Nella città spagnola di Cordova, la Nazionale Universitaria Seven del rossoblu Norman Di Maura chiude le prime due giornate di qualificazione centrando le semifinali. Giù un successo per gli azzurri, rispetto alla quinta posizione ottenuta nella seconda edizione del Torneo, disputato lo scorso anno a Roma.

Stavolta i ragazzi di Gaetaniello e Gabrielli, inseriti nel duro girone A, hanno ottenuto due vittorie su altrettanti incontri nella giornata inaugurale (ieri, ndr), imponendosi rispettivamente su Polonia (con un sofferto 12-7) e Bulgaria (con il più netto e convincente punteggio di 41-0).

La seconda giornata di incontri ha visto l'Italia mettere a dura prova il Sudafrica, uscendo battuta di misura per 10-7, ma rifacendosi prontamente contro la nazionale malese (22-7). A qualificazione per le semifinali ormai raggiunta, fatali per i ragazzi di Gaetaniello e Gabrielli si sono rivelati gli ultimi due confronti, che li hanno visti opposti ai forti francesi ed alla solida compagine russa. Due sconfitte, entrambe piuttosto nette (5-33 e 5-29), tuttavia ininfluenti.

Il prossimo appuntamento per Di Maura e compagni è dunque fissato per domattina alle ore 11, con l'inizio dei confronti di semifinale.

RISULTATI:

GIORNO 1:
Francia 17-12 Russia
Sudafrica 45-0 Bulgaria
Russia 40-0 Malesia
Polonia 5-29 Francia
Spagna 17-0 Canada
Cina Taipei 7-17 Portogallo
Gran Bretagna 19-12 Romania
Canada 14-26 Cina Taipei
Portogallo 0-17 Gran Bretagna
Spagna 24-7 Romania

Italia 12-7 Polonia
Bulgaria 0-31 Italia

GIORNO 2:
Polonia 33-14 Malesia
Bulgaria 5-28 Russia
Cina Taipei 7-15 Romania
Spagna 12-5 Gran Bretagna
Portogallo 5-17 Canada
Polonia 17-0 Bulgaria
Francia 12-19 Sudafrica
Romania 12-0 Portogallo
Gran Bretagna 5-0 Canada
Spagna 29-5 Cina Taipei
Malesia  7-31 Bulgaria
Sudafrica 26-21 Russia
Francia 47-0 Malesia
Polonia 5-26 Sudafrica

Sudafrica 10-7 Italia
Malesia 7-22 Italia
Italia 5-33 Francia
Russia 29-5 Italia

Sempre online la petizione promossa da RugbyRovigo.blog per dire NO allo spostamento del monumento di Cesare Zancanaro dedicato a Mario ‘Maci’ Battaglini nella rotatoria di Viale Porta Adige a Rovigo, deliberato dal Comune di Rovigo.

Troverete la petizione da leggere e firmare cliccando qui:
http://www.petitiononline.com/maci/petition.html

Nell'immagine (fisurugby200.com):
TAURI, la mascotte dei Mondiali Universitari a Sette in corso a Cordova.

Marco Gabrielli e Fabio Gaetaniello guidano la truppa azzurra che in mattinata ha raggiunto Cordova, città andalusa dove è in programma la 3^ edizione dei Mondiali Universitari di Rugby a Sette; calcio d'inizio domani, con le gare di qualificazione sui campi dell'Università di Cordova. La finale del torneo è in programma Sabato 19.

In serata il gustoso happening rappresentato dalla cerimonia d'inaugurazione con le tredici formazioni maschili e le cinque femminili; Italia rappresentata in entrambe le categorie.

Il festoso rientro da Hannover, dove la Nazionale Sevens Maggiore ha conquistato la qualificazione ai Mondiali IRB Sevens di Dubai (Marzo '2009), non ha fiaccato la determinazione dei due coach azzurri. L'obiettivo per la rappresentativa universitaria seven tricolore è migliorare il quinto posto - conquistato sul Sudafrica con lo storico punteggio di 26-19 - di due anni fa a Roma.

Sarà dura per gli 'studenti italiani', inseriti in un girone di ferro comprendente Francia (campione in carica), Inghilterra (vice-campione) e di nuovo gli Springboks.

Scorrendo i nomi delle altre compagini impegnate al Mondiale - Bulgaria, Canada, Cina Taipei, Spagna, Malesia, Polonia, Portogallo, Romania e Russia - si può ben capire come la pool degli azzurri sia davvero impegnativa.

Undici gli atleti italiani convocati. La Rugby Rovigo, inizialmente rappresentata da due elementi, non potrà vedere protagonista il nuovo acquisto - fresco di convocazione da parte della nazionale maggiore di Nick Mallett assieme ad Andrea Bacchetti e Tommaso Reato - Simone Favaro, rientrato dal faticoso Seven di Hannover (2 mete nel torneo, in campo da titolare nella finale disputata). Sarà invece sicuro protagonista Norman Di Maura, catanese di nascita ma divenuto con gli anni una vera e propria bandiera della formazione rossoblu.

ITALIA UNIVERSITARIA SEVEN:
Edoardo BONAVOLONTA' (Mantovani Lazio)
Alessandro CASTAGNOLI (Gran Parma)
Alberto CIGARINI (Gran Parma)
Norman DI MAURA (FemiCZ Rovigo)
Marco FRATI (Vibu Noceto)
Edoardo GARGIULLO (Mantovani Lazio)
Emanuele LEONARDI (AlmavivA Capitolina)
Alvaro LOPEZ GONZALEZ (Carrera Petrarca)
Roberto MARIANI (MPS Viadana)
Guido ORLANDINI (Gran Parma)
Marco ROSA (Benetton Treviso)

Sempre online la petizione promossa da RugbyRovigo.blog per dire NO allo spostamento del monumento di Cesare Zancanaro dedicato a Mario ‘Maci’ Battaglini nella rotatoria di Viale Porta Adige a Rovigo, deliberato dal Comune di Rovigo.

Troverete la petizione da leggere e firmare cliccando qui:
http://www.petitiononline.com/maci/petition.html

Nella foto (Fabio Viscardini):
Norman Di Maura tenta una sortita nel vittorioso derby interno sul Petrarca della stagione appena conclusa.

You know how this goes: I say a word - like 'black' - and you come back at me with the first thing that pops into your head. From your response I can work out just exactly what's going on in your foetid little brain. (And by the way, if your response to 'black' isn't 'white' - you're weird ... you can have that analysis for free.)

Ready? ... Go.

Carmen ...

Okay. Time's up.

If you came up with bull-fighting, heaving bosoms, blood and sand, dark flashing eyes, castanets, frilly frocks, flamenco, toreadors, (probably marching) ... you've got the wrong Carmen.

You're thinking Bizet. I'm talking Mérimée.

Prosper Mérimée was born in Paris in 1803. A accomplished linguist, historian, archaeologist and occasional literary hoaxer he was appointed inspector-general of historical monuments in 1834.

A friend of Stendahl and admirer of Pushkin, he started writing as a teenager, and turned his hand to everything from a novel - La Chronique du temps de Charles IX (1829) - to plays and ballads. La Guzla (1827), his collection of ballads about vampires, revenge and murder was supposedly a translation from the Illyrian of the work of one “Hyacinthe Maglanowich,” and was a hoax so successful that it fooled the scholars of the time completely and was even part-translated into Russian by Pushkin, in his Songs of the Western Slavs.

It was, however, as a short story writer that Mérimée excelled, and it was a short story that earned him his immortality: Carmen - reputedly inspired by his long-standing friendship with Maria Manuela Kirkpatrick, Countess of Montijo and the mother of Empress Eugénie, wife of Napoleon III.

Carmen, written in 1845, is just 60 pages long ... not quite a novella, but more than a short story. The tale it tells is familiar to virtually everyone and can be summed up in one sentence: A gypsy woman with an interesting moral philosophy is killed by the soldier who loves her.

When Bizet took the story and transformed it into an opera, he imbued it with passion, eroticism and pulsing colour - and it's therefore something of a surprise to turn to the original and find that it not only has scholarly footnotes about gypsy customs and the Romany language, but also concludes with a chapter pontificating on the Spanish gypsies, their history, lives, language and slightly unsavoury personal habits. The whole thing, in fact, has the air of a learned anthropological treatise.

I first read Carmen, many years ago, in the original French. I remember doing so, but I have no memory of my reaction to it. I believe I 'had' to read it, which tends to bring the mental shutters down. This time, I decided to let someone else do the work and first read Andrew Brown's translation (Hesperus Classics 2004) with a foreword by Philip Pullman. It struck me as being a bit ... uninspired (don't start reaching for your lawyers, Andrew ... I'm going to apologize for that comment almost immediately ...). So I went off in search of another translation, and found Lady Mary Loyd's, which also turned out to be a bit - well - uninspired.

