1/27/10
1/16/10
Rosa Robalo's Tail
This New Years Eve my family walked to a kind of smelly and sickening peixaria in Carnide and bought a fish to bake in salt (peixe ao sal) for dinner. So, I’m including her tail (I mean tale).
Meanwhile, Rose recovered her senses and thought, “I am so stupid! I ate the bait and now I’m going to pay.” And she did. The fisherman slit her stomach open before he took her to the peixaria. There she sat in ice all night. “Ugh! Ow! They can’t do anything worse than this to me!” she told a fish lying next to her. That fish’s name was Tiago, and he was uglier than anything.
Something to end up with: A fish poem (my first poem in Portuguese)
O peixinho pequenino
Mordeu o peixe grande
No nariz.
O peixe grande
Quer um penso
Mas o peixinho está feliz.
For those of you who don’t understand Portuguese, the gist of the poem is that a self-satisfied little fishy chomps a disgruntled larger fish on the nose.
Rose Robalo
A Fish Tail
The tail of Rose ended up on my dad’s plate, but the tale of Rose is going to end up on my blog.
Rose and Grumblebee (or Grumy for short) were friends. Grumy was a tiny fish, the kind any fisherman would throw back. Rose was a Robalo. One night they went out to find food together. Rose had a bad tapeworm, so her senses were a little off. And she was ravenous. Suddenly, she spotted some food floating in front of her. “Ooooooooh... foooood... foooood...” she wailed. “Er, Rose, that’s bait. Don’t...” started Grumy. Rose was slowly gliding towards the bait. “Rose,” said Grumy. “Rose. Rose. ROSE! NO!” Rose reached for the bait and drawled, “Muuuuuust haaaaaaave foooooooooooooood!” Now Grumy was frantic. “NO! NO! AAAAAAAAAH! NOROSEWAITDON’TTOUCH...” But Rose snapped up the bait and was instantly yanked out of the water. “That!” Grumy’s lip began to quiver. Soon he was sobbing into a kelp. “I-I-I t-told her n-not to t-t-t-touch thaaaaat,” he wailed. “N-now I’m all a-alone w-w-without any frieeeeeeeeeeeeeeends. I-I-I told her... I-I w-warned her... OHHHHH!”
A Fish Tail
The tail of Rose ended up on my dad’s plate, but the tale of Rose is going to end up on my blog.
Rose and Grumblebee (or Grumy for short) were friends. Grumy was a tiny fish, the kind any fisherman would throw back. Rose was a Robalo. One night they went out to find food together. Rose had a bad tapeworm, so her senses were a little off. And she was ravenous. Suddenly, she spotted some food floating in front of her. “Ooooooooh... foooood... foooood...” she wailed. “Er, Rose, that’s bait. Don’t...” started Grumy. Rose was slowly gliding towards the bait. “Rose,” said Grumy. “Rose. Rose. ROSE! NO!” Rose reached for the bait and drawled, “Muuuuuust haaaaaaave foooooooooooooood!” Now Grumy was frantic. “NO! NO! AAAAAAAAAH! NOROSEWAITDON’TTOUCH...” But Rose snapped up the bait and was instantly yanked out of the water. “That!” Grumy’s lip began to quiver. Soon he was sobbing into a kelp. “I-I-I t-told her n-not to t-t-t-touch thaaaaat,” he wailed. “N-now I’m all a-alone w-w-without any frieeeeeeeeeeeeeeends. I-I-I told her... I-I w-warned her... OHHHHH!”
Meanwhile, Rose recovered her senses and thought, “I am so stupid! I ate the bait and now I’m going to pay.” And she did. The fisherman slit her stomach open before he took her to the peixaria. There she sat in ice all night. “Ugh! Ow! They can’t do anything worse than this to me!” she told a fish lying next to her. That fish’s name was Tiago, and he was uglier than anything.
