Asking price $23K.
2007 model.
20,000 miles.
Excellent condition. Really is.
Heated leather seats.
Manual. Six gears. Anti drop-back mechanism, means it makes the stick easy to drive on hills.
Still has 10,000 service miles from BMW.
Will miss it, truly.
Selling only because leaving the city.
The winter might be coming but you still get good 8 months from it in a year.

Email magdalena.at.molonese.com if you are interested.

I once snapped at a “global” strategic planner based in Texas (right?!) for being ignorant and causing me to work 30 hours over a weekend to re-work his deck for a serious client workshop in Beijing, China. He got defensive and I needed a facial (therefore got annoyed). He didn’t even have a passport. His Scottish boss came to his defence: “Call them ignorant. But, at the end of the day, we all want green cards to this country”.

He shut me up. He did.

He annoyed me good. And he wins.

Coz he made me think. Think that it is so damn true. (the green card)

I like it when you make me think.

Seattle has been hosting me for 9 months now. While learning how to love the city, I once in a while pull out my little black 10’ x 10’ notebook and scribble the nonsensical, the ugly, the charming and the outstanding.

Here is my list thus far:

1. You have to say “how are you” 20 times a day or else they would assume your mother died as you are too quiet.

2. I wish Farenheit was never born.

3. Headed for the changing rooms at a department store to discover that they are locked. Decided never to know the reason. Don’t tell me.

4. Changing gears with your right hand might be cool but this also means it’s your left hand now on the steering wheel. Bad idea.

5. People are so darn driven and dynamic, compared to most Europeans. It makes me feel I’m on the winning team. We like.

6. I still walk up to the wrong side of the car to get in. Especially after a few drinks. I need to drink more.

7. They respect your personal time, 5pm and the office gets taken over by the ghosts.

8. Bathroom, bathroom, NOT toilet, Magda! Bill, I mean check, please. Open the boot, please. What? Oh, oh, you mean the trunk. How do
you spell your last name? Z= zed. What ? Oh, sorry “zee”. I’m a slow learner.

9. Tipping my wages away, passing a judgement on each server to justify a tip. Not like.

10. Maid coming 2 times… a month! Having to learn how to use a dishwasher, I never owned one.. (till age 37).

11. My credit score is one of a 18-year-old. I get $500 limit on my card. I’m embarrassed to pull it out.

12. London has Vivienne Westwood, Paris has Chanel, Seattle has North Face. Even on a Saturday night.

13. Fillers, fillers, fillers everywhere. Ahhhmmmm. It’s a little lazy way of talking, no?

14. Independent radio stations (KEXP here) makes me feel international all over again.

15. Most commercial radio stations have appalling ads with the same voice talent and the USP (unique sales proposition) repeated 5 times in 20 seconds. Who are these agency people?

16. Hippies here are cool with making money. At least my food coop is. I’ll have an organic champagne to that!

17. Everybody is self-medicating and so many are on anti-depressants. I’m depressed to see that.

18. An average Joe eats unbelievably badly and wonders why she does not look like Angelina Jolie.

19. Do not raise your hand to get service at a restaurant. Nonsense.

20. People really drink Coke for breakfast. It’s the pinnacle of marketing skills on Coke’s side. Given.

21. Oprah is on every night at 9pm, now I need my Shanghai husband here to fully appreciate it.

22. Blokes in Seattle: 33.3% play in bands, 33.3% work for Bill (or Steve now), 33.3% would jump off anything.

23. Being positive (even if it means prozac) is America’s religion. God bless Amerika.

TARGET TIME
You need go to a well-marked flat trail or road and run three miles as fast as you can. Then use the corresponding formula from number 1 above to find your half-marathon per mile pace and goal time.

HMP = Half-Marathon Mile Pace

THE TRAINING RUNS

Our half-marathon program includes three time-targeted runs each week.

Each run serves a purpose; to make us fitter and faster for our race. It also keeps things pragmatic and will over-run us. To be practical, we can always trade long-runs for getting out of town to ride bikes or do some races. After all, we must not forget to have some fun!

SPEEDWORK (aka interval training):

Speedwork is about alternating short, fast bursts of intensive exercise with slow, easy activity/recovery. Muscles develop a higher tolerance to the build-up of lactate, and the heart muscle is strengthened. These changes result in improved performance particularly within the cardiovascular system. Interval training also helps prevent the injuries often associated with repetitive exercise, and they allow us to increase our training intensity without overtraining or burning out.

Our plan uses three distances: 400, 800, and 1600. Warm up with a 20-minute jog and cool down after your session with a 10-minute jog. This helps prevent muscle strains, and will keep our legs fresh for the next session. As a practical substitute, I’m using our Thursday gym workouts (spin + treadmill runs) as speedwork, and using the table as a guide of intensity.

Sample Speedwork:
20-minute jog. 8 x 400 (at pace specified) with a two-minute recovery jog in between each. Cool down with a 10-minute jog.

Speedwork Target Times:
400s- HMP, minus 75 seconds, divided by 4
800s- HMP, minus 65 seconds, divided by 2
1600s- HMP, minus 45 seconds
For example, a runner who is targeting a 1:30 half-marathon would be running at a 6:52-per-mile pace. Their 400s would be run at 6:52 minus 75 seconds (5:37), and divided by 4, or 84 seconds.