Unwillingly, I went back to the French. And guess what.

Yes.

Uninspired.

Sorry Andrew. Sorry Lady Mary ...

Mérimée wrote Carmen with the precision of a surgeon. His framing narrator is an unidentified but deeply pedantic archaeologist who is in Spain searching for the true location of the battlefield of Munda. The world, he informs us, is waiting in breathless anticipation for the results of his endeavours. Of course they are, dear.

In the course of his travels, he meets don José and it is he who tells us - via the archaeologist - the story of his fatal obsession with Carmen. With the arrival of José, the narrative voice warms slightly ... but there's still something curiously clinical about it.

In fact, this extraordinary tale is told so matter-of-factly that it's only really right at the end ... as Carmen faces José knowing he is going to kill her, and refusing to save herself by saying what he wants to hear ... that it hits you. Mérimée has drawn you into his narrative completely. He has effectively pulled off the same stunt that Emily Brontë did when she made the dim-witted Lockwood and the busybody housekeeper Nelly Dean the framing narrators of Wuthering Heights. He has made the incredible credible. To have produced a translation which did not mimic his original style would have been to do him and his work a great disservice.

The moment when Carmen stands defiantly before the distraught José and declares (my free translation) ...

I could lie to you so easily, but I just can't be bothered. You're my man and as such you have the right to kill your woman; but Carmen will always be free. Romany she was born, and Romany she will die.

... is literally a visceral one. The journey which started with the young soldier's total inability NOT to pick up the cassia flower Carmen had tossed in his face has come to its end. Her death at his hands is inevitable.

Mérimée knew exactly what he was doing.

But what are we supposed to make of the story? Well, I leave you with the misogynistic little epigram from Palladas with which he chose to open Carmen ...

Pasa gune kholos estin; ekhei d'agathas duo horas
Ten mian thalamo, ten mian en thanato.

Woman is a pain. There are only two occasions when she's not: in bed - and dead.

Make of that what you will.

Translation by Andrew Brown. Hesperus Press Ltd. ISBN: 1-84391-096-9. Foreword by Philip Pullman. (Also includes the short story The Venus of Ille). 93pp.

Maria Laura Bufano

Raccontando di Al-Ándalus, ho parlato assai poco di monumenti e paesaggi, su cui è facile trovare informazioni su guide turistiche, libri specialistici ecc.
Ci sono invece cose che sono parte costitutiva nella storia di queste terre, ma quasi mai giungono all’orecchio dei viaggiatori che percorrono l’Andalusia in lungo e in largo. È difficile per chi non sia uno studioso sentir parlare della grande poesia arabo-andalusa (intrecciata con quella ebraica e cristiana): un immenso movimento – o meglio un fascio di movimenti e di singole individualità -, che ha attraversato i secoli. I canti d’amore la fanno da padroni, spesso accompagnati dalla musica – quindi destinati a banchetti e ad altri momenti di vita sociale -: celebrano l’amore sensualissimo e l’amore spirituale e sublimato, legato, quest’ultimo, per lo più, alle correnti mistiche del sufismo.
Non intendo proporre una panoramica pur sommaria di questa lirica, su cui ci sono in internet siti divulgativi interessanti. (Vedi, per esempio, per un’informazione generale, in spagnolo, e per la lettura di qualche testo poetico accompagnato da musica “ricostruita”. Oppure ecco un altro elenco di siti interessanti).
Non è facile, però, trovare repertori abbastanza ampi di testi tradotti dall’arabo. Questa poesia, come d’altra parte altre opere della cultura di Al-Ándalus, sono sparse in mille rivoli: codici, pubblicazioni e traduzioni di tempi diversi, che si trovano in luoghi diversi.
Per dare un’idea della massa di scrittori, filosofi, poeti di Al-Ándalus, di cui naturalmente io stessa conosco solo pochissime schegge, cito qualche dato di un progetto mastodontico, varato nel 2002 dal Legado andalusí di Granata (un ente promosso nel 1995 dalla Junta de Andalucía, che ha lo scopo di diffondere la conoscenza del patrimonio culturale della Spagna araba): 21 volumi di circa 750 pagine ciascuno, i primi cinque dedicati solo alle biografie e bibliografie ragionate (non ai testi!) di poeti, scrittori, filosofi, scienziati (dall’articolo Todo el saber de Al-Ándalus, di Maria José Carrasco - El País, 15/11/2002). La poesia lirica dovrebbe avere uno spazio ragguardevole in quest’opera, di cui è uscito finora solo un volume. Speriamo che il progetto non si interrompa.
Come esempio di questa lirica, propongo un poeta e due sue composizioni che cantano l’amore sublime e cortese (la traduzione, non certo perfetta, è mia: dallo spagnolo, non dall’arabo).
Il poeta è Ibn Hazm, di Cordova (994-1063); nato in una famiglia di rango elevato, intorno al 1020, scrisse, fra l’altro, El collar de la paloma, un trattato d’amor cortese e spirituale – el amor udri –, in cui alla prosa si alternano poesie. Ci sono, di questo testo, traduzioni in spagnolo, non in italiano.
La prima poesia si trova all’inizio del libro:

Ti consacro un amore puro e senza macchia

Ti consacro un amore puro e senza macchia:
Nel profondo di me è chiaramente scritto e inciso il tuo affetto.
Se nel mio spirito ci fosse altra cosa oltre te,
la afferrerei e la distruggerei con le mie stesse mani.
Non voglio da te altro che amore;
Al di fuori dell’amore, non chiedo nulla.
Se lo ottengo, la Terra intera e l’umanità
Saranno per me grumi di polvere e gli abitanti della mia patria, insetti.

Appartieni al mondo degli angeli o a quello degli esseri umani?

Appartieni al mondo degli angeli o a quello degli esseri umani?
Dimmelo, perché la confusione si prende gioco del mio intelletto.
Vedo una figura umana; però, se mi affido alla mia ragione,
trovo che il tuo corpo è un corpo celeste.
Benedetto sia Colui che bilanciò il modo d’essere delle sue creature
e fece sì che, per sua natura, fosse luce splendente!
Non posso dubitare che tu sia un puro spirito che si è avvicinato a noi
per un’affinità che lega le anime.
Non c’è prova che attesti la tua incarnazione, la tua presenza corporea,
né altro argomento se non il fatto che sei visibile.
Se i nostri occhi non contemplassero il tuo essere, diremmo
Che tu sei la Sublime Vera Ragione.

Questa e tante altre liriche di tono analogo, pur se con temi e contenuti molteplici, furono scritte dai poeti arabo-andalusi prima della grande fioritura provenzale.

Sotto il franchismo, gli studi di arabistica continuarono. D’altra parte il caudillo si era appoggiato a un generale del Marocco nella sollevazione contro la Repubblica spagnola, e il ricordo delle violenze commesse dalle truppe del Marocco contro la popolazione civile, con il beneplacito della Chiesa, ha lasciato per lungo tempo tracce di diffidenza negli antifranchisti.
Gli studi della cultura araba, comunque, durante e dopo il franchismo, per anni, sono restati negli ambiti specialistici, quello che si scopriva non è giunto o è giunto in minima parte ai libri scolastici. Dalla cultura ufficiale è stata privilegiata, nella considerazione del passato, la linea latina-visigota-cristiana. A questo proposito Juan Castilla Brazales, autore di un’affascinante opera al tempo stesso divulgativa e rigorosa, Andalusíes, la memoria custodiada, si esprime così, in un’intervista del 2003: “Senza dubbio, in epoche passate il peso della cultura araba è stato sempre un argomento lasciato da parte, c’era una crociata contro tutto ciò che si denominava tra virgolette “moro”. Era un tema tabù e purtroppo durante decadi e decadi tutto ciò che ha a che vedere con questi otto secoli – che sono tanti! – è stato riassunto in una pagina e mezzo nei libri di testo, e il professore, se poteva, non approfondiva per non cacciarsi nei guai”.
In Italia, dove pure, a livello accademico, c’è una grande tradizione di studi di arabistica, i ricchi risultati di tali ricerche non planano certamente sui libri per i nostri studenti. Molti si oppongono all’inserimento nella Costituzione europea del forte riferimento alle radici giudaiche-cristiane, in nome di un’eredità plurale, ma - cosa che di questi tempi avviene spesso per la memoria e le memorie - non si fa nulla o si fa poco per ridare vita a questo passato molteplice: meno che mai, nelle nostre scuole.

