina roja. 1 Kirinis & 130a Asklipiou · Todos los días, de 21h a 3h · Tel. +30 2106446512 · www.parafono.gr

BARCELONA Un bucólico café

Se llama El Jardí de Sants, pero no es un jardín, sino una cafetería, y sí está ubicada en el barrio de Sants.

Para descubrirla es obligatorio entrar y llegar hasta el fondo, dejando atrás la barra que encontrarás a mano derecha. ¿Por qué obligatorio? Porque entonces toparás con una enorme cristalera que conduce al jardín, con tres grandes árboles y un arco de piedra que le dan un aire de lo más romántico. Lo curioso es que este lugar (que hace unos años fue una guardería) está lleno tanto en verano como en invierno, pues sus dueños instalan enormes estufas que impiden que pases frío. Paseo Sant Antoni, 15 · Tel. +34 934910585

Los placeres de la carne Coloridos carteles de neón decoran la entrada del asador uruguayo La Rueda. Es una entrada pequeña para un comedor que se ensancha y que, sorpresivamente, también está lleno de bombillas de colores que hacen pensar que los dueños se han olvidado de retirar la decoración navideña. Lo bueno es que al sentarte a devorar una espal-

da de cordero o un vacío a la brasa, uno respira la calidez del lugar. Arcos y paredes de obra vista llenas de motivos uruguayos, como matrículas o cuadros de aquel país, te ubican en un rincón gastronómico sublime, pues esa carne con saborcillo a leños sólo consigue hacerla el que sabe. Roselló, 266 · Tel. +34 934585350

BILBAO

Fiesta a todo color

Otra cosa le puede faltar, pero color y fiesta, ¡nada de nada! La Triangu es un lugar que parece sacado de un cuento para niños: dos gamas de azul en las paredes y un amarillo chillón en el muro del patio invitan a estar siempre alegre. La terraza enorme hace que las noches de verano se alarguen hasta el amanecer, pues aquí la música dura hasta las cinco de la mañana. Y si no te apetece bailar, puedes tomar algo al fresco de la terraza y después darte un baño en la playa de Larrabasterra, que está al lado. Ya lo verás: tanto color por todas partes, va a cargarte las pilas. Arriatera Etorbidea, 83 · Tel. +34 946763407

BRUSELAS

La casa de Erasmo

“Soy ciudadano del mundo, mi casa se encuentra allí donde voy, o mejor dicho, soy extranjero en todas partes”. Éste es uno los pensamientos de Erasmo que flota en los estanques de la rue du Chapitre. En 1521 se alojó una temporada en casa de un amigo, Pieter Wychman, siguiendo otra de sus máximas: “Donde estén tus amigos, allí hallarás tu riqueza”. Esta casa del antiguo Anderlecht es hoy un lugar de estudio sobre su obra, un museo sobre el Anderlecht de la época y, sobre todo, un espacio de relajación con sus dos jardines abiertos al público: el Jardín de los enfermos y el de los filósofos.

El primero es un retrato botánico de Erasmo diseñado por René Pecher a partir de las plantas medicinales que utilizaba (dicen que era un poco hipocondríaco); el segundo es un lugar ideal para un rato de charla entre las obras de cuatro artistas europeos. Rue du Chapitre, 31 · www. erasmushouse.com

GRANADA

IBIZA

La hormiga sandinista

Bailar hasta el amanecer

Cuando Lali llegó a Nicaragua se encontró con la revolución sandinista.

Se quedó en ese país hasta que mataron a La Hormiga, una de sus amigas guerrilleras, y entonces se exilió en Cuba durante siete años. Luego regresó a Granada y decidió abrir un pub al que bautizó La Hormiga, en homenaje a su antigua compañera. Desde entonces prepara mojitos cada noche y se deja arrastrar por la música del Caribe. Marlon, su marido californiano, le acompaña en la barra y entre los dos tejen un ambiente festivo del que nadie puede escapar.

Los viernes ofrecen conciertos gratuitos de imprevisible género musical (swing, tango, samba, etc.) . Molinos, 18, Realejo · Cierra los lunes

Es uno de los locales más fashion de la isla, pero no de los más conocidos.

De estilo marroquí, tanto su comida como su decoración, El Ayoun es un restaurante que por las noches se convierte en un bar de copas. El tajine o el cuscús son excelentes y muy abundantes, así que te recomendamos compartir los platos. También hay que decir que los camareros son guapísimos, y que no hace falta que cambies de local para ir a bailar, pues en El Ayoun hay música hasta el amanecer. Isidor Macabich, s/n · Tel. +34 971198335

JEREZ

Atrapados en el tiempo Entra a visitarla, merece la pena: la Biblioteca Central de Jerez no sólo es la más antigua de Andalucía, sino que su sala de investigación es una maravilla, un auténtico museo del libro. Toda de madera y pintada en verde carruaje, conserva mucho sabor a Jerez. Encierra tesoros de los siglos XV al XIX, y periódicos del XIX al XX. Sus antiguos puestos de lectura son de película. Cuando finalices la visita, cruza al bar Barbiana. Pide una cervecita bien fría y una ensaladilla.

Disfrutarás el ambiente de esta alegre y céntrica plaza llena de vida. Plaza Alameda del Banco, s/n

LISBOA

Cosas de familia ¿Te has sentado alguna vez a la mesa de una familia africana? Deberías probarlo. Regentado por una familia de São Tomé, el A Cartuxinha es pequeño, sencillo, humilde, muy barato y, sobre todo, transmite una energía increíble. Algunas veces se quedan sin mantequilla y otras no tienen algunos platos del menú, pero Vanessa nunca se queda sin sonrisas para todos. Abren sus puertas a mediodía y sólo cierran cuando el último cliente se ha marchado (algunas noches más tarde de las tres de la mañana). Cierran los lunes, pero cuando les apetece abren ese día también.

