UnexpectationsLate yesterday afternoon we learned that this morning at 10 a.m. in Manhattan an adversary planned to ask the court for a temporary restraining order against our client. So this morning I got up at 3:30 a.m. to catch the 5:00 a.m. train to make it down to Centre Street by 10. On the train, I read the new York times on my
blackberry and learned all about which restaurants NOT to go to in the
Hamptons. Apparently the service there in
restaurants is worse than it is in DC. I also read about how to cook okra so its not so slimy, and how
USAir is giving up on Pittsburgh. Other than that, I looked out the window because the scenes outside were cataclysmic. Because of the very bad storms on the East Coast last night, every body of water up the East Coast was flooded. The
Anacostia, the
Severn, the
Susequehanna, the Delaware, the
Schuykill, (not the Hudson, however) etc. The water running over the banks was a nasty brown color with branches and other large things floating in it. Lots of roads we passed were washed out, I some cars with water up to their windows, etc. It was so early that no-one was out and about yet. It was a deserted landscape, just a grey sky that lightened imperceptibly to dull lead colored sky, trees and earth so sodden they were unnaturally dark, and man-made structures that were almost invisible behind all the water, unnaturally dark trees and earth, and the lead-colored sky. It was a totally cheerless trip. Now that I think of it, it was very like being in London. We got to Penn Station at 7:30 a.m. to learn that most of commuter trains in NYC were having serious trouble due to flooded tunnels, etc.
In any event, we get down to court and there's no adversary. The clerks in the Commercial Division have never heard of the man, no action has been filed, and no
TRO application has been made. We go around to all the possible parts of the New York Supreme Court to see if he filed elsewhere, etc. Nothing. We call him up. No answer. We ask him to please call us back to let us know his intention. We sit around for a while, going on a scenic tour of the beautifully refurbished courthouse, favorite corners/views for Law & Order scenes, etc. Then we get on the subway and go back up to C&B/NY. Shortly after we get home, the adversary calls and says "where were you?" all chipper like. He claims he was there at 10:30 (he wasn't, we were) and that because we didn't show up the judge moved the hearing to tomorrow (the judge never saw him, we know that for a fact), and that he left a note at the 'front desk" for them to tell me all about this (not true, there is no "front desk" and there certainly weren't no note -- anyway, the guy who
knows everything down there is Pablo and we are SO IN with Pablo that he wouldn't withhold info like that from us). I ask him if he could please fax us a copy of whatever he filed. He refuses. I ask him if he could
please tell us who his client is and who brought the action. He refuses. I finally ask if he could please tell us which of our client's various entities he sued. He refused, rambled on about some Jewish holiday that consumed him yesterday (the famous Tuesday, July 27
th Jewish Holiday, I guess) and how he just moved offices so what could I possibly expect from him, and then he hung up on me. So basically he's hauling us into court and refusing to give us the slightest clue about who else will be in court and why we will all be there. And all the lying and yelling made me feel dirty. I could never be a NY lawyer. At least in DC we pretend to be nice.
So I missed my return train home and sat in an empty office on our NY firm and typed furiously into my computer until my face felt like concrete. We are filing a flurry of things with the Commercial
Division and the federal court to really slam this jerk (nicely, of course). I also wrote an ice cold letter to the jerk pointing out that his discourteous treatment of us is
sanctionable and we're going to go after him for costs, etc. It sorta made me feel better but not really. Our client called periodically to express dismay, frustration, rage, disbelief, resignation, hysteria, and finally acceptance. It was basically a really terrible afternoon.
So now I'm in the St.
Regis (some consolation) catching up on all the other work I was supposed to be doing today before the jerk entered the scene (which is substantial, mind you), after dropping $60 at Duane Reade to buy basic necessities (there are substantially more "basic necessities" when you have to appear in court the next day because you can't really show up dishevelled and spotty looking). I will wash my socks in the sink and "refresh" my suit with steam from the shower and basically live in a St.
Regis bathrobe until I have to leave for court again tomorrow.
He better show up tomorrow.
Greetings from Son Menut!
Life is good. The day started with a fabulous Spanish breakfast of jambon y queso (ham and cheese) at the Hotel Saratoga in Palma. We washed it down with an espresso. Then we hit the streets for the Palma Cathedral.
