Sidi Ifni, 1993

When I lived in Morocco, I took a weekend trip in February 1993 to a tiny community in the southwestern coast called Sidi Ifni. It was once a Spanish colony, and the center of town had a desolate colonial feel -- old Art Deco architecture and European-inspired parks. Spain ceded it to Morocco in 1969, and since then it's been mainly a fishing town.

I just recently rediscovered some of these photos, and a few I had reprinted from the negatives because the original prints had badly deteriorated. (African processing!)


We stayed in this hotel, the Hotel Bellevue. You can barely see the heads of my friends, Kim and Jennifer, peeking over the top of the upstairs porch railing.


The park in the center of town was called the Plaza Espana.


In the morning, the mist would roll down from the hills behind the town, giving everything a gray, foggy atmosphere.


But soon the mist would burn off and the sky would turn bright blue. Here's the town lighthouse.


And here's the old Spanish consulate, which was shuttered and derelict. I saw on Flickr recently that it still looks like this, though that tree on the left has been cut down.

I found some great beach glass in Sidi Ifni, worn smooth and round. I still have a bowl of it. I was pretty fascinated by the place, though there wasn't much to do. Back in my stamp-collecting childhood, I had some stamps from Ifni, so it was amazing to be able to say later that I'd been there!

Madonna

This week I read Christopher Ciccone's book about growing up with, and working for, his sister Madonna. I know, I know -- not very literary. But I found it at Barnes & Noble on the clearance rack for $4 or so, and besides, I've always liked Madonna. I've long been impressed with her ability to continually reinvent herself.

Anyway, if his book is any indication, she sounds like a bit of a pill. She's evidently very focused and very ambitious, which isn't really surprising given the level of her success. (Christopher and Madonna have had a bit of a falling out, too, so he may have an axe to grind.)

I was impressed by her insistence on going to bed every night at 11 p.m. That's pretty much what I do -- except it's 10 p.m. for me.

Anyway, after reading the book I rented "Desperately Seeking Susan," which I remember going to see in the theaters in 1985. In one scene, Madonna talks on a pink telephone plastered with seashells, and I remembered that telephone vividly. I liked the whole bohemian feel of her city life, and it's cool to watch the same movie now, on the other side of a decade living in New York. As movies go, it's so-so. And sadly, one of Madonna's best.

(Photo: "Hotel California," Branchburg, N.J. Madonna probably would not stay here.)

Goldenrod

Yesterday I drove out to Hunterdon County, on the Pennsylvania border, to cover a house fire that turned out to be pretty much nothing. I was glad I made the trip, though, because the countryside is beautiful -- hillier and, at the moment, more autumnal-looking than where I live. I passed this picturesque field of goldenrod outside Flemington.

Another reminder that fall is right around the corner!

Blue Hill

Well, we managed to cram quite a bit of activity into our weekend. (My weekend is now over since I work on Sundays.)

On Friday I stayed home all day, just resting and taking care of the house and the dogs. I didn't even go to the gym -- just read, watched some TV, took a nap. It was fabulous to do nothing.

Then, that evening, Dave and I went to Blue Hill, a restaurant in Greenwich Village that we've wanted to try. I actually went there about five years ago, but I didn't realize at the time what a reputation the place had. Dave and I decided to go to celebrate our civil union, my new job and the sale of my apartment (which is marching toward completion). The food was wonderful and just my style of eating -- mostly light, relatively simple and very vegetable-oriented. I got the tasting menu with wine pairings. Amazing!

Yesterday I finally hauled myself to the gym, and then we went to see "Going the Distance," the romantic comedy with Drew Barrymore and Justin Long. I liked it, even though there were about 400 things wrong with it if you watched with an even slightly critical eye.

Then we went to Barnes & Noble, where I picked up a couple of books I'd read about and wanted to try: Freedom, the new novel by Jonathan Franzen, and The Warmth of Other Suns, Isabel Wilkerson's look at the great migration of blacks from the south to the north in the early 1900s.

Finally, we went grocery shopping, came home and cooked, and watched Elizabeth Berkley in the notoriously bad "Showgirls" movie from 1995. Apparently it's now considered a camp classic, rather than just a horrible movie. I've never seen so many bare breasts in my entire life. We laughed and laughed.

(Photo: Moon and star over East Brunswick, last week.)

The Limelight

When I was in New York last week, I walked past the old church that once housed the infamous Limelight nightclub and was stunned to find that it had been turned into a mall.

The Limelight was a notorious disco and drug den in the 1990s, and was the hangout of Michael Alig and the Club Kids, who became better known for a grisly murder recounted in the film Party Monster. I have only a few personal connections to the place.

Once, in 1997 or so, I tried to go there with my friend Arthur. But we'd been walking around New York all day and we were wearing sneakers. As I recall, they turned us away at the velvet rope because our feet were not stylishly shod.


By the time I tried to go back, The Limelight was no more. It had become another nightclub called Avalon, and I went to a fundraiser for Howard Dean's presidential campaign there in 2003. I saw Gloria Gaynor perform "I Will Survive" beneath that peaked Episcopalian roof -- not to mention Howard himself and, I believe, Whoopi Goldberg.

Now, in what is surely another sign of New York's Disney-ization, it's a mall. And it's a schmantzy mall too, full of stuff like guest soaps and fragrances and scarves. Things, in short, that I would never buy.

Transistor Radio

I was driving along in my car yesterday, with my iPod plugged into my stereo, when the old Skeeter Davis song "The End of the World" came on. I got to thinking about how music from that era was made to be heard on a transistor radio. Whenever I hear old '50s or early '60s songs on an old radio, they sound so authentic. They seem to gain something from the static and the scratchy reception.

In fact, one of the things I love about antique stores is that they often have an old radio playing somewhere, usually tuned to an oldies station. Sometimes it's an old '40s playlist, with favorites like Adelaide Hall singing "As Time Goes By." Sometimes it's the '50s, with Johnny Mathis crooning "Misty." Regardless, there's something really charming about the simplicity of a transistor radio.

This is my transistor radio. It's a Panasonic "Panapet 70" radio, also known simply as a ball radio, from the early 1970s. I got it for Christmas in 1974 after begging my parents, all because Denise Long (who lived down the street) had a yellow one that I coveted. It used to have a chain with a ring on the end that you could theoretically use to carry the radio -- but mine broke off, so ultimately maybe that was a bad design idea.

I turned on my old ball radio this afternoon, and it's playing now, tuned to WCTC, an oldies station in nearby Somerset, N.J. They just finished playing "God Only Knows" by the Beach Boys and "Undun" by the Guess Who, and they're advertising a Tommy James & the Shondells concert coming up in Morristown. (Who knew he was still performing?)

Actually, this was the one music station I could find, and I was thankful for it. Most of AM radio is a wasteland these days, littered with talk stations and sports. I don't know about you, but I don't want to listen to either one.

I wonder if Denise Long still has her Panapet?

Still here!

But crazy busy! Here's an alley I passed this afternoon on a coffee
break, just to give you a Shadows & Light fix...