bambina writes

A Matter of Bribe

Bribery in all its forms - petty, blatant, subtle, systematic or institutionalized - is pretty much a way of life in South Africa.  Of course you get the whites who say it's an African thing, but in reality, is a human thing, borne out of economic desperation, bureaucratic frustration and maybe even civic creativity.  

But knowing all of the above still didn't inoculate me from the stupefaction of being hit for a bribe by the immigration supervisor on duty at the airport when I left for Manila during the Christmas holidays.

The One & Only

No, this isn't about the star-studded grand opening of the One&Only Cape Town, which by the way, is a fabulous hotel by any standard.  With architecture by Ruben Reddy and Dennis Fabian Berman and interiors by Adam Tihany, it is sexy, modern and chic, and makes that grande dame of Cape Town, The Mount Nelson, look like its spinster aunt, creased but dignified, clinging defiantly to the glories of centuries past.  

No, this isn't about the hotel at all, though in a roundabout way, it is.

My So-Called Life

The Girl Can Cook

As a writer, I have to confess to a secret thrill when I see my name in print.  Any writer who tells you otherwise is lying.  Of course, I'd prefer to see my name as the byline to a story, or, even better, as the author of a book very prominently displayed in all the windows of all the Barnes & Noble stores.  But for the moment I'll settle for seeing my name mentioned in the acknowledgments page of a book, as I was this year. Not just once, mind you, but twice, when two very dear friends came out with their respective cookbooks.

Three years ago, my bestest friend Claudia published DELICIOUS in Hong Kong together with another friend, Dominica.  The book featured 60 of their favorite recipes and was a spectacular success. Having enjoyed many meals with Claudia and her family throughout the almost 20-odd years that we have been friends, believe me when I tell you, the girl can cook.  

Huff 'n Puff

With election fever raging in America, The Huffington Post has become my bookmarked blog for all things election-related.  

It's easy to affect bored indifference at the nonstop election coverage in the media, but the fact remains that this is a particularly crucial contest, and whoever emerges victorious as the next President of the United States is going to have a profound impact on our world order.  Is it going to be the hot-headed, traumatized prisoner-of-war held hostage by the rabid right wing and his suddenly expensively coiffed and dressed pseudo-Hockey Mom of a Vice President?  Or will it be the man of admittedly little experience yet deep intelligence and measured calm along with his extremely capable and seasoned running mate?

What Would Paul Newman Do?

 

I must have always had a thing for older men.  

When I was 11, maybe up to the time I was 13, I used to make lists of my celebrity crushes.  Not for me the likes of Leif Garrett, David and Shaun Cassidy and Parker Stevenson - the late 70s equivalent of Zac Efron, the Jonas Brothers and Chace Crawford.  Too young, too scrubbed, too bubble gum.  Instead my lists featured - or so I believed - men of humor and character, men of experience, men of assured swagger.  Men like Robert Redford, Warren Beatty, James Garner, Alain Delon, James Caan, even Beau Bridges...

And then there was Paul Newman and his impossibly beautiful blue eyes, in a class of his own.  

Mothers and Daughters

My older daughter went off to camp a kid and came back a teenager. I like to think I'm pretty chilled as a mother and not at all like the uptight, high-anxiety parents described in a recent New York Times story:

"Their parents, meanwhile, were bombarding the camp with calls: one wanted help arranging private guitar lessons for her daughter, another did not like the sound of her child’s voice during a recent conversation, and a third needed to know — preferably today — which of her daughter’s four varieties of vitamins had run out. All before lunch."

In Praise of Older Men

Because I have a Groovy Old Man of my own, I could SO identify with this piece in The Independent, charmingly entitled Groovy Old Men: The rise of the silver swingers.

Continue reading "In Praise of Older Men" »

Dr Randy Pausch, the Carnegie Mellon professor of the "Last Lecture" fame, passed away on July 25,, 2008, after a brave battle against pancreatic cancer.  He was 47.

