Michele Roohani

Budapest, the neglected beauty on the Danube, is a city of friendly people, opulent buildings, golden domes, thermal baths and opera.

Budapest became a single city occupying both banks of the river with a unification on 1873 of right-bank Buda and with left-bank Pest.

A foreign city robs you of your prejudices about different neighborhoods—you look at everything with fresh virgin eyes.

Let’s start by my posh, but relatively inexpensive, hotel room and its great view:

grand cafés everywhere,

like the Callas :

The Hungarians are Opera-crazy and they have their elegant Opera Houses to show it:

There are plenty of beautiful Hungarian girls,

and boys:

and very proud ones at that: The Heroes’ Square welcomes you with seven Magyar chieftains (Magyar: Hungary) who led the Hungarian people in their proud history; I highlighted a couple that I liked best:

Now we’ll take the Budapest metro—super efficient and easy to use— to go places.

Like a good muslim, I first went to visit the great Saint Stephen Basilica:

the madonna looks friendlier in orthodox churches—somehow less aloof, more human…

In spite of all the gold in the public places, Budapest has its share of run-down buildings,

this huge metropolis is not as pretty as her smaller sister city, Prague,

but is as rich in history and as breathtaking in sights:

the sunset on the Danube is majestic:

Again as a good Shiite who does believe in Holocaust,  I went to visit the Dohany street Synagogue of Budapest, the world’s second largest that caters to a mix of Orthodox and Reformed Judaism unique to Hungary:

in spite of its Byzantine Moorish style, the similarities between this synagogue and a grand church are striking: there is an organ (Franz Liszt played on it once),

and even pulpits!

In the Jewish quarter,  you are constantly reminded of the Nazis’ atrocities:

Budapest is known for its 80 geothermal springs but I didn’t have the courage to accompany my friends to these pools in Szechenyi bath:

the Fine Art Museum was more pressing but that should wait for another post; the Hungarian parliament deserves a post all to itself as well.

If you want to stay in great affordable hotels in a great cosmopolitan European city, go to Budapest (or ask my friend, Reyhaneh, who is a champion in finding great deals!)

I leave you with this quote: “The stupid neither forgive nor forget; the naive forgive and forget; the wise forgive but do not forget” and “Clear thinking requires courage rather than intelligence” by Thomas Szasz.

p.s.  I am not writing about food because the only good meal I had worth writing home about was with my favorite Hungarian,  Professor Ungvari, at Remiz.

Abundant in nature, the color Green is Life and it represents peace, growth, renewal, health and serenity to me.

Dewing’s women are sublime in this chartreuse mist…

I like all shades of green:  lime, emerald, mint, sage, etc…Here are some fresh strawberry leaves in my backyard,

the elegant magnolia tree in my street,

the green shadow of this fuschia flower,

tired shoes on a shawl,

my green room,

two fish on this 11th century Persian ceramic,

and two naughty fish hiding under the water lilies:

and one fish on this green door,

a mean tequila shot with some limes:

a way gentler one,

I like the green man thinking,

and these beautiful women holding lights:

Shakespeare smiling behind a green fountain,

the lonely bike waiting,

my favorite tree (sycamore) leaves,

and least favorite, succulent plants.

How about these smart water plants who lure the beetles with food inside at 8 pm and eat them at 12 am?

Even coffee tastes better in a green atmosphere as Starbucks understood long ago:

A green bottle with a red soul:

I have more pictures of trees than anything else in my archives; there is a quiet majesty about a tree that has always stopped me in my daily hustle; this one is looking in the mirror:

a green Buddha,

an exquisite Delahaye ,

Green luck,

green food,

beautiful narcissus,

last but not least, green hope…

“من چه سبزم امروز و چه اندازه تنم هشیار است…”

“How green am I today
And how alert is my body”

“Que je suis verdoyant,
Et qu’il est alerte mon corps”

Sohrab Sepehri

p.s. all pictures but the last one are from my personal archives.

This is a small clip I made of these images with the beautiful “THIS” song of Brian Eno:

I always thought that a woman out of a Persian Miniature will be known as the Iranian Marianne—maybe something like this dreamy painting by Farah Ossouli:

or the ageless super model, Yasmin Parvaneh (picture on the left) or her daughter Amber Le Bon (on the right):

It could have been one of the young beautiful movie stars or myriads of miscellaneous beauty queens or even one of these two who represent the separate worlds of today’s Iranian women:

Little did we know that an unknown young woman, Neda Agha Soltan, killed ruthlessly in the Iranian election protests last month would be the face of the Persian woman to the world…

Neda was a “casualty” of the conflict; she gave a face to the faceless victims. May she not have been killed in vain…

I am sure Melvin Sokolsky doesn’t mind the great Reza being inspired by him in making the Neda masks.