Maria Laura Bufano

Tim Spanyol (Spain) akhirnya tampil sebagai juara, setelah 44 tahun menanti. Spanyol unggul 1-0 lawan Jerman, gol oleh Fernando Torres. Spanyol disebut sebagai tim terbaik, menang dengan sempurna, menampilkan sepak bola indah, tetapi juga efektif nyetak goal.

Di balik "layar" ada sesuatu yang penting dicermati. Maaf ini bukan soal "bola mania" lho, tapi soal mentalitas manusia.

Sejak awal tim Spanyol mainnya bagus, stabil, dan tak terkalahkan. Seri aja tak pernah, selama EURO 2008 ini. Jadi menang terus. Istilah, "Bola itu bundar, kadang muncul hasil tak terduga." Itu tak berlaku bagi tim berjuluk La Furia Roja itu. Pengamat bola mengatakan, kemenangan Spanyol adalah bukti kemenangan "sepak bola" itu sendiri. (Unik ya, jelas main bola, kok masih dibilang kemenangan "sepak bola". Kemenangan apa lagi dong? Jelas bukan basket, tenis, renang, atau badminton?).

Dalam pertandingan sepak bola, faktor yang menentukan kemenangan macam-macam, bukan hanya FISIK, TEKNIK, dan STRATEGI. Kadang juga bisa berupa keberuntungan, keberpihakan wasit, bahkan kecurangan pemain. Itu bisa-bisa saja. Tetapi EURO 2008 itu disebut kemenangan murni sepak bola. Hebat kan...

Tapi sejatinya, sejak awal Spanyol diragukan ketika bertemu di final dengan Jerman. Alasannya, mental pemaian Spanyol cepat bobrok, drop, atau lemah. Oleh karena itu, mereka minus mendapatkan kemenangan dalam laga-laga internasional. Pemainnya hebat-hebat, tetapi koleksi kemenangannya sedikit. Why? Sebab mereka didiagnosa, "Tidak punya mental juara!" Cepat bobrok, sebelum pertandingan dilangsungkan.

Anda bisa bayangkan, bagaimana rasanya bermain di tengah lapangan dilihat oleh puluhan ribu penonton, bahkan oleh miliaran mata manusia. Penampilan harus bagus, tak boleh salah atau lemah. Bagi yang bermental bobrok, mereka akan "demam panggung", ketakutan, atau sudah "kalah" sebelum peluit panjang dibunyikan.

Sejak lama, Spanyol dianggap sebagai bangsa bermental buruk, temperamen, pemarah, mudah konflik, rasialis, tidak menghargai proses, tidak menghargai pemikiran luhur, cenderung hedonis, norak, kampungan, dst. Bayangkan, tradisi mereka saja "Matador", tradisi primitif seperti Kaisar Romawi yang membangun Colloseum untuk mengadu manusia dengan singa. Itu tradisi primitif.

Tetapi hebatnya, dalam EURO 2008, Spanyol mampu mengalahkan tim Jerman yang dikenal memiliki keunggulan: Kekuatan fisik, postur tubuh tinggi, pengalaman juara, dan mental yang tangguh. Bangsa Aria Jerman bisa dikatakan adalah kualitas "the best" manusia Eropa. Dalam sepak bola, Jerman punya segudang cara untuk memenangkan pertandingan. Kalau tidak menang secara teknis, mereka akan memakai cara "non teknik" (baca: kecurangan).

Sebelum final berlangsung, Spanyol diejek oleh pemain Jerman, "Mereka tidak punya mentalitas jadi juara."

Kenyataan berbicara, Spanyol benar-benar juara, juara sejati, juara dengan kualitas kemenangan "sepak bola". Mereka tidak bermain curang, kasar, keras, atau licik seperti tim lain. Padahal postur tubuhnya lebih pendek dan kecil dibandingkan rata-rata pemain Jerman atau Itali.

Pelajaran yang bisa diambil, inilah kemenangan mentalitas tangguh. Bangsa Spanyol belum pernah memiliki tim dengan mentalitas sehebat tim saat ini. Mereka benar-benar kuat dan pekerja keras. Salah satu alasannya, pelatih Spanyol yaitu Luis Aragones, dia seorang motivator, terus memompa motivasi anak-anak asuhnya agar bermain cemerlang.

Tugas Aragones sederhana, yaitu: Mengkondisikan agar bakat pemain-pemain Spanyol keluar, terekspresikan secara maksimal, tidak terhambat oleh masalah-masalah mental, minder, takut, khawatir, dsb. Mereka pemain berbakat kok, hanya karena selalu "kalah oleh dirinya sendiri", perjalanan mereka sering berakhir dengan kegagalan. Dan Aragones berhasil. Itu pun dicapai setelah dia bekerja selama 4 tahunan.

Para pemain Jerman tertegun ketika menyaksikan betapa tegarnya pemain-pemain Spanyol, padahal mereka sudah diprovokasi sedemikian rupa agar drop mentalnya. Tetapi tetap saja tak mampu, mereka benar-benar bermental kuat.

Ini adalah pertanda baik. Terus terang, saya mendukung tim Spanyol, meskipun sebagian besar mereka adalah Katholik. Dan itu pun setelah Turki dikalahkan Jerman.

Ingat, Spanyol sebenarnya "negeri Islam" yang sedang "dipinjam" orang lain. Mereka itu negeri Islam, sebab dulu disana pernah tegak berdiri Kekhalifahan Andalusia. Bahkan Andalusia dan jejak-jejak sejarah masa lalu, masih ada sampai saat ini. Orang Spanyol itu berbeda dengan orang Barat pada umumnya. Lihatlah bentuk-bentuk fisik mereka! Seperti hasil persilangan antara Arab dan Eropa.

Dan selama ratusan tahun, bangsa Spanyol dibuat buta, dibuat fanatik, tidak berpikir logis, tenggelam dalam kebodohan tradisi primitif (Matador) mereka. Bangsa itu benar-benar dibuat beku, dibuat "mati langkah", dibuat tidak kreatif, dst.

Maka dengan EURO 2008 itu tampak disana mereka mulai menyadari potensi kekuatannya. Mereka mulai "pakai otak" dan strategi. Mereka mulai kritis. Mulai mau menggunakan metode, pemikiran, filosofi positif, dst. Ini adalah kenyataan positif yang layak kita syukuri.

Mengapa? Sebab jika mereka mulai "memakai otak", berarti mereka akan mulai memikirkan masa depan dan masa lalunya. Sampai di suatu titik, mereka akan mempertanyakan, "Ada apa dengan Andalusia? Mengapa kita tinggalkan Andalusia? Mengapa kita ada disini?"

Jika demikian, maka ada harapan Islam kembali bersinar di Eropa. Suatu masa, bangsa Eropa akan kembali dipayungi oleh naungan Islam, dengan Spanyol sebagai titik-tumpunya. Inilah tanda-tanda kembalinya "The Spirit of Win". Bukan hanya dalam soal bola, tetapi kebangkitan peradaban manusia di bawah naungan Islam, insya Allah.

Selamat datang Granada, selamat datang Alhambra, selamat datang Cordova, selamat datang sejarah emas Andalusia. Marhaban wa ahlan!

[amw].

The point is that Andalucía and its influences have infiltrated all areas of my life, including, it appears, my cooking.

Last summer, I rediscovered gazpacho. For those unfamiliar with the term, it is a sort of cold tomato soup which originated in Andalucía. I recently learned that the original recipe - created by invading Roman soldiers who were parched, exhausted, and in need of salt after working all day in the hot Spanish sun - was not tomato-based, but rather consisted of stale bread, garlic, olive oil, salt, and vinegar. Which, in and of itself, sounds pretty good, but rather more like an Italian appetizer than the vegetable-laden soup with which we are familiar.

My mom made gazpacho when I was a kid, and none of us really liked it, except for her, so I wrote it off for years as a weird mom thing. After learning it was from Andalucía while I was there, I felt slightly more well-disposed towards it, but never actually got around to having any while in Spain, mostly because it was not tomato season, and I'm not sure I ever actually saw it on a menu. And then, shortly after moving back to the US last summer, I was at a small café where I had what I think was cucumber carrot gazpacho. I'm not positive if that was it, but whatever variation on gazpacho it was was amazing.

Right then and there, I decided I was going to try as many different gazpachos as possible. And who knew there could be so many kinds? Since then, I've tried gazpachos of all different flavors, most tomato based, some with wild flavors you'd never consider; mango is one of my favorites.