Live with wonder, he exhorted the audience at his lecture, delivered in September 2007.  He told friends and colleagues that he would probably be delivering his lecture to a crowd of no more than 50.  Instead, the 400-seat auditorium was packed to capacity.  In fact, it was standing room only.

Continue reading "Randy Pausch Lives" »

Note: I wrote this extremely personal essay almost a year ago after a short visit home, more as a release than anything else.  It seems appropriate to post it now, on the occasion of Father's Day.  

SHORT-TERM MEMORY, LONG-TERM LOVE

“Dad’s starting to forget things,” my mother told me when she came to visit with my sister last year.  “He’ll ask me something, and then ten minutes later, he’ll ask exactly the same question again.  It can get really repetitive.”

Senility was not something I ever thought would afflict my dad.  At least not at 75.  In fact, the only other close family member who suffered from dementia was my maternal grandmother.  In her dotage she would forget our names but recall with impressive clarity episodes from her youth, in the days before marriage and World War II.  Bedridden, she would keep her money and jewelry hidden under her mattress and then accuse the nurse of stealing from her.   She never forgot, however, that she was a devout Catholic, and even erected a makeshift altar on top of the television set in her bedroom in my parents’ house.  Vying for altar space with the Virgin Mary, the Infant Jesus and a vial of holy water from Lourdes was a plastic statue of Mickey Mouse.

Randy Pausch Lives

Dr Randy Pausch, the Carnegie Mellon professor of the "Last Lecture" fame, passed away on July 25,, 2008, after a brave battle against pancreatic cancer.  He was 47.

Live with wonder, he exhorted the audience at his lecture, delivered in September 2007.  He told friends and colleagues that he would probably be delivering his lecture to a crowd of no more than 50.  Instead, the 400-seat auditorium was packed to capacity.  In fact, it was standing room only.

Continue reading "Randy Pausch Lives" »

Note: I wrote this extremely personal essay almost a year ago after a short visit home, more as a release than anything else.  It seems appropriate to post it now, on the occasion of Father's Day.  

SHORT-TERM MEMORY, LONG-TERM LOVE

“Dad’s starting to forget things,” my mother told me when she came to visit with my sister last year.  “He’ll ask me something, and then ten minutes later, he’ll ask exactly the same question again.  It can get really repetitive.”

Senility was not something I ever thought would afflict my dad.  At least not at 75.  In fact, the only other close family member who suffered from dementia was my maternal grandmother.  In her dotage she would forget our names but recall with impressive clarity episodes from her youth, in the days before marriage and World War II.  Bedridden, she would keep her money and jewelry hidden under her mattress and then accuse the nurse of stealing from her.   She never forgot, however, that she was a devout Catholic, and even erected a makeshift altar on top of the television set in her bedroom in my parents’ house.  Vying for altar space with the Virgin Mary, the Infant Jesus and a vial of holy water from Lourdes was a plastic statue of Mickey Mouse.

My Guy

Note: I wrote this extremely personal essay almost a year ago after a short visit home, more as a release than anything else.  It seems appropriate to post it now, on the occasion of Father's Day.  

SHORT-TERM MEMORY, LONG-TERM LOVE

“Dad’s starting to forget things,” my mother told me when she came to visit with my sister last year.  “He’ll ask me something, and then ten minutes later, he’ll ask exactly the same question again.  It can get really repetitive.”

Senility was not something I ever thought would afflict my dad.  At least not at 75.  In fact, the only other close family member who suffered from dementia was my maternal grandmother.  In her dotage she would forget our names but recall with impressive clarity episodes from her youth, in the days before marriage and World War II.  Bedridden, she would keep her money and jewelry hidden under her mattress and then accuse the nurse of stealing from her.   She never forgot, however, that she was a devout Catholic, and even erected a makeshift altar on top of the television set in her bedroom in my parents’ house.  Vying for altar space with the Virgin Mary, the Infant Jesus and a vial of holy water from Lourdes was a plastic statue of Mickey Mouse.