Tiago was a Tamboril, and he had lived in a large green kelp at the end of Morningfish Lane with his wife Siena and their four guppies, Squiddley and Diddley, who were twin twelve-year-olds (in fish years, of course), Missy, who was a ten-year-old at the time and is now a famous author, and little Kelpy, who had a tragic death similar to that of his father when he was only seven. Tiago and Rose talked and talked. They soon became good friends. They shared secrets and jokes and stories, to keep their minds off of the pain from what the fisherman had done, and the pain from missing friends and family. “Kelpy is the cutest little guppy!” Tiago told Rose. “And Missy makes up the nicest stories. Yesterday she told me one about a super fish that saves all the fish that are going to be cooked.” “She knows about fish-cooking?” asked Rose. “I thought very few fish knew that.” “Well,” said Tiago. “I am one of those few fish. It makes for terrifying bedtime stories.”
Then there are terrifying awakenings. The next day, “they” did something even worse to Rose and Tiago. Tiago was the first to go. A lady wearing very high heels and a fancy dress entered the fish shop (the pixaria). “Eu queria este peixe,” she said. Her Portuguese was correct, but judging from her accent, she was from France. The fishmonger picked up Tiago. She ripped off his scales and pulled out his guts. Rose wanted to look away, but she was too weak from loss of blood, the tapeworm, and there not being much water to breathe. Instead, she watched her friend die.
Okay, if this is getting too gruesome or tragic for you stop reading. But, most of my stories are gruesome and tragic.
Grumy sat alone in the deep blue sea. He, like all fish, knew to avoid bait. But he, too, was one of the very few fish who knew what happens to a fish when he is pulled onto the shore by a hook. He knew what was happening to Rose.
Okay, if this is getting too gruesome or tragic for you stop reading. But, most of my stories are gruesome and tragic.
Grumy sat alone in the deep blue sea. He, like all fish, knew to avoid bait. But he, too, was one of the very few fish who knew what happens to a fish when he is pulled onto the shore by a hook. He knew what was happening to Rose.
A family then entered the shop. The mom and dad ordered a whole fish and some fillets. The two small children went wild, and the oldest girl tried to keep them under control. Rose was so wooziated that she couldn’t understand what the parents were saying until the fishmonger picked her up. “Oh, no,” thought Rose. “Oh, no! I was soooooo stupid. I didn’t listen to Grumy. And now that whole fish they ordered is me!” Poor Rose barely had time to say her prayers before she felt a cold blade on her back. She struggled not to faint as her innards were yanked out. They left her scales on for roasting her, buried in salt. She listened to the fishmonger explain about how her skin would come off in strips after being roasted in salt and that you could eat her head, too. “My head! Goodbye, Grumy,” she thought. “I’ll see you someday. See you soon, Tiago.”
Now, you might be thinking that she’s going to be saved. Well...
With a last horrible burst of pain, Rose’s soul soared past Lisbon’s water-logged clouds. She floated to fish heaven, where she and Tiago watched her salty, roasted tail land on my father’s plate.
Now, you might be thinking that she’s going to be saved. Well...
With a last horrible burst of pain, Rose’s soul soared past Lisbon’s water-logged clouds. She floated to fish heaven, where she and Tiago watched her salty, roasted tail land on my father’s plate.
THE END
Something to end up with: A fish poem (my first poem in Portuguese)
O peixinho pequenino
Mordeu o peixe grande
No nariz.
O peixe grande
Quer um penso
Mas o peixinho está feliz.
For those of you who don’t understand Portuguese, the gist of the poem is that a self-satisfied little fishy chomps a disgruntled larger fish on the nose.
12/25/09
12/7/09
12/1/09
Art: My Own and Others'
In 1755 the great Lisbon earthquake (o Terremoto) was followed by fires and floods. It ravaged the city and made way for the redesign that made Lisbon what it is today. Even if my blog hasn’t exactly been shaken by an earthquake, it’s about to be redesigned—a few of the same lines, but also all sorts of new features: comics, sketches, stories...
This blog is about art. So, though I’ve done a lot of wandering through art museums and wondering about what I’ve seen, I’m writing something more like a guide to the city through a glimpse into some art museums and some of my own art.
Gulbenkian: Since my favorite pastime is drawing (I sketch everywhere: on the metro, in the bus, at home, at cafés, while waiting for cello lessons, while standing in line for the bathroom, etc.) I’ll introduce you to my wandering through the Gulbenkian a little differently. The story that follows is fictional (any likeness to actual people, intended); but all the pieces are favorites from my trip to the museum (except for the rugs; I thought it was necessary to include them).