This summer, I've decided not only to try gazpachos at restaurants, but to start making them. I started with a basic one last week (that I got from Gourmet), going back to the simple Spanish roots, before fancy chefs started getting carried away, but I promise to try some exciting ones to share with you as well.

Classic Gazpacho

1 (2-inch-long) piece baguette, crust discarded
2 garlic cloves
2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons Sherry vinegar (preferably "reserva"), or to taste
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
2 1/2 lb ripe tomatoes, cored and quartered
1/2 cup mild extra-virgin olive oil

Soak bread in 1/2 cup water 1 minute, then squeeze dry, discarding soaking water.

Mash garlic to a paste with salt using a mortar and pestle (or mince and mash with a large knife). Blend garlic paste, bread, 2 tablespoons vinegar, sugar, cumin, and half of tomatoes in a food processor until tomatoes are very finely chopped. Add remaining tomatoes with motor running and, when very finely chopped, gradually add oil in a slow stream, blending until as smooth as possible, about 1 minute.

Force soup through a sieve into a bowl, pressing firmly on solids. Discard solids.

Transfer to a glass container and chill, covered, until cold, about 3 hours. Season with salt and vinegar before serving.

Serves about 4 people as a main, 6 as an appetizer.

Now, I didn't strain out the solids, because I rather like having a little more substance to it, but either way is quite good. I also added about half a cucumber - chopped and seeded - to mine; I like the flavor and again it makes it a little bit thicker.

I served this as an appetizer, in small bowls, but if you want a light main dish during a heat wave or something, this works wonderfully as a cold summer soup.

Ed è la stessa cosa nei paradisi dove, a ogni istante, sorgono una creazione nuova e un piacere nuovo, affinché la noia non possa sopraggiungere, poiché non c’è dubbio che ogni cosa naturale, se viene costantemente associata senza alcun cambiamento allo stesso fenomeno, produrrà noia nell’uomo.

Maria Laura Bufano

Una directivaI que, entre d'altres coses, permet empresonar durant un any i mig aquelles persones vingudes d'altres racons del món i que no tinguin la documentació que els estats europeus exigeixen en les seves lleis d'immigració. Com recorda avui mateix Vicent Partal, res més allunyat dels principis que van donar origen al procés per la unitat europea.

Europa, l'Europa dels polítics que la gestionen, ha decidit, doncs, fer encara més alts els murs que l'envolten, perquè –en moments de crisi econòmica mundial– siguin encara més difícils de superar per als qui volen entrar-hi. Els eurodiputats del PSOE –excepte els catalans Josep Borrell i Raimon Obiols, que hi han votat en contra, i Martí Grau– que s'hi ha abstingut–, han votat a favor de la directiva, a diferència de la majoria dels seus companys i companyes del grup socialista europeu. El govern espanyol camina en la mateixa direcció, potser de manera més subtil. El nou ministre de Treball i Immigració, Celestino Corbacho, qui també va ser immigrant a Catalunya, com recorda Mar Jiménez al diari "Avui", ha anunciat també mesures d'enduriment de la política immigratòria, destinades, entre altres coses, a dificultar el reagrupament familiar. I manté aquests centres d'ignomínia que són els centre d'internament d'estrangers

Tot plegat, una vergonya, com denuncien moltes entitats defensores dels drets humans. Política de "treballadors kleenex", com defineix la del ministre Corbacho el president del Casal Argentí a Barcelona, Diego Arcos, al seu butlletí. Algunes d'aquestes associacions fins i tot havien proposat mesures concretes al Govern espanyol en la direcció contrària a la que ha pres. Vegeu, si no, les deu que plantejaven la Unió Sindical Obrera, la xarxa ACOGE, la Comissió Espanyola d'Ajuda al Refugiat i l'Associació Pro Drets Humans d'Andalusia. 

Fu Tāriq ibn Ziyād, un condottiero musulmano di origine berbera, a guidare i suoi – arabi provenienti da oriente e berberi del Maghreb - allo sbarco sulle coste della penisola iberica, di cui erano padroni a quel tempo i visigoti: Gebel al Tariq (Gibilterra) è appunto “montagna di Tāriq”, in realtà uno spaventoso roccione alto 500 metri, confitto chissà da chi in quella terra piatta, prossima all’oceano Atlantico. Su Tāriq lo scrittore siriano Zakariyya Tamer scrisse negli anni ’60 una storia angosciosamente onirica che ha al centro un cortocircuito temporale. Lo scrittore raccoglie una leggenda: Tāriq, una volta che furono sbarcati, avrebbe dato ai suoi l’ordine di bruciare le navi, in modo che a nessuno venisse la tentazione, di fronte alle difficoltà della conquista, di ritornarsene da dove era venuto. Ma con un salto temporale Tamer trasferisce il condottiero in una sorta di stato di polizia del ’900. Tāriq, che ha preso una decisione contraria al senso comune, nonostante abbia portato i suoi alla conquista di una terra considerata paradisiaca dai musulmani arabi del tempo e delle epoche successive, viene imprigionato da ottusi poliziotti e burocrati e condannato a morte per aver danneggiato beni dello stato. È, il racconto di Tamer, un amaro attacco alla durezza di cuore e alla stupidità del potere dispotico dei suoi tempi (chi voglia leggere questa storia – Colui che bruciò le navi - e altre dello scrittore siriano, lo può fare qui). C’è da precisare che le cose per Tāriq non andarono davvero così. Infatti continuò la conquista, fino a Toledo, e restò generale al servizio di un Visir arabo. Tamer è uno di quegli intellettuali arabi che, dopo la decolonizzazione, avevano sperato in un’evoluzione democratica, laica, e in una ridistribuzione di ricchezza e potere nei loro paesi. Quest’evoluzione non ci fu, certo per responsabilità dei gruppi dirigenti locali, ma anche dell’Occidente, e nella situazione di frustrazione che seguì alla delusione di tanti fece il nido il fondamentalismo violento che abbiamo visto all’opera in questi decenni. A tal proposito, non posso fare a meno di chiudere questa lunga digressione manifestando la mia ammirazione per il francese Gilles Kepel, uno dei maggiori studiosi occidentali dei paesi islamici e dei loro rapporti con noi non musulmani. I suoi libri, disponibili in traduzione italiana, sono densi e appassionanti, se si può dire così di una scrittura saggistica che non schiaccia il mondo a martellate per riuscire a spiegarlo alle anime semplici. Per saperne di più su Gilles Kepel, clicca qui...

Ritorno a Al-Ándalus: molti pensano a questo “regno” come a un paradiso della tolleranza religiosa e culturale, che poi le orde dei reconquistadores cristiani avrebbero distrutto. Di fatto, non sempre le minoranze religiose vissero come se fossero a casa propria, ma in molti periodi e situazioni godettero davvero di pace e relativa prosperità. Furono accesi e sanguinosi i conflitti all’interno del mondo musulmano. La fitna, parola che in arabo indica rottura, guerra civile interna ai musulmani e dà il titolo a uno dei libri di Kepel, fu ricorrente nell’Islam: non diversamente, in fondo, da quanto avvenne negli stati cristiani, con le repressioni di “eresie”, le guerre di religione, ecc... L’immagine di un Islam tutto compatto e pronto a uccidere i non musulmani non è vera oggi e non era vera neppure al tempo di Ludovico Ariosto. Anche oggi buona parte degli attacchi terroristici sono fitna, hanno come obiettivo principale, pur se per lo più indiretto, parti del mondo islamico considerato cedevole con l’Occidente. Le minoranze violente colpiscono con il terrorismo i paesi non islamici per spingerli a reazioni catastrofiche contro i musulmani (della sorte delle loro genti questi e altri signori della guerra spesso non si preoccupano affatto); in tal modo, sempre secondo chi organizza questi atti, i musulmani dei diversi paesi sarebbero spinti a ribellarsi a quei regimi “moderati” che fanno compromessi con i paesi occidentali e ciò finirebbe per facilitare l’unità dell’Islam sotto il segno della “purezza”. Insomma, la famosa guerra di civiltà di Hutington, auspicata da minoranze violente dell’altra parte.
I quasi due secoli di regno omayyade di Al-Ándalus, prima legato, poi indipendente da Bagdad, delle corti califfali in cui si cantavano i piaceri dell’amore e del vino, furono costellati di rivolte e lotte interne che condussero a uno smembramento del regno. Gli Almoravidi, portatori di un’interpretazione più austera dell’Islam, successivamente riuscirono in parte a ricondurre all’unità una gran parte del territorio. E poi arrivarono i neo-raffinati Almohadi. E una nuova dinastia solo per il regno di Granata…
I confini di Al-Ándalus si spostarono continuamente: in certi periodi compresero quasi tutta la penisola iberica, in altri parti del Maghreb e naturalmente si restrinsero nel corso della riconquista cristiana. Per una storia sintetica di questa successione di regni arabi in terra di Spagna, si può consultare il sito del Legado di Al-Ándalus di Granata.
Chi voglia invece abbandonarsi gradevolmente al mito di un’Andalusia e di una Spagna arabe felici, può leggere, se non l’ha ancora fatto, il suggestivo romanzo “neostorico” di Abraham Yehoshua, Viaggio alla fine del millennio, le cui vicende sono ambientate nel X secolo, in uno scenario che comprende parti del Maghreb: questa storia è anche una difesa cauta e astuta di morbidi sistemi matrimoniali poligamici, che alcuni ebrei del medioevo avrebbero mutuato dagli arabi, duramente e insensatamente condannati dai gelidi, segaligni e astiosamente moralistici parenti dell’Europa continentale e cristiana.

