How Much Dose A Patpus Cost

Reality and dreams

Friday, November 19 ARMOR
SALT

Somerset Maugham said, and I like to repeat, it's okay for a gentleman to have sex life after sixty years , but not OK to discuss it.
To me, the true, the sex that I like is what is before sex. I'll be in love, I do not know (I have now at hand the books that keep track of everything), maybe 340 or 350 times, yet each new time it makes me wonder than the first. And nothing makes me happier than the early days, when nothing happened and everything has already happened.
In bad weather, when one has to overcome one of these tests that no one is free, how good are these unexpected dose of endorphins, the lustral water that bathes the world and I returned just created.
know too well what will happen later, when the magic evaporates. I have repeated many times the same story! Does it? No, no: if I fall I fall for the first time.
do not know if I'll be able to resist the big blow. And Chance, who loves me dearly, I suddenly put a shining armor. I know it will not last forever, it will dissolve soon as a reinforcement of salt.
But why complain? An eternal love, if proper care can last a lifetime. You may even up to one year.


Saturday, November 20
NOT KNOW, NO ANSWER

"What happened to that woman who one day got you at home? Did you get rid of it? Still there yet? Or it was all a dream of yours? I mean a woman who was reading the memoirs of Harpo Marx, "I asked my friend Enrique Bueres.
"I also read the memories of the brother moved from the Marx Brothers, which in reality was not dumb, but played the harp, like in the movies. And you should see what I hated as a child, that moment when the action stopped and started the endless melody 's boring. Fernando Rodriguez Lafuente told us at a meeting of the jury of the Prince, who had recorded all of the Marx Brothers movies, but that they had removed all the musical passages. Earn a lot, he said. I think the same. "
"I have answered" answers Bueres.
"And what can I say," I reply. And then I read the only passage to the unknown highlighted in the reports of Harpo: "The memory of my early years on stage is a frightful chaos times and places. Of cities and towns I remember very little. What I remember are the waiting rooms of the seasons, canteens pensions, hotel rooms for a dollar, dressing rooms, billiard rooms and lavatories gentleman quite similar everywhere in any city or town of any part of the country. "



Sunday, November 21
IN MILAN

sometimes amuse me more time than anticipated in the office of Milan and, when I realize, too late at night. Only a few emergency lights illuminate the long corridors, stairways same and different. While you look, it's perfect setting for a horror movie. There is a security guard, true, but she's always missed by the other buildings, when it came, the murderer would have had ample time to do their work.
Sometimes I meet other teachers who also appear here on holidays and at odd hours. San José Eduardo told me two or three Sundays, "If we paid overtime, we'd be rich." I did not say that in my case, I gladly pay to be able to entertain myself with what I love any day, any time of day.


Going down the elevator, to avoid tripping on the stairs, I thought it may be damaged and that in this case, I would be locked up overnight. Not broke, but, inadvertently, I had to dial a wrong button and I found out barred windows instead of the door. I looked for a ladder, you left me, not the low, where the door is operated with the card, but in a narrow hallway, with teachers' offices on either side. I tried to read the names corresponded to see which department. But it was too dark. Towards the bottom there was a chink of light, some worked, maybe it was José Ramón, Romance Philology, who usually find even the New Year's Day.
I called, I heard no answer, pushed the door. The office was empty. On one wall (the others were occupied by shelves) was a picture that caught my attention. I had seen him somewhere, did not know where, but I think even he had photographed. Should serve as a shop sign: "La Malle aux Trésors, an antique shop, perhaps. I suddenly remembered where was this picture: in Geneva, one of the secret alleys and steep rise into the cathedral of San Pedro. I could not help entertain after poking around the books. Were not what one expects to find in a university office. Were children's books, some large appliances down, all very colorful, very bright. "My friend Ernesto would like to shop around here, I thought. Then I felt a kind of shiver and turned toward the door. One woman looked at me with eyes wide open, staring. "Excuse me, I came without warning. I García Martín, professor of literature. I also like working on Sundays. "


