Archives for: April 2008
PAOLA FORNARI C.V.
Writer, EFL teacher, trainer, and translator, I was born in Tanzania, have lived in a dozen countries over three continents, and describe myself as an ‘expatriate sin patria’. Wherever I go I make it my business to learn the language, get to know the local people and customs, and discover the country’s remotest corners. I became interested in writing in mid-2006, did a short Open University creative writing course and a Writers’ Bureau course, and began getting articles published in 2007.
April Autumn
Taken outside my house yesterday
Photos Accepted
I’ve had ten of my photos accepted by Crestock, an online photo bank. Last week I was messing about and submitted a few. I think I should have worked much harder on the search keywords, so I’m not sure if they’ll ever sell... I wonder if any of you could be bothered to have a look at them, and comment. The link is http://www.crestock.com/portfolio/chausiku.aspx - I think you may need to log in... let me know!
Truth is Stranger than Fiction: A Story of Survival
This story has been dominating our newspapers over the last few days:
On 12 February, a well-respected architect picked up his well-respected accountant wife from work, and stopped off outside his well-respected flat in a well-respected area of Montevideo. He sat in the car outside while she popped up to change, as they were going out to dinner.
There's No Smoke...
For the third day running, Montevideo has been swathed in a shroud of smoke. Not toxic, chemical smoke, but pleasant-smelling country smoke that irritates the eyes and lungs.
Moments in Montevideo: Bryan Adams Again
‘Some journalists asked me why I came back to Uruguay so soon.’ Bryan Adams stretched his arms out to embrace the 7,000-strong cheering and dancing crowd in the open-air Teatro del Verano last night. His fans roared even louder. He didn’t need to explain.
Uruguay Breaks Record!
Most footballers per head of population? Lowest house prices? Most laid-back people? Least heard of country? Best beef? No...
Terminal Four Madrid Barajas: Socks
My shoes were wet, my stripey grey and pink socks were wet, my woolly tights were wet, the bottoms of my jeans were wet, and my feet were wet. The cold wetness was gradually climbing kneewards, and this despite the four Euro pseudo-Burberry umbrella I'd picked up from a hawker in the Gran Via.