Red—no matter what other name you call it by— is the color of  passion, anger, courage, sacrifice, warning, fire, sin, revolution, love, power, etc…

red is my favorite color and these are some samples of my reds; let’s start with a red heart or a scarlet letter:

red tomatoes,

red fish,

red Persian rug,

red literature,

a red fountain pen,

and a red pencil,

red lips,

a hot red car,

another hot red car,

an aspiring red rose,

and a real red rose,

lovelorn poppies,

red peppers,

high calorie red,

a small red door,

and a slightly bigger one!

the fabulous Miss Wendy:

Los Angeles’ red light district,

red beads,

wine is one of my favorite reds,

red steps in Prague,

and red steps in Buenos Aires,

a disobedient red strawberry shortcake,

and a red blog…

and this is the end of my Red post.

It’s been two years since I started this blog and I just have to make this post fabulous…I’ve been wanting to write about the new Kindle for a while but I have felt guilty towards books!

As many of you know I am a shameless bibliophile but  even though I am a rather “early adapter” of new technologies, buying a Kindle has not been a priority (you can carry a big chunk of your library—1500 books— and the neighborhood’s news stand in one Kindle).

I am tactile and love touching books and feeling the pages, the type, smelling the paper, the ink, etc…this little soldier guards my books valiantly!

This one—Herman Hess’ Narcissus and Goldmund— was one of my favorites and I have read it in three languages during the past 30 years (talking about obsession!) and I can’t imagine getting the same pleasure from reading it on Kindle…

Could I have appreciated Jean Michel Maulpoix‘s poetry without his signature blue covers? No paper?

Would he have wanted to be read on a gadget? Knowing him, I would say non!

“Blue makes no noise. It is a timid color, without ulterior motives, forewarning or plan; it does not leap out at the eye like yellow or red do, but rather draws it in, taming it little by little, letting it come unhurriedly, so that it sinks in and drowns in it, unaware.”

I can read Lukacs or Gopnick on a Kindle but not the Shahnameh (even writing about it is sacrilegious). One of my favorite blog posts is the one I wrote about this passion of mine.

I audited a bookbinding course on my last trip to europe and was pleasantly surprised to see that this beautiful art is not dead.

people in the atelier were restoring old books—resewing the pages, making new covers, etc—with a lot of love, attention and reverence. These fonts were for leather book jackets:

Is Amazon.com cannibalizing its own industry? They are the makers of Kindle.

I have to admit that  even I would love to have all the newspapers I read daily, on one gadget. The gadget that carries most of my books to choose from on a trip; I guess all I am saying is that it’s very hard to read poetry on a machine—wouldn’t these beautiful poems feel/sound better on paper?

i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

e.e. cummings

“Parfois je me fais presque honte
De croire autant ce que je ne crois pas.
C’est une variété de rêve
Avec le réel au milieu.” Fernando Pessoa

Thank you all for the kind comments and support through these past two years.

Revisit my post on books here.

A book is a present we keep opening—again and again…

The Persian new year, called Norouz (or Nowrouz)—New Day—is just around the corner and Southern California nights have the sweetly fragrant scent of jasmine and citrus flowers. Last year’s  Norouz blog  remains my  most read post so please visit it for a detailed account of Haft-seen and some great pictures.

Tulips don’t know much about the financial crisis and narcissi couldn’t care less about job layoffs; they come out with their effortless beauty, reminding us that nature renews its vows with life every spring.

Before 1564, most of Europe celebrated the New Year with the first day of Spring.

The Gregorian calendar changed that to January first. To me, it is only natural to start the year with the first day of spring and not in the dead of winter…

“Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling,
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturb’d,
Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for my own ears only,
Give me solitude—give me Nature—give me again, O Nature, your primal sanities! Walt Witman

The Norouz celebration lasts 13 days and is rooted in the 3,000-year-old tradition of Zorastrianism. March 21st will be the first day of spring, the first day of the new year. The fragrance of these lemon tree blossoms reminds me of a Norouz I spent in Shiraz years ago…

 This poem of Fereydoon Moshiri always makes me smile…

بوی باران، بوی سبزه، بوی خاک
شاخه های شسته، باران خورده، پاک
آسمان آبی و ابر سپید
برگ های سبز بید
عطر نرگس، رقص باد
نغمه شوق پرستوهای شاد
خلوت گرم کبوترهای مست …
نرم نرمک می رسد اینک بهار
خوش به حال روزگار

خوش به حال چشمه ها و دشت ها
خوش به حال دانه ها و سبزه ها
خوش به حال غنچه های نیمه باز
خوش به حال دختر میخک – که می خندد به ناز –
خوش به حال جام لبریز از شراب
خوش به حال آفتاب

Would it be the dawn of 1388 or 2547 like some purist Persians suggest? It’s surreal to see this anachronistic image of the late shah’s crown in the middle of Santa Monica boulevard wishing you a happy new year in Persian!

I just can not resist sharing these beautiful flowers with you:

This is a celebration of Life.

It is time to recalibrate our priorities and do some spring cleaning. Just look at the beautiful baby green of this Hydrangea:

The hyacinths (sonbol) or the quintessential Norouz flower:

 I wouldn’t dare translating this beautiful Rumi poem about Norouz:

اندر دل من مها دل افروز توئي
ياران هستند ليك دلسوز توئي
شادند جهانيان به نوروز و به عيد
عيد من و نوروز من امروز توئي

Don’t forget to visit my last year’s Norouz post.

Norouz Pirouz!