This cathedral was started in 1292 and was designed to be seen from the sea. It is all crenellations and flying buttresses. The inside was redesigned by Gaudi in the 20th Century and features a shockingly gaudy (get it?) Candelabra over the crossing. It looks like a massive flying carpet with cattails growing out of part of it and parasails and other magical things. It is so hard to describe that I gave up thinking about it and bought a post card instead.
Then we walked through the old Arab part of town and found the ancient Arab baths. It was stunningly quiet, with medieval muslim architecture surrounded by frangipanis and bougainvillea and cactus. We bought a Fanta and sat at a cafe. The walls were orange. It was silent and beautiful.
Then the owner of the riding school at Son Menut, Antonio Barcelo, picked us up in the Son Menut van we remember so well from last summer. He owns a horse farm but is miserably allergic to horses. Also, he speaks not a word of English or Spanish, only Catalan. He recognized us nervetheless, and sang out, “Vamos a Son Menut!!!”. We clapped amongst the two of us in the back of the van and cheered, “ole!”
We got to Son Menut, an hour later, and Tony Barcelo immediately served us a complimentary glass of hierbas, a licorice and fennel-based liquer that is unique to Mallorca. He told the woman behind the bar, in Catalan, “they were here last summer, give them what they want.”. We were also greeted by Steffi, the German dressage instructor, who said “Hello! Welcome back!”. It was wonderful. We put our bags in our room and immediately went to see the horses.After saying hi to all the horses, we hit the pool. Naturally.
NOTHING HERE HAS CHANGED AT ALL. It's still in the back of beyond, it's still hot as blazes, the horses we met last summer are still all here, and all the staff remembers us. There's even a German woman and her ten year old daughter here who were with us last summer (we reacquainted with one another in the pool). It's heaven.
At 7 pm I had a jumping lesson with Manu, the jumping instructor. She spent half an hour with me working on dressage flatwork -- canter pirouettes and lateral work, etc. Then we began working on jumper courses. Being French, Manu has no use for hunter work, which is fine with me because it's Greek to me anyway. Manu doesn't even know what U.S.-style hunter work is. I'm in heaven. My little horse (who seemed tiny compared to Kona) negotiated a three five course of verticals and oxers with no problem, and Manu had us working on very collected turns and techniques to reduce our time over a jumper course. Her main complaint was “slow down!” I was very gratified to hear her say about an hour in that the horse I was on was not for beginners, and that she rode him in the winter to keep up his competitive skill because otherwise he took advantage. He had a bad accident over an oxer at some point recently and so every time we came to the oxer he wanted to run out. But I blocked him and rode him straight and he not only went over every time but picked up whichever lead I wanted on the other side with no fuss. Manu had us doing very tight turns and flying changes and it was fabulous! I can't remember when the last time it was that I was on a jumper who knew his job so well. Also, Manu said I rode over the jumps like a person accustomed to riding a very strong horse. I told her she was right, and explained Kona and his racehorse tendencies and how he tears off after jumps. She gave me some tips about a) how to teach him his jons, and b) how to jump a horse other than Kona properly. This is EXACTLY why I came here!
An hour and a half later I was exhausted. Manu said that tomorrow I will jump Roissy, the big chestnut Selle-Francais that I rode last summer. She says on him I can jump higher (gulp) which she seemed to find exciting. I also have a two hour dressage lesson tomorrow morning with Steffi, the scary German instructor, on either Roissy or one of the Andalusians. Either way is fine with me.
I am shocked once again with the high quality of the school horses here. In the States, these guys would all be considered schoolmasters. Here they live out in the wild fennel and the sun and the dust and could be purchased for under ten grand.
Also, the food is stupendous. Lunch outside under the olive tree today was pork chops and red pepper pizza and farm-made flan. Dinner tonight was grilled swordfish and farm-made meringue. The chef, Francina, came out at dinner and greeted us warmly -- “Ai! Mais uma ves acqui en Son Menut!”. (Translation -- “hey! You're back!”).My room overlooks the jumping field. We are miles and miles from any neighbor so the night sky is pitch black -- the only sound is the chickens and the horses and the moorhens clucking under the orange grove. There is no TV or radio. There is only a tiny isolated community of horse experts and miles of farmland bounded by cliffs dropping to the Mediterranean. We could be living one hundred years ago.I love it here.
Greetings from Palma!