Museu da Marioneta: The puppet museum, which you might not expect to find in an old convent and which you can get to only by climbing an endless narrow winding street. As you walk through a labyrinth of rooms, you first find puppets from Asia, such as weird dragon creatures, porcelain princesses, water puppets (puppets that run around in water), and intimidating shadow puppets. You wind your way through clans of puppets from Europe, Africa, Brazil, then modern Portugal. I saw grotesque figures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, clay TV puppets for cartoons, and puppets with creepy button eyessssssssss... I returned to the Museu da Marioneta last Sunday for a finger puppet work shop, during which I created a stage, sets, my mom, my dad, my sister Katarina, my brother Isaac, my guinea pig Blue, and a princess, as princesses always come in handy in puppet shows.
Museu Bordalo Pinheiro: This museum is about a guy named, surprise surprise, Bordalo Pinheiro. He did lots of caricatures featuring a character he created called ZÊ POVINHO (JOE PEOPLE). Zé is this guy who doesn’t like to do a lot of work, but will if he’s pushed (kind of like me). He’s often pictured with a saddle—since he represents the people, he’s ridden and stepped on a lot (kind of like me in the metro at rush hour). 
Though his caricatures were most interesting to me, Bordalo Pinheiro also made beautiful porcelain pieces covered in figures, animals, mermaids and fish. He did make some early bobble heads out of clay. He gave me some ideas about how to get away with being critical in a comic sort of way. He was quite the caricature—I mean character.
Museu do Azulejos: Azulejos are a HUGE Portugese thing, like Fado. Azulejos are glazed tiles. There are Azulejos with blue sketches, Azulejos with geometrical designs, Azulejos that stick out like reliefs, Azulejos that are inlaid, and Azulejos that are painted like canvases. This museum shows all the different processes for making them (corda seca, etc.) and displays centuries of tiles. I recognized the birds and rabbits that I’d seen on the Azulejos at the Fábrica dos Pasteis de Belem. There is one impressive scene picturing a doctor sticking a gigantic syringe into a boy’s bottom. I think the boy must have died of blood loss, if he didn’t die of fright at the sight of that needle. Some of my favorites: modern big-eyed owls you can see in the metro and an ancient azulejo with a lion in relief.
This blog is about art. So, though I’ve done a lot of wandering through art museums and wondering about what I’ve seen, I’m writing something more like a guide to the city through a glimpse into some art museums and some of my own art.
Gulbenkian: Since my favorite pastime is drawing (I sketch everywhere: on the metro, in the bus, at home, at cafés, while waiting for cello lessons, while standing in line for the bathroom, etc.) I’ll introduce you to my wandering through the Gulbenkian a little differently. The story that follows is fictional (any likeness to actual people, intended); but all the pieces are favorites from my trip to the museum (except for the rugs; I thought it was necessary to include them).
Museu da Marioneta: The puppet museum, which you might not expect to find in an old convent and which you can get to only by climbing an endless narrow winding street. As you walk through a labyrinth of rooms, you first find puppets from Asia, such as weird dragon creatures, porcelain princesses, water puppets (puppets that run around in water), and intimidating shadow puppets. You wind your way through clans of puppets from Europe, Africa, Brazil, then modern Portugal. I saw grotesque figures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, clay TV puppets for cartoons, and puppets with creepy button eyessssssssss... I returned to the Museu da Marioneta last Sunday for a finger puppet work shop, during which I created a stage, sets, my mom, my dad, my sister Katarina, my brother Isaac, my guinea pig Blue, and a princess, as princesses always come in handy in puppet shows.
Museu Bordalo Pinheiro: This museum is about a guy named, surprise surprise, Bordalo Pinheiro. He did lots of caricatures featuring a character he created called ZÊ POVINHO (JOE PEOPLE). Zé is this guy who doesn’t like to do a lot of work, but will if he’s pushed (kind of like me). He’s often pictured with a saddle—since he represents the people, he’s ridden and stepped on a lot (kind of like me in the metro at rush hour). 