She seemed suddenly to awaken from a dream, changed his expression, he smiled. "But I do not know? Go forgetfulness yours! ". And then I recognized her, but I still did not know his name. It was the woman who had called one night at my house, who had slept on the couch the next day I had breakfast and then prepared food, but that night when I returned from my usual tour of bookstores and coffee at the Rosal browsing the game killed, had disappeared.
"Ah, you work well in Milan. Sorry I do not recognize. I'm pretty clueless. A friend of Victor Boot, professor of Latin, once greeted me in a tribute we did to boots and then complained that Illán Agnes passed him by without greeting Milan. "
No need to apologize, "he said. I know plenty of you are as clueless as myopic. That store, and pointed to the box-it was my grandparents. When they died, had to close because no one in the family wanted to address it. I brought this panel, and the main thing, the bag of treasure. Because the store had a suitcase, which gave name. A huge suitcase, a Saratoga trunk, closed with many locks. As kids, my siblings and I played to get on him, pretended that there was a mountain to climb. Often ask my grandmother to let us open it. She always said the same thing: "Someday, someday ..." But that day came and we were becoming increasingly impatient. We had a friend whose father was a locksmith. We provided the necessary tools to blow the locks to break the locks. We spent an entire night in the tent, as if we were thieves. When we lift the lid, and had long since dawned, and my grandmother appeared. "How impatient," he said without anger. We were ashamed. "Open, open, if you will." I said, "No, Grandma, the trunk is yours. If you want to open it and show what is inside, very well. And if not, and will be closed until you want. " When my grandmother died, my brothers had forgotten trunk. I stayed with him and the banner of the store. I did not want more inheritance. A carrier led me to my house Castropol. There were problems at the border. Police asked the driver to open that huge contraption, which could hold several bodies and do not know how many secret weapons. He did not know how. The trunk was confiscated. A few weeks later came into my home, unopened and there is, full of treasures.
"What do you teach?" I asked. "I'm no teacher." And before I could he get him to express my surprise at Milan, added: "Come home, it's too late." I took her hand like a small child. And only then I realized it reminded me of someone very familiar.
"Would I ever leave open the treasure chest, Grandma?" I said. "Of course, honey. When you're older. " Then he gave me a kiss on the forehead and I fell asleep, dreaming of that magical time in which everything would be allowed: "When I grow up ...."



Wednesday, November 24
WITHIN ONE YEAR

"You know what I want?", Cristian tells me while we wait in the cafeteria when class. "Founding a library back in my village in Paraguay. I'm preparing to send books there. The saving will go home from a friend. Then when you save, buy some land and get up the building. You need not be large. No, not nonsense. The money from here in my country is worth far more. " How
not going to be a blunder? Cristian, undocumented immigrant, works occasionally as a painter. But he speaks so determined, has both a love of books, which I immediately put me to work in the nonsense. "Could be, could be done. Not a bad idea. Books already have: every month I get from my house, a few hundred to those hard to find where to place me. After a year, more than three thousand: the beginning of a good library. Talk to your friends for Repatriation and is sure to find a venue. A free classroom in a school, for example. Constructing a building is not excluded. But there later. When yield space, send the money to the shelves. Should give a name to the library. " Cristian
teases me that would bear his name. "Better," then added, "something like La Casa de las Palabras." Perfect
. Started. The management is my business. All beautiful things before they actually began as a dream. And I'm not too bad at managing time. So put date: "Within a year, in November or December, when winter approaches here and there the summer, we opened The House of Words with a poetry reading."
As Christian, I had a childhood without books. Maybe that's why nothing makes me happier than to help create a library.
smile and remember a phrase I heard Danni Moretti: "Having had a poor childhood is a treasure that is never exhausted."