Happy 4th of July! I am in Palma, on the island of Mallorca, an island in the Mediterranean that is part of Spain. My guidebook tells me that I am equidistant from the South of France and Algeria. The last important thing that happened hear happened in the 13th Century, when the Knights of the Templar showed up.
I arrived at about 3 pm local time after meeting my travelling companion in Heathrow in London. It was brilliantly sunny and about 85 degrees, no humidity. After a scuffle at the airport to find her bag (it was on a different carousel than mine because I had cleared customs in London but she had not) we emerged from the Palma airport into a sea of gardenia, bougainvillea and plumbago flower, and the fabulous Mediterranean sun. There was not a cloud in the sky and it was hot.
We got a taxi into Palma and the buildings and the Sea flew by. Everything was dusty brown, almost peach-colored, as only buildings in the dry Mediterranean can be. Poking out between the buildings are bougainvillea and multiple varieties of scrub pine.Our hotel is in the shadow of the Palma Cathedral and we immediately hit the roof top pool. There we lay, surrounded by the mountains and overlooking the harbor, watching seagulls fly and the sun drift overhead. One dip in the lap pool and all the woes of traveling melted away. We were reborn.
I ordered the first of many glasses of Spanish Rioja wine and a serving of amazing jambon y queso sandwiches (ham and cheese). Instead of butter, the sandwiches were smeared with a wonderful garlic paste. I watched the sun set behind the mountains and watched the outline of the Palma castle emerge on the hilltops. It was silent on the rooftop, except for the splash of people in the pool and the occasional scooter from the street below. The walls of the cathedral and the roof top behind me glowed peach and orange in the setting sun.
At dinner, also on the peach-colored rooftop, we conversed with some folks from Vancouver, Canada, who came to Mallorca via Amsterdam, Paris, Cannes and St. Tropez. He was a Canadian advertising executive. She was a lady who lunches, travelling with her hairdresser, Kevin. They were fascinating.After a few more glasses of Rioja wine, watching the harbor shut down for the night, we turned in. Tomorrow we head to the horse farm in Felanitx, a place with no TV, no radio, no phones. Only Andalusian horses, a beautiful pool fabulous food,, a wonderful windmill, an orange grove, wild almond trees, carob beans, total silence and gobs of sun.I love it here.
Greetings from London!
As many of you know, I arrived in London this morning from Dulles en route to Mallorca. I'm spending the night here before meeting my traveling companion at Heathrow tomorrow morning to fly two hours south to sunny Palma....
My hotel is walking distance from Paddington Station, so I came in on the Heathrow Express train and then walked around the neighborhoods of Paddington and Marylebone. I saw the Sherlock Holmes Museum and Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. I discovered the beautiful Queen Mary's Gardens in Regent's Park -- it has endless beds of roses and lawns that are flat enough to play bocci on, and very civilized green cloth lawn chairs everywhere. It was very windy here today, so most of the lawn chairs had blown inside out. People lie around on this lawn the same way people lie on the lawns around the Leaning Tower of Pisa or at the Getty in LA. Flat on their backs, silent for hours....smiling. I also met the very diverse collection of ducks in the boating lake in this park. Baby ducks were learning to swim and mommy ducks were making sure daddy ducks didn't interfere. Baby ducks look like floating lint. I couldn't figure out how the mommy duck knew which piece of floating flint was hers and not some other duck's.
Regent's Park also has an outdoor theatre which is showing a Midsummer's Night Dream and Henry IV Part One. I could hear the actors' voices and the period music floating over the flower beds. London's largest mosque is near the boating lake, so even though Shakespeare was in the air, most of my fellow park goers were Arab.
I saw 2 funny signs:
1. “Brighter Loos -- a Westminster Initiative.” (Government poster)
2. “You wouldn't spray your kids with artificial fertilizer, so we don't spray your raspberry's either” (for organic produce).
Now I'm drinking a mocha frappuccino in a Starbucks next to a statute of Field Marshall Sir George Stuart White, who won the Victoria Cross for gallantry in the Afghan War of 1879. Across the street is a Hijab shop, full of Arab women and girls picking among rows and rows of seemingly identical black head coverings. My walk back to my hotel will take me past St. Marylebone Parish Church, where Elizabeth Barret and Robert Browning got married in 1846. I think I like this part of London.