Though his caricatures were most interesting to me, Bordalo Pinheiro also made beautiful porcelain pieces covered in figures, animals, mermaids and fish. He did make some early bobble heads out of clay. He gave me some ideas about how to get away with being critical in a comic sort of way. He was quite the caricature—I mean character.
Museu do Azulejos: Azulejos are a HUGE Portugese thing, like Fado. Azulejos are glazed tiles. There are Azulejos with blue sketches, Azulejos with geometrical designs, Azulejos that stick out like reliefs, Azulejos that are inlaid, and Azulejos that are painted like canvases. This museum shows all the different processes for making them (corda seca, etc.) and displays centuries of tiles. I recognized the birds and rabbits that I’d seen on the Azulejos at the Fábrica dos Pasteis de Belem. There is one impressive scene picturing a doctor sticking a gigantic syringe into a boy’s bottom. I think the boy must have died of blood loss, if he didn’t die of fright at the sight of that needle. Some of my favorites: modern big-eyed owls you can see in the metro and an ancient azulejo with a lion in relief.
11/20/09
My Mostly Ghostly Birthday
Since this blog is about the birthday party I had (a couple weeks ago now—I’m a little behind in my blog posts), I’m going to arrange things a little differently. I’m going to compare a Portuguese birthday party with an American one.
Differences: At Portuguese parties, kids do not play “pin the tail on the donkey” or the variations of that game that our family has come up with (pin the lips on the girl..., pin the tooth on the t-rex). There are lots of cakes and endless plates of pastries and candy, instead of only one cake. There are not only a few friends, but aunts and uncles and cousins and friends of the parents of birthday kid.
Okay. That said, I will now get to my wandering and wonderings, arriving eventually back at birthdays, or rather, my birthday party.
Wandering: On Friday (which you may have guessed by now is a day we generally spend wandering) between my birthday and birthday party, we walked through the old market at the Cais da Ribeira—lots of fresh fish, one was displayed belly-up with guts spilling out. When my Dad asked the fishmonger why this view, she answered “mais bonito” (more pretty) and flipped the fish over to show us that the top side (its face) was far uglier than any of the guts. It was, in fact, so terribly ugly I doubt that any other fish would so much as think that it was a living, healthy fish! I’ve since seen an uglier sight: a fish being gutted at the Carnide peixaria for my dinner!
That day we headed uphill from the market, but on the Elevador da Bica (not on foot), and eventually walked to the Miradouro de Santa Catarina (an overlook not named after my sister). Looking down at the roofs below, I made an interesting sighting. Of course, there was the normal garbage that you find lying around—boxes, plastic bags, bottles, maybe an old shoe or sock. But if you have to know what I found right away, you can look ahead to “something interesting to end up with.”
Wondering: “Just recalling my birthday...” said Sophia with a content, daydreamy look. (I would just start in talking about it, but without this introduction, it would belong to a different category than “wondering”.) “My story,” continued Sophia, the author of this blog, “starts late at night, October 27th. I couldn’t sleep and stayed up past midnight, just wondering...”
The morning of my 11th birthday started with molasses on French toast (because the strawberry syrup we found made its way, by accident, with a little help from Isaac, into the freezer, and it was rock hard. The French toast was yummy, though. I spent the day at home and around the neighborhood (which I like to do, despite all my writing about wandering). That night, we had our first mac-n-cheese (which I’ve REALLY missed eating). We had gingersnaps hot from the oven and a little chocolate pão de ló (cake) that we picked up at Três Cereais (Three Cereals—the place around the corner where we buy hot bread in the mornings). I’d had a couple sneak previews, but then we opened most of my presents—books in English (needed some), a hooded sweater, orange leather gloves, fashion paper dolls, a design-your-own-outfit set, bendaroos, a Mariza CD, the Kimi doll I’ve had my eye on! I had a lot of fun.
Now for an extra category!