Prueba el arroz de coco y el Muamba

ALICANTE, ÁMSTERDAM, ATENAS, BARCELONA, BILBAO, BRUSELAS, GRANADA, IBIZA, JEREZ, LISBOA, MÁDRID, MALLORCA

experiencias (estofado de carne). Rua das Farinhas, 7 · Tel. +35 1218862990

MADRID

Pinta y colorea

Si no te gusta pintar, mejor no te pases por Pinta en Copas. O mejor sí. Quién sabe, tal vez te sirva para descubrirte como el Picasso de las vajillas. Porque en esta curiosa tienda de Malasaña te ofrecen la oportunidad de pintar en casi todo: platos, vasos, jarras, ceniceros, relojes, maceteros, huchas; así, hasta más de cien objetos diferentes. Tú sólo tienes que poner las ganas. La pintura, el horno para fijar los colores, el café que puedes tomar mientras pintas, y hasta un poquito de inspiración, los ponen ellos. Velarde, 3 · Tel. +34 914453343 · www.pintaencopas.com

Ábrete Sésamo

No te asustes. Al entrar en Las Cuevas de Sésamo no encontrarás a Alí Babá y los 40 ladrones. Si atraviesas el hall de espejos y desciendes por las escaleras, verás un bohemio local de mesas bajas con taburetes y paredes repletas de citas de escritores y pensadores de todos los tiempos. Además, si tienes suerte, algún pianista interpretará a los clásicos en directo. Tú sólo tienes que poner las ganas de probar una estupenda sangría. Procurar ir a media tarde; si no, corres el riesgo de que haya demasiada gente intentando encontrar las palabras mágicas. Príncipe, 7 · Tel. +34 914296524

sus cervezas de importación. Y como no sólo de jazz vive el oído, apunta: espectáculo de flamenco los martes y sesión de DJ los viernes. Gómez Pallete, 5

MALLORCA

Crêpes en un tren

En la crepería Orient-Express sólo falta sentir el traqueteo del tren.

Este pequeño y acogedor local ubicado detrás del edificio de La Lonja te transporta, nada más cruzar la puerta, al mítico tren del siglo XIX: clásicos asientos de un vagón restaurante, colgadores antiguos y una luz más bien tenue. Está especializado en crêpes, como la sabrosa Indian Express, de pollo, guisantes y salsa curry; o la Oceanic Express, de espinacas, atún, pasas y queso. También hay sugerencias del día, desde espárragos gratinados hasta medallones de solomillo al oporto. Te recomendamos reservar antes, ya que los ‘billetes’ se agotan pronto. Sa Llonja de Mar, 6 · Tel. +34 971711183

MÁLAGA

Jazz en vivo hasta el amanecer Tres de la mañana y aún tienes ganas de juerga. “¿Dónde nos tomamos la última?”, les preguntas a unos malagueños que caminan a la par de ti. Si te dicen “vamos pa’l Onda Pasadena”, síguelos. Dejas a mano derecha la casa natal de Picasso (junto a la plaza de la Merced) y entras en el local de jazz en directo más famoso de la ciudad. Grupos y solistas actúan “por la cara” de jueves a domingo, desde las 23h (o quizá más tarde, porque en Málaga todo se toma con calma).

Si tienes sed, pídele a Luis alguna de LING 83

MENORCA De buen gusto

No ha podido elegir mejor su nombre este restaurante del corazón de Menorca: Tast (en catalán, gusto). Porque gusto tiene en todo: en su decoración de diseño acogedor y sencillo, en la carta de delicatessen que ofrece, y en el trato amable que dispensan. Es un lujo al alcance de muchos bolsillos, pues si bien los precios no son bajos, están muy ajustados dada la calidad de su cocina. Tienen una carta de tapas creativas y otra tradicional de entrantes y platos principales. En la primera encuentras un carpaccio de pies de cerdo, croquetas de gorgonzola o risotto con setas.

En la segunda, el magret de pato con mostaza a la naranja o el pulpo asado. El restaurante tiene dos pisos con grandes ventanales que dan a una plaza, paredes de piedra y muebles de líneas rectas y modernas. Plaza Pere Camps, 21 · Tel. +34 971375587 · www.tastmercadal.com

MILÁN

Un helado en la estación central

El mejor helado de Milán no lo encontrarás en la típica gelateria, sino en un quiosco. Así es como se autodenomina El Sartori (y visualmente lo parece). Cualquiera esperaría encontrar perritos calientes en el puesto naranja a la derecha de la estación central, y no helado casero.

Pero ése es su estilo. Si vas temprano por la mañana, prueba sus maravillosos cruasanes recién hechos y las delicatessen que llegan de madrugada en un expreso desde Sicilia.