Maria Laura Bufano

Gazpacho is a cold soup from the Southern region of Andalusia in Spain. It descends from an ancient Andalusian concoction based on a combination of stale bread, garlic, olive oil, salt, and vinegar — a cold breadsoup. With the Columbian Exchange beginning in 1492, the tomato and the bell pepper were brought to Europe, and are now widely used as a base for the soup.

Here is one recipe I found on Wikibooks (Disclaimer - it seems good, but I haven't tried this recipe yet):

Gazpacho is a hearty soup that is served cold, making it a perfect way to cool down and replenish the body on a hot, summer day in Andalucía. This is the classic gazpacho recipe, but there are many other variations. Gazpacho is typically served along with the main course, or afterward. Some Spaniards serve it in a glass, as a beverage to accompany the meal.

Ingredients

• 1 lb /450 g tomatoes
• ½ lb / 225 g green peppers (bell pepper, capsicum)
• ½ cucumber
• a few cilantro leaves
• clove of garlic
• 2 oz / 50 g white bread, 2-3 days old (also optional, leave out for a thinner soup)
• ½ mild Spanish onion
• 1 tbsp white wine vinegar or sherry vinegar
• 2 tbsp olive oil
• ⅓ pt iced water
• sea salt and black pepper
• ice cubes

Optional

• ¼ chilli pepper, seeds removed

Garnish

• 1 tomato, skinned
• ½ green pepper
• ¼ peeled cucumber
• bread

Procedure

Skin the tomatoes and cut into quarters. Remove seeds and stalks from peppers. Peel the cucumber and cut into chunks. Tear up the bread and soak it in water for 30 minutes and then squeeze it dry. Cut up the onion.

Blend all the ingredients until roughly chopped, not too fine, because the soup should have texture and discernible vegetable bits.

[Here I just want to add that you don't have to blend it at all, you can just dice it finely, add the ingredients in a bowl and stir it till it starts to blend. In some ways I think that is to be preferred, as it often gets too smooth in a blender.]

Pour into large bowl with some ice, add salt and pepper. Then prepare the garnishes. Dice the bread and fry it in a little olive oil until brown. Chop the other vegetables finely. Serve in separate little bowls on the table, so that guests can sprinkle on their own toppings.

Serve chilled.

Eat and enjoy!

“I live on good soup, not on fine words.” - Moliere

Thobias

Un’umanità, quella della ex-mia città, che si va chiudendo: in bunker. Necessari? Gli immigrati sono qui più cattivi che in Spagna? O sono gli indigeni che rendono con la loro diffidenza più selvaggi i rapporti? Ma non voglio oggi ragionare in chiave sociologica.
I miei ex-vicini che sono stata a trovare sono nonni come nonna sono io. La loro figlia Viola (mia ex-alunnina delle scuole medie), trent’anni, bellissima, non è cambiata da quando aveva sedici anni. Gli occhi grigi-azzurri-viola, di una profondità che cambia continuamente. Tre bambini, tutti maschi: due gemelli e un secondogenito. I primi due dolci come la loro mamma, con gli stessi occhi, la stessa bellezza. Ma nella casa dei nonni c’era oggi il piccolo, bruno, gli occhi di un azzurro più chiaro, come di lacca lucida, pronto al confronto, come molti secondogeniti. Ero seduta sul divano, la maglietta e la cintura dei jeans un po’ scostati, mi si vedeva un pezzetto di pelle scoperta. Lui se n’è accorto e mi ha detto che mi si vedeva il culetto. Io gli ho risposto che il mio non era culetto, ma culone.
Nonni buoni, nonni-pagnotte, la casa invasa di giocattoli, panni, ecc. Nessun perbenismo, nessuna mania di ordine casalingo. Non li si direbbe capaci di costruire un bunker. Chiedo di alcune ragazze compagne di scuola di Viola: di Maria, semieritrea, che era con lei in classe, si era sposata con un ragazzo della provincia, che poi l’ha tradita: con una “balorda”, mi ha detto la madre di Viola. Maria ha una bambina bruna, di carnagione bianchissima, nordica. Mi dicono che è troppo buona con il marito o ex-marito: lui le invade la casa per stare con la bambina; quando arriva, lei se ne va a lavorare in un’impresa di pulizie.
Viola è preoccupata per i gemelli, che dicono brutte parole. C’è sulla parete della cucina una foto del papa Giovanni Paolo II, chino su un bambino. Sanno che io non sono credente e che sono di sinistra. Dico a Viola del libro di Natalia Ginzburg, Le piccole virtù: parla appunto di figli, oltre che di altre cose. Viola corre a cercare una matita per appuntare il nome del libro.
Mi sono trasferita in Spagna da poco più di un anno. I dolci nonni mi dicono che è tutto cambiato, nel quartiere: ci sono boliviani ovunque, anche nelle case di fronte. I boliviani e altri stranieri rendono tutto pericoloso. Droga, violenza… Nei bar vicini (in cui un anno fa andavo a mangiare facendo una sosta dall’impacchettamento dei libri per il trasloco in Andalusia) “c’è di tutto”, dicono. Il bunker, costruito con il pensiero, con le porte blindate; le catenine d’oro e qualche altro gioiellino forse chiusi in una cassetta di sicurezza in banca. Ma quelli che vivono nel bunker – pare siano quasi tutti, in questa città – parlando di Spagna e di Oceano si accendono in viso: di una nostalgia di spazi immensi, senza confini, di una libertà e di una felicità che immaginano smisurata. Io ho fatto bene ad andarmene, mi dicono con un sorriso struggente: per loro sono quella che viene da un luogo incantato, sono quella che vive in una vacanza perenne, senza gli obblighi dei comuni mortali, in un paese senza ladri, senza delinquenti, senza bunker. La vacanza è l’Eldorado, là non ci sono problemi, tristezze, incontri pericolosi. Ho avuto il coraggio di andarmene. Quante volte ho sentito ripetere la parola “coraggio”, in relazione alla mia decisione. Sarebbe inutile e fors’anche crudele raccontare che la mia è una vita reale, che io ho le angosce della mia età, che la Spagna ha i suoi problemi, accennare alla campagna elettorale che si concluderà il 9 marzo… I loro sguardi, già dolci, si fanno ancora più dolci mentre pronunciano le parole “Spagna”, “Oceano”, ecc., i sorrisi ancor più sorrisi.

Sono all’Inpdap per un documento. Ci sono pensionati, molti ex-insegnanti. Tutti si lamentano per l’attesa. Penso alla “mia” Spagna. Vai dalla fruttivendola bruna e grassoccia (cinquant’anni? O forse un po’ meno?). Un bel viso. Di fronte a te ci sono altri, c’è una che racconta ciò che è successo a su sobrina (“sobrina” è la nipote della zia, quella della nonna si chiama nieta). Un’altra volta aspetto che una cliente racconti di un reggipetto ottimo e barato (=a buonissimo prezzo) che ha comprato nel negozio di fronte; si sbottona un po’ la camicetta e fa vedere il tessuto e il colore. Guarda anche me negli occhi: per farmi capire dove posso comprare un reggipetto del tutto soddisfacente. Quelli che sono in attesa non si sognano di protestare. Aspettano e guardano, guardano e aspettano. E anch’io aspetto. So che se manifestassi un pur minimo segno di impazienza, mi guarderebbero con compatimento: gli italiani sono così nervosi e strani! Certo, sono artisti.