My Birthday Party: I had a Halloween party, as I usually do, except that they don’t have Halloween here (except in stores like Toys-R-Us, where we saw plenty of ghoulish costumes, witches, and the spider webs we used to cover our windows). We hung balloons and bats, skeletons and spiders. I invited my guests to dress up. We had a witch, a remarkable nose (which reminded me of Obelix), two princesses, and one small wizard. Among other things, I introduced my friends to a party game which, you will find in “differences,” they do not play here. This is “pin-the-ingredient-in-the-cauldron” (eyeballs, fish bones, frogs, lips, lizards...). We also played “mummify-the-adults-in-toilet-paper,” with Kati as the judge on best mummy and mummifier (I’ve discovered a new talent). Then we had chocolate cake, lemon bars, cookies and snacks, and, last of all, we trick-or-treated (but only down a dark hallway).
Something interesting to end up with: I spotted, on someone’s roof, the latest murder in Lisbon—a large plastic doll missing both of its arms. A mystery...
Differences: At Portuguese parties, kids do not play “pin the tail on the donkey” or the variations of that game that our family has come up with (pin the lips on the girl..., pin the tooth on the t-rex). There are lots of cakes and endless plates of pastries and candy, instead of only one cake. There are not only a few friends, but aunts and uncles and cousins and friends of the parents of birthday kid.
Okay. That said, I will now get to my wandering and wonderings, arriving eventually back at birthdays, or rather, my birthday party.
Wandering: On Friday (which you may have guessed by now is a day we generally spend wandering) between my birthday and birthday party, we walked through the old market at the Cais da Ribeira—lots of fresh fish, one was displayed belly-up with guts spilling out. When my Dad asked the fishmonger why this view, she answered “mais bonito” (more pretty) and flipped the fish over to show us that the top side (its face) was far uglier than any of the guts. It was, in fact, so terribly ugly I doubt that any other fish would so much as think that it was a living, healthy fish! I’ve since seen an uglier sight: a fish being gutted at the Carnide peixaria for my dinner!
That day we headed uphill from the market, but on the Elevador da Bica (not on foot), and eventually walked to the Miradouro de Santa Catarina (an overlook not named after my sister). Looking down at the roofs below, I made an interesting sighting. Of course, there was the normal garbage that you find lying around—boxes, plastic bags, bottles, maybe an old shoe or sock. But if you have to know what I found right away, you can look ahead to “something interesting to end up with.”Wondering: “Just recalling my birthday...” said Sophia with a content, daydreamy look. (I would just start in talking about it, but without this introduction, it would belong to a different category than “wondering”.) “My story,” continued Sophia, the author of this blog, “starts late at night, October 27th. I couldn’t sleep and stayed up past midnight, just wondering...”
The morning of my 11th birthday started with molasses on French toast (because the strawberry syrup we found made its way, by accident, with a little help from Isaac, into the freezer, and it was rock hard. The French toast was yummy, though. I spent the day at home and around the neighborhood (which I like to do, despite all my writing about wandering). That night, we had our first mac-n-cheese (which I’ve REALLY missed eating). We had gingersnaps hot from the oven and a little chocolate pão de ló (cake) that we picked up at Três Cereais (Three Cereals—the place around the corner where we buy hot bread in the mornings). I’d had a couple sneak previews, but then we opened most of my presents—books in English (needed some), a hooded sweater, orange leather gloves, fashion paper dolls, a design-your-own-outfit set, bendaroos, a Mariza CD, the Kimi doll I’ve had my eye on! I had a lot of fun.
Now for an extra category!
My Birthday Party: I had a Halloween party, as I usually do, except that they don’t have Halloween here (except in stores like Toys-R-Us, where we saw plenty of ghoulish costumes, witches, and the spider webs we used to cover our windows). We hung balloons and bats, skeletons and spiders. I invited my guests to dress up. We had a witch, a remarkable nose (which reminded me of Obelix), two princesses, and one small wizard. Among other things, I introduced my friends to a party game which, you will find in “differences,” they do not play here. This is “pin-the-ingredient-in-the-cauldron” (eyeballs, fish bones, frogs, lips, lizards...). We also played “mummify-the-adults-in-toilet-paper,” with Kati as the judge on best mummy and mummifier (I’ve discovered a new talent). Then we had chocolate cake, lemon bars, cookies and snacks, and, last of all, we trick-or-treated (but only down a dark hallway).
Something interesting to end up with: I spotted, on someone’s roof, the latest murder in Lisbon—a large plastic doll missing both of its arms. A mystery...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)