Piazza Luigi di Savoia

NÁPOLES

Para una noche relajante

Dentro de la nueva y genial categoría de pub con cocina, destaca en la vida nocturna napolitana el Happy Rock, un local de dos plantas con más de 30 años de historia. Llaman la atención los colores que lo decoran: amarillo, naranja tierra y otros impresionantemente aplicados sobre las paredes. Al contrario de lo que su nombre evoca, es un lugar 84 LING

experiencias para pasar una noche tranquila y comer carne, queso, chocolate, ensaladas o paninis en un espacio acogedor iluminado por las velas que hay sobre las mesas. Via Bausan Giovanni, 51 · Tel. +39 081411712

PARÍS

La guerra del falafel

Todos los domingos se monta una pequeña batalla entre los dos mejores locales de falafel de París (que, curiosamente, están situados en la misma calle, uno frente al otro). ¿Cuál de los dos elegir? L’As du Fellafel, el primer local de falafel que existió en una calle que ahora está a rebosar de ellos, es el único restaurante de la ciudad que cocina sus propias pitas (y tiene el sello de aprobación de Lenny Kravitz).

Al frente está el Mi-Va-Mi, y por las increíbles colas que se forman a ambos lados de la calle, es evidente que al público le cuesta decidirse.

El señor Karim, del Mi-Va-Mi, recomienda su lujoso foie gras de falafel, mientras que Issaack, de L´As, cree que sus originales medallones de pollo saldrán victoriosos. A nosotros nos encantan los dos. Tú decides.­ Rue des Rosiers, 34 y 23

Cine y estrellas Si la comida sabe mejor cuando la comes en una barbacoa o en un picnic, también las películas ganan cuando las ves a la luz de las estrellas. Desde mediados de julio hasta finales de agosto, el cine al aire libre vuelve al Parc de la Villette bajo el lema de este año “Première classe et Strapontin” (Primera clase y sillas plegables) o cómo encontrar tu propio destino a través de las barreras sociales e históricas. De lo sublime (Volver, 20 de julio) a lo desapacible (Sweet Sixteen de Ken Loach, 23 de agosto) pasando por lo evidente (Pretty Woman, 29 de julio). Las películas se proyectan al anochecer. Del 17 de julio al 26 de agosto · Consulta el programa en www.villette.com

PISA

La flor más sabrosa

Pick a Flower (Coge una Flor): éste es el original nombre de uno de los pubs más frecuentados por los estudiantes de Pisa. En este bar-restaurante se puede cenar, y muy bien: una generosa variedad de platos fríos y calientes acompañados por un buen vino. En verano hay una terraza donde esperar la sesión nocturna del Pick a Flower, porque puede que haya música en directo o que un DJ se ponga a pinchar y proyectar vídeos. Además de la sangría, destacan sus simpáticos camareros, siempre dispuestos a preparar los más originales cócteles. Via della Sapienza, 7 · Tel. + 39 0509910112

la iglesia cambió de emplazamiento.

Sí, existe una cripta de las calaveras, una cripta de las pelvis, una cripta de los fémures, etc. No te asustes, suena a película de terror, pero es asombroso. Cimitero dei Cappuccini · Via Veneto, 27

SANTIAGO

Un océano de sonidos

Para comprender una cultura, el primer paso es conocer su música. El bar Casa das Crechas es un santuario gallego del sonido folk en directo, donde la música no ha dejado de sonar desde que se fundó hace 20 años como punto de encuentro de poetas, músicos, escritores y fotógrafos. Por su planta baja, forrada en madera y piedra del siglo XIX y con una decoración de marcado carácter celta, desfilan bandas y solistas de todos los géneros y rincones del mundo (básicamente folk, jazz, rock, ska). Aviso: el aforo completo suele ser lo habitual. Una noche de expresión mestiza, aderezada con bebidas caseras y, sobre todo, buena música.

Vía Sacra, 3 · Tel +34 616682657

SEVILLA

Un altar rockero Toda tasca tiene el carácter de sus parroquianos y un toque clásico en su decoración. Casa Gonzalo tiene un añadido: es un altar a Silvio, el músico más grande que ha dado la historia del rock sevillano. En sus paredes, apuntaladas por el deterioro de los años, encontrarás retazos de toda su carrera, como carteles y billetes de conciertos, discos, retratos y autógrafos. Es un santuario dedicado a uno de los personajes más queridos de la geografía sevillana, quien decía que lo más grande que había hecho por amor era “beberse un tinto en lugar de un gin tonic”. Amén.

Relator, 42

VALENCIA Vamos al cine

¿Otra aburrida tarde de domingo? Imposible: es pura falta de imaginación.

Vamos al Cine Estudio d´Or, el último superviviente de los cines de reestreno en la ciudad que sigue proyectando espléndidas películas frente a la competencia de las multisalas.

Amplio, de diseño clásico y con grandes y mullidas butacas para disfrutar del séptimo arte a precios muy económicos. De vez en cuando sorprende a los espectadores más fieles con algún ciclo dedicado a los grandes directores o actores, pero lo habitual son las películas europeas y el cine independiente americano. Eso sí, no olvides apagar tu teléfono. Almirante Cadalso, 31 · Días laborables, 3€; festivos, 4€

ROMA

VENECIA

Aquí lo llaman “chiesa degli cappuccini” (iglesia del capuchino), lo que lleva a pensar que es un buen sitio para ir a desayunar, pero créenos: no lo es. En realidad la Chiesa dell’Immacolata Concezione es un buen lugar al que acudir cuando ya lo has visto todo. Los frailes capuchinos han convertido su cripta en una obra de arte, decorando las paredes y construyendo estatuas con... huesos humanos sacados de los cadáveres de los monjes cuando

Si estás en el Ponte di Rialto tratando de sortear a los turistas que te piden retratarles, busca refugio en la calle San Marco número 5482. Se trata de la Osteria alla Botte, una pequeña fonda decorada como taberna en la que podrás comer y beber por poco dinero y, lo mejor, en compañía de venecianos. De muchos venecianos, pues la única desventaja (y la mejor garantía) de este lugar es la cantidad de clientes que llenan sus pocas mesas. Recomendación:

El arte en los huesos

Un refugio económico

pide los ‘bigoi in salsa’, una pasta típica con pescado. Ahora, si se está poniendo el sol en Venecia, disfruta antes de ese gran espectáculo en el Ponte di Rialto. San Marco, 5482 · Tel. +39 0415209775 · www.osteriaallabotte.it

EXP ERIEN CES

ALICANTE Food for love

The Azahar is the size of the average bedroom. Don’t let that put you off; it means that the restaurant is perfect for romantic dinners (and that you should book a table in advance).