What Color Is Faith Evans Hair

Across: The Life and Miracles

Friday, November 12
TOLD YOU NATALIA GINZBURG

For two years we worked together in the editorial, we had tables facing each other. Very friend of my husband, leaning on him as a son of his father, more than a friend in another friend. It was a strange guy. Affectionate with everyone, only cared about two things: the woman whom he loved and the book he was writing. Seemed to choose carefully which women fell in love: they were always authoritarian, harsh, cruel. It never occurred to choose one that was good, sweet, quiet. After each disappointment, I always thought of killing herself. When I met him, was just a kid and I talked about killing himself. He liked to discourse on what the best method: the gun, gas, poison. He often did, apparently in jest. At forty seemed he no longer was any book written. Turin was in a desert sweltering and all his friends we had gone on vacation, and the last woman he had dreamed of marrying decided to return to America. He begged her to stay. She said: "You are a sad, bored me to be with you." And then rented hotel room that Rome knew she would never sleep alone in a hotel room. Or any other party.



Saturday, November 13
MIRACLE IN THE MEADOWS

Nearly three hours of bubbling happiness. Two rogues, Norina and Malatesta, take advantage of a miser, Don Pasquale, Ernesto and his naive nephew. Faced with a seductive and hilarious Anna Netrebko, a woman whispers to her husband: "It's like a mix of Victoria de los Angeles and Lina Morgan."
In my local cinema hear Donizetti and all problems are left at the door. Yet raised the curtain. The camera with the stylish entertaining spectators that fill the seats at the Met. Some, worried about who knows what things, lock eyes for a moment, puts his hand to his forehead, unaware that half the world is watching, that his sorrow for a moment becomes huge and fills the screen.


I like to think also that unknown contagious the alacrity with which the singers do their work. And then imagine, in the interval, wandering alone among the groups who laugh and chatter. Those who are not in New York are more fortunate: when the curtain falls, cross the other side and we admire the work of the vast and fascinating stage machinery. And the singers do when they stop acting and believe we do not see: Anna still want to play jokes, even makes a nod to a handsome electrician.
Upon returning home, park across the dark and lonely (in the background, the stubborn rock of San Julián de los Prados), how much gratitude. Collect treasures, and this is not the least of them: nearly three hours outside of my world, another world crazy and happy.


Monday, November 15


CHALLENGE "A nice story that history treasure yours. Because it is a story. So long ago I read that and I've noticed that you do not have your life, tell stories, "says Valdés when I step this afternoon by the Library of Campillín. "And what a way to define you outright that it is your friend!" He adds.
Any life, even the gray, full of unbelievable stories. I remember that fight at the jail have told a hundred times and each time I find less credible. We climbed to the cells from the courtyard, and a bad-looking type bumped into me and insulted me. I would not have made much of either one thing or another. The insult was something like "you are communist bastards" and I had very little communist. But I could not lower his head and move on. I had to reply. There was a hint of coming to blows. Separated us immediately. "Not here, or you'll spend a month in solitary confinement. Tomorrow, the tiger. " The tiger was in services, where officials often did not peep. I spent a sleepless night, terrified. But I could not go back. If not appear, make me a shit in garbage that anyone could trample. My opponent was a bad bug, which was there accused of having killed in a robbery at a civil guard. The next day, after breakfast, when we released in the cold courtyard that I felt like Johannes Dahlmann Borges tale that accepts a challenge to guess what will not come to life. "Dahlmann firmly grasps the knife, which perhaps would not know to handle, and out into the plain", ends the story by Borges. I thought of that phrase, when pale, wanting to run away, but knowing I could not do otherwise, surrounded by curious, I went to the tiger. Guti was already there (I think that was his name). There was expectation. I, skinny, bespectacled, always with a book in hands, it was a strange person in that place: the seventh Carabanchel gallery in the fall of 1974, yet Franco had died or had occurred the previous shootings. Formed a circle around us waiting two. "Let me keep the glasses," said one of the friends I had in those days, a small-time robber who had spent the orphanage and reformatory reformatory prison with brief intervals of freedom. And I hid my fear that a total impassive, I prepared to take them off. My opponent then, unexpectedly, gave me a punch and glasses were blasted into the air. I blind I jumped on him, but only managed to strike at those who had come between us. Because, apparently, in those fights there were unwritten rules and my opponent had violated the. Should have waited for me to remove my glasses as they give the order to start. A voice then told that one of the officers approached, perhaps surprised that there were so few people on the patio. The group dispersed. I nose was bleeding slightly, but the glasses were not broken (they had picked up in the air) and I was the winner. He had proved he had guts, something that in prison, as in life, is fundamental. "Beware of the bastard. Bad people. Do not let it get through. You can stick a skewer in the back, "he warned. But it did not come. And some of the toughest guys in the gallery soon organize a full-scale riot "had a gala to be my friend even asked me to give them kind of Marxism. I went from odd, denied everything, but if it was true what was said, had more black future that none of them. But that's another story, also true and, of course, completely implausible.