“But love is blind and lovers cannot see
The pretty follies that themselves commit;
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush
To see me thus transformed to a boy.”  Shakespeare

Guess what we all got from Santa Claus this year?

It’s been a horrendous holiday season and my images below illustrate the Christmas mood of Rodeo Drive:

The real estate market is so bad, they are giving away whole buildings!

The haute couture has a small “sale” sign but no buyers…

The Christmas decorations are as gorgeous as ever but with no money to spend, people are just not in the mood,

and the  Cinderella slipper has to wait for a better (non-bankrupt) prince.

The doormen at Prada are waiting in vain too— the headless/moneyless client is entrapped in Koolhaas’ quirky cell:

Last year’s night version of this was way more cheerful…

Africa’s still bleeding in spite of De Beers pretty windows:

An exercise in futility if you ask me but Harry Winston is still showing off its ridiculous necklaces.

The poinsettias are effortlessly beautiful and everywhere—they keep bringing a smile to my face without costing an arm and a leg.

An espresso and the man of the year to wrap up the day.

It looks like we’re going to have to take Einstein’s advice, whether we like it or not: “everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler.”

Pretty girls who wish to model for you are not rare in Paris and I found a great one, Lisa Tahmassi, to walk with me in La Butte aux Cailles neighborhood . You are never sure whether it will rain or not—an umbrella is usually a must in almost any season.

These two old gentlemen were so out of place in this very chic neighborhood (ok, the café was pretty beat-up)—they couldn’t take their eyes off of her!

Ah…the never-retiring beret…

It was too early to start drinking anything but an espresso at the counter:

I love these no-fuss cafés of Paris where you can have the best “petit noir” for 1.5 euros.

A world in turmoil screams for our attention,

the financial meltdown was starting to hit the front pages.

I have more pictures of Lisa but they have to wait for another post, another day.

Putting these images together, I am reminded of this terrific, light-hearted song about being young and in love in Paris by Jacques Brel,”Les Prenoms De Paris” (Names For Paris); listen to it here.

“Le soleil qui se lève
Et caresse les toits
Et c’est Paris le jour
La Seine qui se promène
Et me guide du doigt
Et c’est Paris toujours
Et mon cœur qui s’arrête
Sur ton cœur qui sourit
Et c’est Paris bonjour
Et ta main dans ma main
Qui me dit déjà oui
Et c’est Paris l’amour
Le premier rendez-vous
A l’île Saint-Louis
C’est Paris qui commence
Et le premier baiser
Volé aux Tuileries
Et c’est Paris la chance
Et le premier baiser
Reçu sous un portail
Et c’est Paris romance
Et deux têtes qui tournent
En regardant Versailles
Et c’est Paris la France

Des jours que l’on oublie
Qui oublient de nous voir
Et c’est Paris l’espoir
Des heures où nos regards
Ne sont qu’un seul regard
Et c’est Paris miroir
Rien que des nuits encore
Qui séparent nos chansons
Et c’est Paris bonsoir
Et ce jour-là enfin
Où tu ne dis plus non
Et c’est Paris ce soir
Une chambre un peu triste
Où s’arrête la ronde
Et c’est Paris nous deux
Un regard qui reçoit
La tendresse du monde
Et c’est Paris tes yeux
Ce serment que je pleure
Plutôt que ne le dis
C’est Paris si tu veux
Et savoir que demain
Sera comme aujourd’hui
C’est Paris merveilleux

Mais la fin du voyage
La fin de la chanson
Et c’est Paris tout gris
Dernier jour, dernière heure
Première larme aussi
Et c’est Paris la pluie
Ces jardins remontés
Qui n’ont plus leur parure
Et c’est Paris l’ennui
La gare où s’accomplit
La dernière déchirure
Et c’est Paris fini
Loin des yeux loin du cœur
Chassé du paradis
Et c’est Paris chagrin
Mais une lettre de toi
Une lettre qui dit oui
Et c’est Paris demain
Des villes et des villages
Les roues tremblent de chance
C’est Paris en chemin
Et toi qui m’attends là
Et tout qui recommence
Et c’est Paris je reviens.” Jacques Brel

Coming back from Europe, reality hit me with the softness of barbed wire! The U.S. is paralyzed with fear and uncertainty and the world is watching in horror the rapid meltdown of greedy and extreme American Capitalism—of the unregulated kind thanks to Reagan.

These are hard times and people can’t “go to the mall” anymore like their president suggested a few years back but Sarah Palin sure did with her shopping tag of $150,000—read Dowd’s interesting column here. Remember Obama’s tattered shoes?

Watch out  for the trick…People have been affected by the real estate massacre and there is blood on the streets everywhere— massive layoffs have not started yet. This cartoon of Ed Stein is funny and sad at the same time:

I don’t know about you but I prefer my autumn in its original colors of yellow/orange and the Halloween sweet and funny. If you miss my jack-o-lanterns click on my last year’s Halloween post.

I couldn’t resist including my picture of this classic Morgan—it has the perfect colors.

Exploration of the unknown requires tolerating uncertainty. I hope that the elections bring some degree of order and certitude; chaos scares the hell out of me.