The founder, Paco Ramón, has 30 years of experience in Alicantian cuisine to fall back on, and it shows: his rice dishes are simple and traditional, but so extraordinarily good that customers even order them at night. It’s really the best excuse for a romantic walk after dinner. Alberola 57 · Open for dinner Thursday to Sunday · Tel. +34 965121348

AMSTERDAM Coffee (cups) for take away

You may have sat in a bar or restaurant once and thought, “Hm, I like this table,” or “Nice cutlery. I wonder where they got it from.” In Café Latei, they probably got it from an antiques market or a garage sale. The entire decoration is second-hand and everything is for sale, from the vintage wallpaper to the cup you’re drinking from. Besides that, Latei also sells more regular café fare: great coffee, cakes and sandwiches. You’ll walk away with a full stomach and a chair under your arm. Zeedijk 143 · Open every day · Tel. +31 0206257485

Music with players, or without Amsterdam’s tiniest museum (officially) is dedicated exclusively to pianolas (automatic, player-less piano).

MENORCA, MILÁN, NÁPOLES, PARÍS, PISA, ROMA, SANTIAGO, SEVILLA, VALENCIA, VENECIA, ALICANTE, AMSTERDAM, ATHENS, BARCELONA

experiencias

The Pianola Museum is housed in an old police station in the Jordaan area, and the music rolls for the pianolas are stored in what used to be the cells. Every third Friday of the month, they host concerts with live jazz, ragtime and other music from the roaring twenties and thirties. If you ask, you may even have a go at playing one of the pianolas yourself. Or at least pretend to. Westerstraat 106 · Concerts start at 8pm · €8 · www.pianola.nl

ATHENS

The best Jazz in Greece

For 25 years now, jazz (and blues) musicians have graced the Club Parafono stage seven days a week ready to give us a great live show. This is the perfect place for lovers of the genre, as the Parafono not only offers the best jazz in Greece, but some of the best of the best have played here. All over the walls you can see photos and pictures of people who have played on their semicircular stage. It’s impossible not to get lost in the music and be drawn in by the dim lighting and red velvet curtained stage. 1 Kirinis & 130a Asklipiou · Every day, from 9pm to 3am · Tel. +30 2106446512 · www.parafono.gr

BARCELONA

A bucolic café

It’s called El Jardi de Sants (Sants’ garden), but it’s not a garden, it’s a café, but it IS in the Sants district. To find it, it’s obligatory to go in and walk right to the back, leaving the bar behind you on your right. Why obligatory? Because otherwise, you’ll bump into a huge glass window. The garden has three trees and a stone arch which makes it very romantic. The weird thing is that this place (that was once a nursery) is as full in winter as it is in summer because the owners make sure you won’t get cold by putting big gas heaters outside in winter. Paseo Sant Antoni, 15 · Tel. +34 934910585

The pleasures of meat Colourful bright neon signs decorate LING 85

experiencias

BILBAO

Party in full colour!

There are some things we can do without, but colour and parties – no chance! La Triangu is a place straight out of a fairy tale: two types of blue on the interior walls and a bright yellow on the patio mean you’ll always feel chirpy. Summer nights last ‘til the early hours on their huge terrace and the music goes on ‘til 5am. And if you don’t feel like dancing, you can have a drink in the open air and then have a dip on the Larrabastera beach which is right there. You’ll see so much colour around, you can’t help but be energised. Arriatera Etorbidea, 83 · Tel. +34 946763407

BRUSSELS

Erasmus’s House

“I’m a citizen of the world and my home is wherever I go, or should I say, I am a foreigner wherever I go.” This is one of Erasmus’s thoughts that floats on the ponds on Rue du Chapitre. In 1521, he lived for a while with a friend, Pieter Wychman, following his advice of “you will find true wealth in friendship.” This house from the old Anderlecht area is now a research centre for the study of this Humanist celebrity (with some 1,000 examples from the 16th century), an Anderlecht museum and more importantly, a relaxing spot with two public gardens: the Garden for the Sick and the Garden of Philosophers. The first is a botanical portrait of Erasmus designed by René Pecher with medicinal plants that he once used – they say he was 86 LING

a bit of a hypochondriac; the second is an ideal place to relax for a while and chat amongst the works of art of four European artists. Rue du Chapitre, 31. www.erasmushouse.com

GRANADA

The Sandinista Ant When Lali arrived in Nicaragua, she came across the Sandinist Revolution. She stayed there long enough to see the Hormiga (The Ant), one of her friends from the guerrilla side, killed and so she took exile in Cuba for seven years. When she got back to Granada she decided to open a pub called La Hormiga, in homage to her old friend. She has served up fine mojitos every night since then and plays great Caribbean music. Marlon, her Californian husband, works at the bar too and between them they create a festive atmosphere in the bar that no one can resist.

On Fridays there are free concerts of all sorts of music styles (swing, tango, samba etc.) Molinos 18 · Closed on Mondays

IBIZA

MADRID

MALLORCA

One of the trendiest places on the island, but not the most well-known.