Tuesday, November 16
PARIS COFFEE

I'm a bad reader of novels, I've said many times. And most of the novels that I read about what they are novel. What a great book would Celtic's dream of Vargas Llosa, one with which we were told the best way possible the prodigious history of Rogert Casement. But in the end, there are still those who think that a mediocre novel is always preferable to a good biography (especially when sales). Everything
novel has plenty of me within a month within a year , I found Sunday in the Fontan, and whose cover fascinated me: a magical corner of Paris, the terrace cafe Les Deux Magots, with the tower of St-Germain-des-Prés in the background. We in the fifties and is the atmosphere of the time what I try to find in mediocre prose Françoise Sagan.


Recalling that I, like everyone else, I sat in the corner before the march seemed the entire universe, I open the novel:
Bernard came into the cafe, hesitated a moment under the eyes of some customers disfigured by the neon light and went to the cashier. He handed his phone card without smiling wearily. It was about four o'clock. I knew it was stupid to call someone at that time. He leaned against the wall and took out his pack of cigarettes. A sleepy voice answered from man. In the background she heard her voice: "Who's calling?". Bernard stood for a moment motionless, terrified. Then hung up. While walking along the Seine, tried to calm down: "After all, is free and you're not even her lover." He had said he was single, had talked about life and books, had spent a night together. Now going to go home, where he would meet with the drafts of the novel he was unable to write about his work table and in bed with his sleeping wife with a blond baby face turn toward the door as if fearing that he never come back, waiting for him in his sleep as expected during all day, anxiously. "



Thursday, November 18 ANCIENT HISTORY


As I discuss in class, new classes of the old school of teaching which I enjoy so much to give, Ángel González's poem "Address to the youth "and spoke of Franco and irony as a means to circumvent censorship, I think it happens that students who listen to me is ancient history to me is autobiography. Makes me want to tell you that when I was his age and sit where they sit, back in 1968, students and pupils were strictly separated, went in different doors, floor classrooms were distinct and isolated. One day, for the first time since the civil war, we went on strike. The next day was a grand assembly in law, who was then in the central building of the university. We went there to look around a few naive freshmen every day we moved by train from Avilés. From the square of the Escandalera saw that there were several gray vans at the gate of the university. We did not dare to approach. We stayed there, watching and commenting, amazed and frightened. We did not reach the half dozen. The police entered the university, sirens sound, people running out ... I looked at everything from a distance. Of Suddenly a car stops beside us down several police officers and begin to pound. We looked stunned, unfinished believe it. A woman passing by stares and exclaims: "That, that. Studying, studying. "
When looking back, I smile. Turns out I also had my May 68, but not in Paris but in the Place de la Escandalera. And without eating or drinking, without trying to change the world, being a naive teenager who had learned everything from books and not sure what happened or what was next.
In these things I think, as commented Ángel González's poem. Resist the temptation to talk about it. Fortunately still I'm not old enough to go around boring others with my battles.

Poem Of How To Ask For Money For Birthdays

Ullastret, La Bisbal, and Palau-Satorllas Preratallada

On November 2 we had asked for a holiday and took the opportunity to make a getaway Gerona my wife and me leaving the kids at home, as it was a normal working day and weekday.

Ullastret

The route began visiting the C ITY Iberian located on a small hill, Puig de Sant Andreu, on a former lake, now dry. VI century BC and from the end of this century was defended by walls and towers that still retains much of them. Within the grounds you can see remains of houses and tanks used to store the grain and you can visit the complete templos.La visiting the museum where we can see, capitals, paintings, coins and all kinds of utensils found in the excavations that began more than 40 years.