Mi chiedo se si tratti di “culture” (che parola antipatica e stralogora, non ne ho una di ricambio che raccolga tante cose) diverse: quella della Spagna del sud e quella dell’Italia del Nord. O di fasi diverse. Se anche questi abitanti del pueblo andaluso siano destinati a diventare tra un po’ di anni frettolosi, arrabbiati, bisognosi di bunker mentali e di cemento. Spero di no. Chissà che in un mio ritorno in Italia, un giorno, in un negozio in cui entrerò a comprare qualcosa, non mi tocchi aspettare chissà quanto perché una commessa sta raccontando ad altra cliente di quello che le ha combinato suo marito con il fratello del cognato di sua nipote…

Maria Laura Bufano

[More old...]

A man and dog hug the shade by a whitewashed wall. The dog, a little unsteady in the heat, moves slowly through the weeds and parched wildflowers of the gravely field edge. When the bus from the city announces its arrival with swirling dust devils and a squash of tyres on tarmac, the man whistles, and walks forward with hands in pockets.
In the late May sun, Chipiona bus station bakes on one of those expanses of scrub dotted between unlovely half-built developments that are modern Andalusia's response to the tumbledown Roman aqueduct, the stork-topped mudejar tower and the whitewashed brick wreckage of a thousand years' weathered housing stock. Under the concrete canopy, teenagers thump down fold-out stairs first, eyeing each other in white denim, strappy tops, baggy shorts and baseball caps. As the last pensioner stiffly descends, man and dog look on, before he turns away, shaking his head, still whistling. The dog follows, pattering always in whatever shade can be found, headed somewhere lazier.

We walk past a T-junction, where local scooter girls wait, glancing at the incoming city talent before puttering towards the sea, ask directions to the beach, and are pointed to a bleached unfinished road between low-rise buildings. It's not so easy. Three beaches fold around this town – the squint against the wind and you'd miss it Las Canteras, the short, scruffy-dog-loveable Cruz del Mar, mostly shored up behind ancient and murky fish pens, and the longer La Regla, backed with cheap hotels painted brightly, optimistically, against the Atlantic wind. The lighthouse, Spain's tallest, gives a sense of the dangers of this coast of waves, wind and currents, though today the ocean seems too sunbeaten to work at the rocks. Down where the tired rollers trundle to a halt, a boy, no more than ten, tanned and sure-footed, with curling toes gripping the slimy surface, is fishing from the breakwater. He stares at the sea, accusingly, as if his were the only baited hook on the whole Atlantic coast. He's caught nothing all day. Turn the corner, beyond the lighthouse, and the beach curves away, at the point where the town loses conviction, to the church of Nuestra Senora de la Regla. There, a black madonna statue blesses those who wrestle trawlers and lilos alike. More of the latter, these days.

Along the seafront, in front of the overspill of the cafes and bars, a girl in a communion dress walks on the very edge of the pavement, itching to get on the sand; others are plain itching, as the coarse sand peppers oiled skin in the gusty wind. Over the low seawall, a grandad in a sailor hat fusses round children who work diligently on sandcastle extensions, and a brother-on-brother penalty shootout goes into sudden death. Urgency has put its feet up and is sipping a spritzer in the shade.

It's an easy kind of pleasure to sit, feet in sand, outside a bar seemingly airfixed together from plastic weatherboarding, watching the comings and goings, and listening to weekending Sevillanos dispute the merits of the city's two football clubs in characteristically belligerent tones. This corner of Cádiz province lies at the end of a blessedly air-conditioned bus route from the swelter of summer in the Andaluz capital, and a jostle of down-for-the-day teenagers, squabbling families and shuffling retirees bears out the attraction of this ventilated coast for those in the airless interior. They come to stretch out, to sprawl on the beach in bikinis and heels, or muffintopped swimshorts, and to eat and drink. Whilst the former tuna-fishing villages skewered on the silver coastline to Tarifa have a surfy, international flavour, this end of the Costa de la Luz remains marinated in sherry. Sanlucar, just ten kilometres away, is the home of manzanilla, the lightest grade of the sherry bodegas' product, with a salty tang and a fresh, slightly oily taste well suited to the spit-and-seaweed ambience. Chalked up on a hundred blackboards, food is simple, and tailored to the local obsession with the brisk transfer of catch to bubbling oil – fried anchovies, hake and cuttlefish, shrimp fritters, battered cod, battered prawns, battered batter.

IIn the backstreets of the old town, the church square hides a Cruz de Mayo, one of the lower-key Andalusian mergings of God and the bottle. The cross itself is elegantly dressed with vines, and flowers, in a dinghy washed up on a beach of petals. The action is at the temporary bar, where a flamenco-dressed matron spins with enthusiasm to piped sevillanas, her heavy steps watched by a small crowd, syncopated clapping echoing around the plaza. Nearby, lovers recline under the shade of a palm, in front of the wedding cake church, decked with bougainvillaea. It's a moment of distilled Andalusia, a drop or two of oily beauty. But even this seems too earnest for Chipiona. It's a bucket and spade kind of place, unfussy, unstuffy and, with only a narrowing of eyes, a babelfish in the ear, and a broken thermometer, it could be anywhere on the more windswept coasts of England, complete with the steamy tang of fried fish, the rattle of one-armed bandits and the spillage of plastic cup punters onto promenades.

Andalusia- Joe Satriani.mp3

En Wikipedia podemos informarnos de lo que este artista ha hecho con ese trozo de madera y guitas que la gente llama guitarra: Joe Santriani

[odeo= http://odeo.com/audio/18029953/view]

Hootie and owner Kerry Hancock

Hootie is a 2 year old mule on his way to becoming a great friend and companion to his owner Kerry Hancock. Born and raised in Laurel Hill, Florida, his sire is a 15 hand black mammoth jack named Panhandle Rudee and his dam is a 15 hand spotted saddle horse named Patches. Hootie was a mischievous baby often kicking the barn walls and sometimes taking a passing shot at a visitor in his pasture just for the entertainment. At 5 months all that changed; Hootie went to "Mule School" at the Campbell Ranch in Andalusia, Alabama, and learned that there were better ways to use his pent up energy. By the end of his first week of training, Hootie was walking on a lead and standing quietly; in fact, Hootie won a 2nd place ribbon at the SSMDA Mule show with just 5 days of ground training, and by the tender age of 6 months he was pulling a small cart. Hootie still enjoys practicing his training skills and has now moved on to tackle more challenging tasks such as learning to ride the trails and working as a team with his pasture buddy and fellow "Mule School" graduate Ricochet. Come on out and meet Hootie and many of his friends at the SSMDA Mule and Donkey Classic on Sept 27, 2008, at the Covington Arena in Andalusia, Alabama.

No, no intercanviava fotos de nens despullats, ni feia fishing per timar els quartos als ciberincauts. Es dedicava a enaltir a ETA a la Xarxa. I es veu que sempre anava al mateix cibercafè, perquè l'han enxampat. Ara tots dormirem més tranquils. Plàcidamanet que diria en Mayor Oreja.

Això passa a la Xina o al Marroc i alguns liberals ja estarien bramant.

Des d'aquest modest blog demanem l'alliberament immediat de M.L.G.  Que no té feina la Benemèrita?

In the Name of Allah Most-Compassionate, Most-Merciful

What shall I tell you is the story of how I learnt that Islam is Simplicity and Beauty? My story begins in that most venerable and blessed city of Granada in Andalusia, the last remaining part of the once glorious Islamic presence in the Iberian Peninsula. One remarkable fact about Andalusia is that even though Islam became prohibited in Andalusia for almost five centuries the blessings, the barakah in that land granted by Allah subhanhu wa ta'ala is still very much in evidence today. And in a city such as Granada the original spirit of Al-Andalus is still evident and can be felt in the narrow winding streets of the Al-Baicin, which was traditionally the Muslim quarter, inhabited mostly by Muslims during the rule of the Nasrid dynasty. That spirit is not something that can be easily defined but one evident source of that sprit is the way in which The Alhambra Palace casts its majestic and yet austere influence over the city. The whole of Granada is seemingly orientated towards the Alhambra which appears more than just a fortification or a once walled city. It appears most distinctly as a mosque which is brilliantly lit up at night and may be seen from the top of the opposite hill adjacent to a more contemporary mosque, the first one built in the city for almost five-hundred years, seen also from Plaza de San Nicholas. A place where the young and romantic gather to catch the hue from this beautiful palace, which invites them in, and incites their passion to be Andalusians, that is to say, to be different. And that difference is what can be felt all around Andalusia and Granada.