Moroccan both in its cuisine and its decoration, El Ayoun is a restaurant that turns into a bar at night.

Their tajines and couscous come in big portions and are excellent, so we recommend you share a dish. It also has to be said that the waiters are gorgeous, and there’s no need to change venues to have a boogie because at El Ayoun, you can dance ‘til dawn. Isidor Macabich · Tel. +34 971198335

If you don’t like painting, you shouldn’t go to to Pinta en Copas. Or maybe you should. Who knows, you might find out you have more in common with Picasso than you thought, because in this strange little shop in the Malasaña area, you are given the opportunity to paint anything you like: plates, glasses, jugs, ashtrays, watches, flower pots, piggy banks – up to 100 different objects. They provide the paint, coffee and even a bit of inspiration. All you have to do is try. Velarde, 3 · Tel. +34 914453343 · www. pintaencopas.com

In the Orient-Express crêperie, the only thing missing is the ka-dung of railroad tracks beneath you. This cute cosy place situated behind the La Lonja building takes you back to the magical world of that mythical 19th-century train: classic restaurant wagon seats, old hat stands and low lighting. They specialise in crêpes of course, for example the tasty Indian express with chicken, peas and curry sauce or the Oceanic Express with spinach, tuna, raisins and cheese.

There are also specials with anything from asparagus au gratin to steak medallions in port sauce. We recommend you book in advance as ‘tickets’ run out fast. Sa Llonja de Mar, 6 · Tel. +34 971711183

eat’n’dance

JEREZ

Trapped in time Go and have a look, it’s definitely worth it: The Biblioteca Central (Central Library) of Jerez is not only the oldest in Andalusia, but the research room is marvellous! An authentic book museum decorated in wood and painted in coach green which still conserves the true Jerez feel. You will find treasures from the 15th to the 19th century and newspapers from the 19th to 20th century. Their old reading posts look like they’re out of some old film. And when you’re done, cross over to the Barbiana bar and order an ice-cold beer and little salad. A wonderful way to enjoy this lively central plaza. Plaza Alameda del Banco

LISBON

Family Affair

Have you ever eaten at an African family’s table? You should try it out.

Run by a family from São Tomé, the A Cartuxinha, is small, simple, humble and really cheap, and above all, it has an invaluable energy. Sometimes they run out of butter and other times they don’t have some of the dishes on the menu, but Vanessa never runs out of smiles for everybody. The doors open at midday and only close when the last client leaves – sometimes after 3am. It’s closed on Monday, but when they feel like it, they open anyway. Try the coconut rice and the Muamba, a meat stew, for a taste of Africa. Rua das Farinhas 7 · Tel. +35 1218862990

Painting by numbers

Open Sesame

Don’t worry. When entering Las Cuevas de Sésamo (Sesame’s Caves), you won’t find Ali Baba and the 40 thieves. If you go through the hall of mirrors and down the stairs, you’ll see a nice bohemian place with low tables and stools and walls covered in quotes from writers and thinkers from all different eras. If you’re lucky, there’ll be a pianist playing classics in the corner. All you have to do is work up the courage to order their sangria. And go mid-afternoon, otherwise it might already be too full of people trying to find the magic words. Príncipe, 7 · Tel. +34 914296524

MALAGA

Live jazz ‘till dawn

It’s three in the morning and you’re far from ready to go home. “Where shall we go for a nightcap?” you ask some guys you meet on the street. If they tell you, “Let’s head over to Onda Pasadena,” follow them because they’re taking you to the city’s most famous live jazz venue, close to Picasso’s birthplace in Merced square. Bands and artists play for nothing from Thursday to Sunday after 11pm (and sometimes later, because in Malaga people take it easy). If you’re thirsty, ask Luis for one of his imported beers. And because life isn’t just jazz, there is a flamenco show on Tuesdays and a DJ set on Fridays. Gómez Pallete, 5

Crêpes on a train

MENORCA Good taste

They couldn’t have picked a better name for this restaurant in the heart of Menorca; Tast (taste in Catalan). Because taste is what they have; in their simple and welcoming decor, in their deli-style menu, and in their friendly service. It’s luxury to suit all pockets as, although it’s not cheap, the prices are very reasonable considering the quality of food. They have a selection of creative tapas and other traditional starters and main courses, such as pig’s foot carpaccio, gorgonzola croquettes or mushroom risotto for starters and for main course: Magret de canard with orange and mustard or grilled octopus. The restaurant has two floors with huge windows looking out onto the square, stone walls and smart, minimalist furniture. Plaza Pere Camps, 21 · Tel. +34 971375587 · www.tastmercadal.com

MILAN

The ice cream kiosk The best ice cream in Milan does not come from a gelateria, but from a kiosk. That’s what the Sartori calls itself. And it looks the part, too: you’d expect hot dogs from the orange stall on the right side of the central train station, not homemade ice cream.

But that’s just what they do. And if you come early in the morning, try some of the wonderful fresh croissants and delicatessen that just arrived with the overnight express train from Sicily.

Piazza Luigi di Savoia

NAPLES

For a relaxing evening

Amongst the new category of pub with grub, Neapolitan nightlife brings us the Happy Rock, a bar with two floors of more than 30 years of history. The colour scheme is noteworthy, with its yellow, terracotta and other colours impressively put together.