After

Visit the people we get to see him and find a place to eat. We really enjoyed strolling through the streets, it seemed we were at one time, very nice. Found on the Internet a restaurant (Restaurant Iberian), with a spiral above the entrance very tempting, when we saw the prices, between about 35 to 40 € per person, for the comments you eat very well, but we'll leave for another occasion and decided to look for something cheaper.

La Bisbal d'Empordà

We took the car and moved to this town, larger and more sites to choose from, and we were hungry. We took a little walk and we decided on a restaurant located on one side of the new bridge, menu for 13 € with drink and dessert included, ate very well but in a simpler plan. To lower the food and burn calories were walking around the old town, being a working day it was very quiet with few people on the streets, not like in Barcelona, \u200b\u200bwith the noise of cars and people up and down.

Empordà La Bisbal del (Catalan and official La Bisbal d'Empordà, popularly reduced to La Bisbal) is a English municipality in the province of Gerona, Catalonia, and capital the region of the Baix Emporda. It sits on the plain of Empordà, adjacent to the solid Gavarres and watered by the river Daró. Its origin is in the Roman villa "Fontanetum." Its current name is the transfer of the town to the bishop (bisbe in Catalan) Girona during the Carolingian domination.

Traditionally, agriculture and livestock have been the main sources of wealth of the population. In the early twentieth century emphasized the cork industry. Currently, industrial ceramics and art represent the main economic and tourist registration. He is also known by its popular sweet pastry.

Monuments and attractions

castle in La Bisbal

Church of Santa Maria

The Jewish Quarter Les Voltes

Convent Images city \u200b\u200b[1]

Sant Pol de la Bisbal

Peratallada

We got into the time machine and transport us to medieval times. It is good to compare, so we will not, what had hitherto been viewed very cool, but I loved it, I think it's going to cost me choose which photos to

Peratallada , is a small village in the municipality of Forallac, Baix Emporda. It was declared a Historic-Artistic be one of the core of medieval architecture important and best preserved in Catalonia.

History The first written which takes the place refer to the Castle Peratallada tenth century, at that time, the lineage of the first building Peratallada and has reference to the place, around which the population grew. Landmarks

Peratallada

Castle, X-XI century.

Church of Sant Esteve de Peratallada, the early thirteenth century.

"L'Homage Tower."

Peratallada Palace, the fourteenth century.

Palau-Sator

The same day and the darkness above and sunset as dark earlier in winter, we went to another village with medieval atmosphere Romans in their streets.

We took a little walk and bought some bread, cake typical of the place and we set off at nightfall, with a stop to buy some sausages, bread not want to eat alone, bugger off to Barcelona.

Palau-sator is a English municipality in the province of Gerona, Catalonia, located in the Bajo Emporda.

Located in the center of the flat Empordà, is the mountain backdrop of Gavarres populated by pine trees.

History The town of Palau-sator, as demonstrated archaeological discoveries of its surroundings is of Roman origin. He was named palatii Murorum, as recorded in a document dated 878. The castle belonged to Peter's secretary the Ceremonious, Miquel Bernat and his descendants, from the year 1380 until the end of 1600. It retains a medieval atmosphere in its streets, with remains of walls and a tower (hours call to have at the top of its facade a clock), which stands above the rest of its buildings and forced their way to enter population.

Attractions

Parish Church of San Pedro. XII-XIII century castle

Palau-sator. X and XI centuries, declared a national cultural interest.

Monasterio de Sant Pau de Fontclara. XI century, linked to a Benedictine monastery, inside there are wall paintings of XII and XIII, partially preserved.

Church of Sant Feliu. Sixteenth century former possession of the monastery of Sant Esteve de Banyoles, late Gothic style, has a single nave, vault and a polygonal apse.

Church of San Julián de Boada. Pre-Romanesque. Historic-Artistic Monument in 1931 and National Cultural Property.

The main bisbal. It is noteworthy that the orchestra cobla main bisbal originate from the people of Palau Sator.