So this story of how I came to know and understand this extraordinary principle that Islam is Simplicity and Beauty, could only have come from being in an extraordinary place which had transported me to an extraordinary state of awareness and contemplation. It was the last morning of my stay in Granada and I wanted to pray Fajr prayer in the mosque near Plaza Nuevu at the foot of the hill opposite the Alhambra. A very intimate part of the city with its close streets, Moroccan shops selling exquisite and sometimes not so exquisite goods and the numerous resturants and cafes. Anyway, I left my hotel early perhaps around 6am, and not knowing exactly what time Fajr prayer was there, I set out a bit early just in case. It was a beautifully serene time as the time for Fajr usually is but this was of course much more because of the location, and I was keen to pray in this mosque in particular because the Imam of the mosque was the son of that most blessed of teachers of Shaykh Hamza Yusuf, with whom he had spent 6 years studying in the desert of Mauritania, Murabit al-Hajj. His son was of course not a young man, but in his late sixties or early seventies, and to pray behind such an Imam would of course be a great blessing, which is why I was keen not to miss this opportunity. My hotel was only a short walk to the mosque, through the plaza and a right turn into the narrow streets, streets not wide enough for any cars.

With a few more turns in the still night, with not a soul in sight, I was stood outside the mosque, whose doors were not yet open. But I didn't mind at all. Just to be outside this mosque, just to be standing taking in the atmosphere, which was ever so slightly misty, adding to the mystery of the moment, conveyed to me a great sense of blessing. The street lights were on and their light as it diffused through the air made apparent that misty appearance. I did not mind this at all. I thought this, as I stood patiently against the wall opposite the doors to the mosque, and whilst I waited, I thought I would brush up on my Spanish vocabulary, so I took out my well-thumbed English-Spanish dictionary and began learning some new words of this most compelling and beautiful of languages. Lost in my world of Spanish words, narrow cobbled streets, this old mosque, of this revered Imam, under the street lights lit dimly, the atmosphere, the blessing, the specialness, I only just made out the faint footsteps of someone approaching from my right. I paid no heed as I continued to add more useful words to my Spanish vocabulary, just at that moment, and as he passed, this person said something to me in Spanish. My instinctive and well-versed response was, "no hablo espanol", "sorry, dont speak Spanish". But then as I saw this person, a young man, perhaps in his mid to late twenties, I saw that he did not look Spanish. And his own inquiry was one of assistance as he thought I may have become lost. But I caught his accent and asked if he spoke English to which he duely and courteously replied that he did. I asked him where he was from, he was from Canada, he said, and had been staying in Granada for a few months. Deciding what to do next with his life, he had come to Granada to seek inspiration, guidance and direction, but running low on money he had been thinking about, albeit reluctantly, going back home. But without any definitive plan emerging he said returning back home would not benefit him and he really wanted to find a job so he could stay in Granada longer, so just that day he had gone to the Alhambra, both on a visit, but to also find some employment.

Something that I have not yet mentioned is that he was slightly inebriated, and ordinarily there is no way that I would have engaged in a conversation with anyone in this state especially whilst standing outside a mosque waiting to pray, and especially at the blessed time of fajr. But this was different, I was different, my response different, my calm, inner-peace and a desire to help, to offer guidance even to someone that was not Muslim, who was even slightly drunk, did nothing to disuade me to help a fellow human being, one that belonged to God. I was exactly where I was meant to be, I understood this immediately. He sensed my state, his curiosity had been stirred, an inquisitive fellow he already was, but intrigued nonetheless to know what I was doing standing in this street at this time of the morning. I explained that I was waiting for the mosque to open so that I could pray the morning prayer. "Waiting to pray", he thought, while, "I'm staggering home after my night out"? He was impressed with this vision of self-discipline and devotion. His senses became sharper, he began to realise something, and I could see something dawn inside him. He wanted to know more. Knowing I was a Muslim he asked without hesitation, and as though he had been waiting for this opportunity for a long long time, he asked, "tell me about Islam"? Of all those special moments, thoughts visions, impression and smells, it was this moment in particualar that was the most stricking, one that has been imprinted on my mind, locked deep in that place in ones heart reserved for 'special moments'. What answer could I give? I did not have one ready to hand, one that would be applicable the sitauation, to the person. I frantically searched through the archives of my mind, rapidly traversing between ideas, one to the next, not finding what I needed, and all this in a split second. I did not want to convey any sense of hesitation, the answer had to be good but natural. I couldn't delve into the depths of Islam, it would be of no benefit, I needed something else, something simple and yet something profound, somthing based on what I already knew of him, something that I knew would benefit him. I needed these words, where were they? And then, seemingly in slow-motion, my attention, my mind was drawn towards the beautifully carved door of the mosque, as though that was the inspiration from within, my call to God asking for His help at that moment.

The door was reminicent of so many beautifully crafted doors in Islamic buildings because of their symbolic meaning. And this door, even though it was to somewhere sacred was beautiful on the outside, thus inviting those that recognised its beauty, but was closed. There was a metaphor here that I realised, that ones invitation is sent by God, but simply to be invited to the door of a great blessing, a noble virtue, is as good as recieving it, for the invitaion has be granted by God Himself. Thus to simply stand outside a closed door, is not to stand outside a closed door, but to find oneself with an open invitation to journey beyond that door, behind which something extraordinary resides. One has to wait, to be patient, and in that patience is learning of the value of what resides beyond that door. And that if a person truly wants that blessing then he will wait, and whilst he is doing so he will continue to act in the best manner, to do those deeds that may be part of the acceptance to enter into that other realm. My sincere desire at that moment of realisation was to find the words, for the sake of Allah, for the sake of guiding His servant towards Him with no other desire or intention other than what was best for him. And so it transpired, came to mind an extraordinary blessing in the form of these words that had never crossed my mind before. A most exquisitely brilliant formula that said "Islam is simplicity and beauty".

The Beauty of Symmetry

My own words, words inspired from within, came as a surprise to my ears, which were trying to understand these words as though someone else had spoken them. And they appeared even more profound for this formula was not only deep, but so simple and elegant. Perfect for the wayferer as well as the scholar. But having never heard these words before, I had to, whilst speaking to him, also provide an explanation to this formula, again without pause and hesitation, I needed the words as I spoke them, and so they emerged as I spoke them. So knowing that he had already visited the Alhambra and had been overwhelmingly impressed by the Nasiri Palace, I said to him that this principle is found throughout Islam, which allows this religion and its beauty to be understood by anyone. By both the student and the scholar of deep learning, or by an ordinary person if he chooses to, wants to delve beneath the surface. So I said, consider the art and architecture of the Nasiri Palace and take for example its beautiful geometric patterns found in its intricate plaster work and the thousands of tiles that cover its walls. Each design in its entirity is based on the same simple geometric pattern, which is then replicated over and over again. This repetition is a sign of continuity, of the idea that complexity has at its heart, simplicity, and simplicity is beauty when a simple core principle, design or idea is expanded, replicated over and over. The whole may appears infinate, and eternal, which it is because the same design may be continued for infinity, and yet at its heart is a very simple message, a very simple design, a very simple pattern. God is One, He is eternal and absolute. And in response to one of the companions of the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, asking "who is God". God revealed the following beautiful verse:

قُلْ هُوَ اللَّهُ أَحَدٌ

اللَّهُ الصَّمَدُ
لَمْ يَلِدْ وَلَمْ يُولَدْ

وَلَمْ يَكُن لَّهُ كُفُوًاأَحَدٌ

"Say: He is Allah, the One!

Allah, the Eternal, Absolute;

He begetteth not, nor is He begotten;

And there is none like unto Him". (Ikhlas 112:1-4)

This is Islam. Its core pinciple is simple and yet profoundly beautiful. There is no god but God. And it is when this idea is repeated over and over, connected to its heart and expanded, that everything it touches is also imbibed by the same essence, the same beauty. Everything becomes a reflection of that simple idea, becomes very beautiful, very fine, cultured, sophisticated, and well-crafted. This, I said to him, is Islam. His response was immediate, he was evidently impressed, taken aback by such a beautiful description, deep yet so simple to understand. He was ever so pleased that he had met this person patiently waiting outside the mosque who had been willing to offer this meaningful response to his enquiry. I asked him whether he believed in God and he said he did believe in something, but that he was never convinced of what he was taught in Christianity back home. He wanted more and said Christianity just didn't have all the answers to his questions. He was searching for more, a better explanation to his existence, of who he was and what he should do. I said to him that to find God is not that difficult, all you have to do is to desire to want to know the truth and He will make that truth appear, to find you, wherever you are. To which he replied and acknowledged that his being here at six something in the morning, was in itself for him a sign, a sign that God had answered his prayer, that He was with Him. At this realisation, this moment, everything was still, we were both somewhere else in another presence. Two people sharing a deep and intimate conversation, ones desire to help another, to guide another under the guidance of his Lord, and the other's desire to make sense of the world, to find guidance. Both had come together at this time and place by the power, the One, under whose guidance had arranged this conveyance of a sign of His existence.