Contrary to what its name suggests, it’s a place to spend a relaxing evening enjoying their meats, cheeses, chocolate, salads or panini in a cosy candlelit atmosphere. Via Bausan Giovanni, 51 · Tel. +39 081411712

PARIS

BILBAO, BRUSSELS, GRANADA, IBIZA, JEREZ, LISBON, MADRID, MÁLLORCA, MENORCA, MILAN, NAPLES, PARIS

the entrance to this Uruguayan grill La Rueda. It’s a small entrance for such a big place that is surprisingly lit by lots of coloured lights that make you think the owners have forgotten to take down their Christmas decorations. When you sit down and devour a fire-grilled back or shoulder of lamb, you truly appreciate the quality of this place. The arches and walls are covered in Uruguayan artefacts like licence plates and paintings.

A sublime gastronomic hideaway with delicious meat dishes where you can really enjoy that wood-fire grilled taste. Roselló, 266 · Tel. +34 934585350

experiencias

Falafel wars

Every Sunday it’s skewers at lunchtime as the two finest falafel houses in Paris – coincidentally on opposite sides of a narrow street – do battle. Which to choose? L’As du Fellafel, the first falafel house in a street now full of them, carries a stamp of approval from Lenny Kravitz. Mi-Va-Mi, across the road, is the only restaurant in town that bakes its own pitas. The raucous lines that snake from both restaurants show that the public can’t decide. Mr Karim from Mi-Va-Mi recommends his luxurious foie gras falafel but Issaak from L’as believes his original chicken medallions will see him victorious.

We love them both – it’s your call. 34 and 23 Rue des Rosiers

LING 87

experiencias

Under the stars Just as food tastes better eaten outside at a picnic or a barbecue, so too a film can be enriched watched beneath a starry sky. From mid-July until the end of August, open-air cinema returns to Parc de la Villette with this year’s theme “Première classe et Strapontin” (literally, “first class and the folding seats”) or how to choose your own destiny within social and historical constraints. Everything from the sublime (Volver, 20 July) through the bleak (Ken Loach’s Sweet Sixteen, 23 August) to the downright popular (Pretty Woman, 29 July) is represented. Films roll at nightfall. 17 July to 26 August · Full programme at www.villette.com

PISA

The tasty flower

experiencias

SANTIAGO

An ocean of sounds

In order to understand a culture, the first step is to understand their music. The Casa das Crechas bar is a Galician sanctuary of the livefolk sound, where music has been played every night for the last 20 years and poets, musicians, writers and photographers congregate.

On the ground floor, decorated in a Celtic style of wood and stone from the 19th century, you will find bands and soloists playing all types of music from around the world (basically folk, jazz, rock and ska). Warning: this place is always packed. A night of multi-cultured madness with homemade brews and more importantly, great music. Vía Sacra, 3 · Tel +34 616682657

SEVILLE

The Rock Altar Most tascas have a classic touch to their decor and take on the character of their customers. Casa Gonzalo has something else too; an altar dedicated to Silvio, the biggest Sevillian rock musician in history. On this bar’s time-worn walls, you will find snippets of his whole career, such as posters and concert tickets, records, portraits and autographs. It is a sanctuary dedicated to one of Seville’s most loved characters who once said that one of the biggest things he ever did for love was to “drink a red wine instead of a gin and tonic”! Amen. Relator, 42

VALENCIA Let’s go to the cinema

Pick a flower: this is the original name of one of the pubs most frequented by students in Pisa. You can have a great dinner here: a wide variety of cold and hot dishes accompanied by a fine wine. In summer there is a terrace where you can eagerly await the nightly session of Pick a Flower, either a live band or some DJ playing great tunes with visual projections. As well as sangria, they also have great waiters ready to make you a mindblowing and original cocktail. Via della Sapienza, 7 · Tel. +39 0509910112

Another boring Sunday afternoon?

Rubbish! Let’s go to the Cine Estudio d’Or, the last surviving re-run cinema in the city that is still showing great films despite competition from multiplexes. A large venue in the classic design with big comfortable seats from which you can enjoy the seventh run of a classic at a decent price. Sometimes they have sessions dedicated to great directors or actors, though they mostly show European films or independent American films.

Almirante Cadalso, 31 · Week days, 3€; Weekends and holidays, 4€

ROME

VENICE

They call it the “chiesa degli cappuccini”, which may have you thinking it would be a good place to come for breakfast, but believe us, you’d rather not. Chiesa dell’Immacolata Concezione is, however, a great place to come to when you think you’ve seen it all. The Capuchin friars have turned their crypt into a work of art, decorating the walls and building statues with human bones, taken from the bodies of monks when the church was relocated. Yes, there is the Crypt of the Skulls, the Crypt of the Pelvises, the Crypt of the Leg Bones, and so on. Don’t be put off, it sounds scary, but really, it’s amazing.

Cimitero dei Cappuccini · Via Veneto 27

If you are around the Ponte di Rialto trying to muscle your way through the tourists getting their portrait done, you can take refuge on San Marco street, number 5482. Osteria alla Botte is a small inn decorated as a tavern, where you can eat and drink at a reasonable price and, even better, do it in Venetian company. The only disadvantage of this of course is that the place fills up quickly (also seen as a guarantee of its quality). Recommendation: order the ‘bigoi in salsa’, a typical pasta dish with fish. So, if the sun is setting in Venice, enjoy the spectacle on the Ponte di Rialto and then come here and get stuck in! San Marco, 5482 · Tel. +39 0415209775 · www.osteriaallabotte.it

very human art

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A cheap refuge

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ALICANTE, ÁMSTERDAM, ATENAS, BARCELONA, BILBAO, BRUSELAS, GRANADA, IBIZA, JEREZ, LISBOA, MADRID, MÁLAGA, MALLORCA, MENORCA, MILÁN, NÁPOLES, PARÍS, PISA, ROMA, SANTIAGO, SEVILLA, VALENCIA, VENECIA

23 ciudades (por ahora) 23 cities (for now)

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how to

la bicicleta

En Brasil llaman ‘bicicleta’ a lo que en España y otros países de habla castellana se llama ‘chilena’ o ‘chalaca’, espectacular maniobra futbolística que consiste en patear la pelota muy alto, con el cuerpo formando un ángulo de 90 grados, y por lo general de espaldas a la portería contraria.

a.

Si calculas que la pelota te viene un metro por delante y por encima de tu cabeza, haciendo que sea imposible que puedas darle con la frente, prepárate para saltar con mucha fuerza.

b.

Al saltar, levanta una pierna muy alto, como si fuese un movimiento de gimnasia. Esta pierna te servirá de ‘palanca’ para que puedas darle a la pelota con la otra.

c.

Cuando la pelota esté a tiro, baja la primera pierna levantada y, con ese impulso, levanta violentamente la otra, como un latigazo. Si le das bien, no la atajará ni Dios.

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an athens drink

Cordelia Madden is journalist who lives in Athens and writes for both local and international publications, including Time Out and Dorling Kindersley Top Ten Guidebooks, the Athens News and Odyssey.

She is also the author of a book, Shopping in Athens.

Discovered by an instantcoffee salesman improvising with a children’s chocolate drink shaker, frappé (from the French, meaning ‘hit’, or, in the case of liqueurs or juices, served over crushed ice) has become a panacea to Greeks of all ages, stages and social classes 92 LING

a lisbon smell

Frappé, shaken not stirred Life in Athens through a long straw

A text by Cordelia Madden Illustration by Sherley Freudenreich

Dreamy young lovers get palpitations over heady glasses of the stuff at cafés in the shadows of the Acropolis. Taxi-drivers slurp at plastic cups to stay alert in the Athens traffic. The fashionable crowd sip and smoke at chic hang-outs in the Kolonaki neighbourhood. Ferry-travellers while away the tedious hours on board stirring and quaffing, and night-owls purchase DIY kits from the kiosks and shake up the contents en route to the next venue. Long after their western European equivalents have called it a night, Greek clubbers are still drinking this drink, before dancing and flirting into the cool pink dawn.

The frappé is an instant coffee that can take all afternoon to drink. Its preparation requires vigorous activity; its consumption little more effort than the occasional lazy drag on the straw. It looks like an innocent smoothie, but its contents are pulse-quickeningly potent.

Small wonder then that this frothed mix of instant coffee and cold water with optional milk and sugar, has become the favourite drink of a people who veer between frenzied bursts of activity and prolonged periods of idleness.

In Athens, the languid open-air café culture endemic in warm climes is taken to an extreme; coffee-drinking is a leisurely ritual that can easily take a couple of hours. Far more than simply an opportunity to cool down with an icy drink, going to the café is the modern equivalent of visiting the agora (the ancient Greek marketplace): an excuse to gather, gossip, watch people, smoke, fiddle with your mobile (formerly, worry-beads), see and be seen.

A tumbler of frappé, beaded with condensation and topped by a blonde head of foam, is the ideal drink to eke out over this lengthy socialising session. While tourists are often fooled by its milkshake-like appearance into downing their frappé fast and then re-ordering (they also sometimes commit the cardinal sin of accompanying it with food), you’ll seldom see locals drink more than one at each sitting. Instead, in between slow stirring and measured pulls on the straw, as the froth evaporates to leave a spider web of subsided bubbles around the rim of the glass, they top up the frappé with splashes of water from the accompanying glass.

Discovered by chance in 1957 by an instant-coffee salesman improvising with a children’s chocolate drink shaker, frappé (from the French word meaning ‘hit’ or ‘beaten’, or, in the case of liqueurs and juices, served over crushed ice) comes in three levels of sweetness. The ‘sketo’ (sugar-free) is bold, blunt and bitter, the ‘glyko’ (super-sweet) as deliriously saccharine as a tray of baklava, and the city’s favourite ‘metrio’ (medium) balances sharp with sweet in a potion that is both pungent and refreshing.

Every frappé-drinker has his or her own tried-and-tested recipe, but the basic formula calls for two teaspoons of instant coffee and two fingers of cold water – along with two teaspoons of sugar for metrio, and three or more for glyko. Shake briskly or whisk with a hand-held electric mixer until it forms soft peaks of foam, then pour into a tall glass full of ice cubes and top it up with cold water and, if desired, condensed milk. The ratio should be approximately one-quarter froth to three-quarters liquid.

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LA

GRAN

VIDA

Al sur

Escribe Mayer Aramburu

Estoy sentada al pie de la cama de Soledad. Tiene fiebre. Quejosa, dice que

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de ésta se muere, mientras ojea el último libro de Testino. Yo sé que no, que de nada me sirve esperar su testamento: es de la vieja escuela, resistente y correosa, y no estirará la pata hasta que no se salga con la suya. La suya es, por supuesto, tener la mayor colección de arte contemporáneo ‘camp’ de Europa.

Ayer llegamos a Nápoles para ver la Quadreria dei Girolamini. Cogió frío con el aire acondicionado, y ahora la fiebre acentúa el pequeño problema de su Tourette. Como Soledad tiene un buen italiano, la tarde resulta de lo más colorida. Al camarero del servicio de habitaciones le ha dedicado un “cagati in mano e prenditi a schiaffi”, algo así como “alíviate en tu mano y abofetéate después”. Al final, se queda dormida. La dejo con la enfermera que hemos llamado al Hotel Caruso de Amalfi.