I cannot fully describe to you how happy this fellow was, and how happy I was to have met him, and nor how much he sought to praise my efforts. He asked if I would pray for him, and I said I would but asked for what would he like me to pray? He said for himself, for his family, for him to find the truth, and also for me and my own family. I agreed, and thanked him, but said on condition that he did something in return. He asked what that was. I said, "promise me that you will be open to the truth whatever it might be, that you will keep your heart open". He agreed, and out of such genuine happiness continued to thank me saying that only once before in his life had he found someone that had genuinely helped him with such guidance, and that Muslims were wonderful people, peaceful, helpful, enlightened. Alhamdulillah, I was happy to hear these words, to hear that without any bias, without any prejudice, this young man had his eyes open when he was at the Nasiri Palace and now his ears where open to explain what his eyes had witnessed. This conversation was a confirmation of what he had seen, felt and heard, he knew it to be true.

Some moments earlier he had been joined by his friend who was not as intuitively sharp or seeking guidance in the same way as he was. But still, he acted to draw another important principle. When I had asked his friend to keep his heart open, this other fellows immediate response was to say, "well you have to keep your mind open". But I said, "no, not just the mind, but more importantly the heart, because when we speak toeach other, when we engage in deep conversation we speak from our hearts and not from our mind". His friend agreed, but moreso it was yet another confirmation that what he was hearing were not ordinary words, words which he had heard so many times before which he wanted to get away from, but words that were coming from an altogether different source.

Perhaps, and insha'Allah this brief but inspired meeting gave him the direction he needed, was searching for. But even moreso, it taught me many valuable lessons, one especially that if one sincerely and with all of ones heart seeks the guidance of Allah, that Allah guides that person with understandings directly into the heart. A light that is able to find its way to anyone and everyone that desires it even with as little as a grain's worth of desire. That guidance not only directs us in our understandings but teaches us the most important of life's lesson, who we really are.

•18 Jumada al-Awwal 1429•

[more prefabbed travel guff no one wants. See how I can write in a style I really don't like]

Pick an Andalusian town, any Andalusian town. Given luck, you'll find a crumbling Moorish castle, a crop of wonderful churches, some palaces, patios, the last trappings of mediaeval Christianity and more bars than can possibly be sustained by anything other than the inhabitants' impressive commitment to the good things in life.

Luckier still and it will be Carmona casually ticking off the checklist and asking if you’d like fries. A romantically derelict Alcazar, a flush of fine churches, a shady main square, bars, restaurants and a handful of hotels are all here, but what makes Carmona special is the box-set succession from Neolithic remains, through Carthaginian, Roman, Moorish, and Renaissance styles, right through to the mouldering art nouveau of the Cerezo Theatre.

Arriving at siesta time, there's little to do but wander the streets and wait for the town to open like a jetlagged flower; it's the kind of sleeping beauty Andalusia does so well, away from the crowded coasts and cities – a music box tinkle to Seville's brassy blare. Even by local standards (nearby Écija is another outcrop of perfection on the dusty plain), this small town is crammed with unregarded masterpieces alongside the picturesque decay of a thousand years of housing stock. As everywhere in the province, ancient churches are scarred with the blocked doorways and windows of social and ecclesiastical change – patches on patches, mortar on rubble. There's quiet splendour in the delicate plasterwork on the library, the palatial houses in the centre of town, the domes and courtyards, and the shapes and textures of innumerable balconies and doors.

A fair walk outside the town walls through the colossal Puerta de Sevilla is the Necropolis, where, in the late 19th century, hundreds of burials of the more well-to-do citizens of Roman Carmo were uncovered. It's a little spooky descending into a mausoleum in the silence of off-season solitude, starting at the scuttle of a lizard and checking nervously over your shoulder. While none of the tombs offer any Tutankhamun moments, this is an atmospheric place, and a surprising glimpse of just what a substantial town this was in the days when Baetica was one of the richest provinces in the Empire. Further Roman survivals are the amphitheatre across the road and, in the old town, the restored Puerta de Cordoba where the city walls spill on to the broad plain, now, as when first built, awash with grain.

Skipping forward a few hundred years, the Alcazar is as uncompromising a pile as you'll find, though part-transformed into an elegant parador (with prices to match), looking out across the plain with well-heeled grace. This kind of reinterpretation is nothing new, as the town's Mudéjar belltowers show – here, as elsewhere, the Reconquest subsumed and transformed, working on anything but a blank slate. San Pedro's Giralda-Lite form and the convents of Santa Maria de Gracia and the Convento de las Descalzas (a beauty and the beast pairing) are highlights, but there are too many churches in the town for anything other than bewilderment at past social priorities. Also worth looking out for is the Iglesia del Salvador, its tower seemingly snapped off like a cone under the weight of the ice cream dome. It was never finished.

On the secular side, the old town's main plaza is surrounded by elegant buildings, with the disintegrating Moorish Revival façade of Bar Goya the standout – and the food's not bad either. Most of the bars serve up a blackboard of Andaluz favourites; so far from the ports, land wins out over sea, and ham, grilled pork and pulses are to the fore. This time of day it's strictly for tourists. The locals are elsewhere: perhaps in Bodega Jose Mari (opposite the market square) where fragments of Roman columns support the doorway and a rough chalk scrawl proudly proclaims the first of the year's mosto. Sadly, before I have time to sample more than a glass or two of what’s on offer, it's time for the bus back to the city. Though, Seville being Seville, that's not such a hardship.

Chi voglia vedere qualche immagine per conoscere quello che fa l’associazione ambientalista La Laja, può farlo qui, o qui. Sempre in riferimento a La Laja, si può provare ad aprire questo: dice che è stato rimosso, ma non è vero, poi compare. Un bel gioco su quello che è e quello che potrebbe diventare.

Maria Laura Bufano

E' sufficiente prelevare un campione di sangue della madre, mettere in pratica una serie di tecniche forensi per separare il Dna del nascituro, e mettere in evidenza l'eventuale presenza del cromosoma Y, che solo i maschi hanno. Una tecnica non invasiva (a differenza dell'amniocentesi o della cordonocentesi) che fin dal secondo mese di gravidanza permette di conoscere il sesso del mostriciattolo che si porta in grembo (con un margine di certezza superiore a quello dell'attuale ecografia della ventesima settimana) e consente la diagnosi precoce di malattie come l'emofilia o la distrofia muscolare. Il tutto, ad un costo che oscilla tra i 120 e i 130 euro, ma che diventa però gratuito per le coppie con precedenti familiari di malattie genetiche. Naturalmente, per quanto ci riguarda, è necessario aggiungere il costo di altri 100/150 euro per un volo a/r: stiamo parlando del laboratorio Lorgen e dell'ospedale Virgen de las Nieves che si trovano a Granada, in Spagna. Ricordo bene Granada, è una bellissima città.

di Francesca Aprea

Carlos si preparava: di lì a poche ore si sarebbe sposato.
La servitù, come voleva la tradizione familiare, lo aiutò nella vestizione. Era un cerimoniale consueto ed era necessario che si rispettasse: il rampollo doveva essere cinto di onore e gloria.
Carlos, riservato per natura, non aveva mai apprezzato l'appariscenza di certi rituali, quello che per un comune giovin signore poteva rappresentare vanto e onorificenza, per lui altro non era che invadenza. Lo irritava. Oltretutto non condivideva la necessità di usufruire dei servigi altrui, lui che da tempo aveva conosciuto l'autosufficienza. Gli pareva oltremodo superfluo, se non umiliante per sé e per coloro che a tanta soggezione si prostravano. Spesso era solito, verso coloro che si inginocchiavano ai sui piedi in segno di reverenza, tendere la mano per permettere loro di rialzarsi o a coloro che intendevano baciargliele, le sottraeva.
Mandò via i servi.
Aveva bisogno di pensare.
Si guardò allo specchio: il volto smagrito mostrava i segni della notte insonne, appena trascorsa, gli occhi, incastonati in cerchi lividi, quasi parevano sparire, solo mostravano le pupille lustre, gonfie di pianto. L'abito elegante non nascondeva le gambe tremanti.
Pensò a Carmen, non l'avrebbe più rivista.
Pianse dinanzi al riflesso di sé: guardava la sua infelicità.
Pianse come un uomo innamorato.
Era l'alba: Carmen si sentiva fiacca sin dal risveglio, quella mattina, mentre il sole filtrava dalle fessure semichi