Cojo el Jaguar y me vuelvo a Nápoles, a pocos kilómetros de curvas. Acabo sentada en la terraza de La Chiacchierata, mi trattoria preferida. Son las ocho de la noche; aún es de día. Huele a jazmín y albahaca. Pido un Campi Flegrei rosso y me lo casco enseguida. A mi lado, dos tipos con camisas de cuadros discuten mientras comen sfogliatelle.

Pasa un poco de aire con olor a zuppa di cipolle.

Un joven sentado en el escalón del portal de delante me mira. No sé si con deseo, pero desde luego con adherencia. Es rudo y serio, al modo del sur.

Le deben sorprender mis coordenadas: mujer sola, bebiendo vino, vestida de su compatriota Marni (él seguramente no es consciente de esto último).

Me sigue mirando. Le sonrío y brindo con mi copa hacia él. ¿Jornada de puertas abiertas? Boh, como dicen aquí.

Me siento (con alivio) lejos de casa. Noto uno de esos accesos nostálgicos que dan las noches con vino en lugares bellos. El joven adherente se

pone en pie y se sienta en una silla cercana a la mía.

Entonces ocurre algo hermoso. Canta, a media voz.

Primero mirando hacia abajo, después al frente.

Tiene un estilo poco refinado, pero sincero. Canta “Munastero ‘e Santa Chiara”, la historia de un napolitano que echa de menos su tierra. A los italianos les encanta echar de menos Italia; casi más que estar en ella. “Penzo a Napule, comm’era?”. ¿Cómo era Nápoles? Pues así: con sabor a vino, brisa a comida, discusiones de camisas de cuadros, miradas de espesas cejas negras.

-¿Te canta a ti?

Es Soledad. Perro sabueso, ha recordado que siempre vuelvo a esta trattoria.

-Creo que no. ¿Y la fiebre?

-Mejor. Me ha sido muy útil: he tenido alucinaciones lúcidas. Debo volver a Madrid para hacer dos cosas urgentes: encadenarme una tarde con Tita a los árboles y conseguir aquella foto de una tuerta de García Alix.

Se acomoda a mi lado, silenciosa. Tiene los ojos brillantes, no sé si por la fiebre o por placer.

M ay er A r a m bu ru tiene 31 años y es la asistente de Soledad, u na refinada coleccionista de arte con la que viaja por toda Europa.

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equipo

A MAGAZINE ABOUT PEOPLE AND THEIR CITIES exclusively for vueling passengers

editada por la Fábrica, le cool publishing & feriche black

CONCEPTO EDITORIAL: le cool Publishing

Tel. +34 932 687 987 www.lecool.com

DIRECCIÓN CREATIVA: Feriche Black www.fericheblack.com

DIRECTOR: René Lönngren DIRECTOR EDITORIAL: Andrew Losowsky EDITOR GENERAL: Toño Angulo Daneri EDITORA EN INGLÉS: Kati Krause REDACTORA PRINCIPAL: Marta D. Riezu PRODUCTORA: Elena Parreño DIRECTOR CREATIVO: Ricardo Feriche DIRECCIÓN DE ARTE: Joel Dalmau DISEÑO gráfico: Óscar Aragón, Céline Robert, Vicens Castelltort, Javi Mas

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DIRECTOR COMERCIAL: Miguel García JEFE DE PUBLICIDAD: Gonzalo Peláez CONTACTO PUBLICIDAD: mgarcia@lafabrica.com Tel. +34 913 601 320

COLABORADORES HABITUALES: Ana S. Pareja (correctora de estilo y traductora inglés-castellano), Ayesha Mendham (traductora castellano-inglés), Simon Hunter (corrector de estilo en inglés), Joana Sánchez González (Alicante), Annelies Termeer (Ámsterdam), Leo Faccio (Barcelona), Elena Erkiaga (Bilbao), Marta Rebón (Bruselas), Pablo Ibáñez (Granada), Ivonne Arañó (Ibiza), Marta Conde (Jerez), Joana Pinto Correira (Lisboa), Leticia Timón (Madrid), Sara Shaikh (Málaga), Vicky Bolaños (Mallorca), Concha Alcántara (Menorca), Luca Santarelli (Milán), Adam Biles (París), Laura Bauerlein (Roma), Sergio Cobos (Santiago), David Pareja (Sevilla), Maite Fernández (Valencia), Guadalupe de la Vallina (Venecia)

EDITA: La Fábrica

Verónica, 13 28014 Madrid

DIRECTOR GENERAL: Agustín García Benavente EDITORA: Camino Brasa PRODUCCIÓN: Paloma Castellanos DIRECTOR DE COMUNICACIÓN: Álvaro Matías JEFA DE PRENSA: Emilú Soares DEPÓSITO LEGAL: M-12188-2007 Las opiniones expresadas aquí no reflejan necesariamente las de Vueling o sus socios/afiliados Escríbenos / Write to us: hello@lingmagazine.com

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Todas las recomendaciones de esta revista han sido elegidas siguiendo únicamente nuestro criterio. Sólo incluimos las cosas que consideramos que merecen la pena. No existe la opción de pagar para aparecer en la parte editorial de nuestra revista.

All recommendations have been chosen using no other criteria than our own good judgement. We only include what we believe to be worthwhile. No place or person has paid to be included within our editorial.

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