TEMPO RUNS
The tempo run does two key things for us: it enables the runner to keep running at a faster pace. The key here is a good relaxed warmup jog, then a gradual shift into a tempo pace, followed by a relaxed cooldown jog.

Tempo runs can be done on a road or at the gym, at our own time. Use the table as an indication of the distance to run.

Sample Tempo Run: Jog 10 minutes. Four mile tempo. Jog 10 minutes.

Tempo Pace: HMP minus 15 seconds.
For example, our 1:30 half-marathoner would perform his / her tempo run in 6:37.

LONG RUNS
Without the strong, steady, endurance-boosting long run, speed workouts and tempo runs would gradually wear us down. We will start with 4-mile runs (one loop in Discovery Park) and work up to 12 miles.

Sample Long Run: 10 miles

Long Run Pace: HMP + 30 seconds per mile
For example, our 1:30 half-marathoner would run his/her long run at 7:22 per mile.

The program is based on eight essential principles:

One. We can follow it without a lot of hassle. Thanks to the relatively low mileage the plan requires, our risk of overtraining and burnout is lower. It’s also a program that will teach you a solid, positive, life-long approach to running.

Two. We run just three days a week. And each run-speed, tempo, long- has a specific purpose. The speedwork makes us faster; the tempo run raises our lactate threshold, enabling us to hold a faster pace during the half; and the long run increases our endurance.

Three. We run a variety of speedwork: 400s, 800s, and 1600-meter repeats. There is real speed in these speed sessions, so run them with a fast friend (Magda?).

Four. We do our tempo run- from two miles to eight miles -at faster than normal training pace, or 15 seconds faster than your targeted half-marathon pace. (will explain over next meeting)

Five. We gradually build up our long run to 12 miles, and we do those long runs at a slightly faster pace than you would do on a normal long run.

Six. We cross-train twice a week. Easily at first, but as we get fitter, we raise the intensity, which will make us fitter.

Seven. We do not train or race through pain, sickness or busy times at work.

Eight. We taper for two weeks prior to the race.

Content credit : http://www.runnersworld.com/article/0,7120,s6-238-244-258-9369-0,00.html

It takes an American to make me pick up a book of Polish poetry by Wiesława Szymborska; and realise what I have been ignoring all this time. I have her books sitting on a bookshelf, I admit in shame. She was too close to home, that was my crime.

On the first day of my job, her book was presented to me so it gets read in its native tongue. By me. I perspired; for my Polish is rusty (it’s a difficult language and the words are long!) and I barely know her work. I am impressed with my American colleague.

For a bit of a context; the poem is about people working for a ‘system’ and what happens to them when the ‘system’ stops to exist.

So in the name of redemption, I here share it with you.

Monologue of a Dog
Ensnared in History

He couldn’t even shoot straight,
since I died for a long time, in pain,
to the buzz of impertinent flies.
I, the dog of my master.

By Wisława Szymborska.

By figuring out my accent.

By figuring out my nose.

By checking out my top.

“Where is she from?,” he ponders.

“You are not listening to what I’m saying, are you?” she reads right through him.

She then makes it a point to make her accent flat, sometimes she maneuvers it left (British) and sometimes right (American). It becomes a game of intended deception.

“Where are you from?,” he finally asks.

“I sometimes don’t know myself,” she answers.

He sulks.

It happens so often to me, especially when I travel and meet a lot of new people that it has become a source of mean self-entertainment.

It’s not right to play games. But you have to forgive me as it’s been happening to me for the past 20 years. It’s robotically boring.

And when I succumb, I get the “Polish? Really?” face.

Then silence. In the UK his maid, plumber or the coffee lady would have been Polish.

Then comes the stream of questions I can recite in my dreams.

We like to place people, probably to either establish a common ground or to make a judgement; worth talking to, hanging out with?

Maybe I’m just road-wary and hence unjustly edgy.

I just had an idea; to create a new country for such displaced, edgy folks. Citizenship applications are open. Well, just let me know.

For the summer.

It was partly to find a good reason to remain in Europe for a while longer and stop being a tourist. As Aric said, the jet-setting excitement can tire out.

London School of Journalism is what British education is all about; a solid, traditional academic foundation. In journalism, it is built on developing strong story angles, discipline (!), creative thinking, research techniques, interview skills, TV presentation, radio reading and good old writing skills. All this wrapped in tightening your logic and analytical skills, improving your ability to debate and challenge, all done in a unique style and eloquence. I grew up with this system and it yet again delivered the premise.

Where it failed badly is keeping up with the present days and reality: The Internet. Typically British, somewhat stuck in the past. I grew tired of hearing the lecturers (all well accomplished writers for top UK papers and magazines) refer to the internet like this big Bad Animal that came and ate up their cheese.

So they hired an American to tackle the ‘new stuff’, the incomprehensible animal called The Internet. He, a disoriented lecturer with a mediocre internet knowledge, was like a bad stand-up comedian. You just felt embarrased for him, wanted him to stop so we can all go home.

In all fairness, I have to admit learning a number of things and stretching my thinking beyond the set paradigm, which is what good education is all about.

One lecturer asked us if we pick and read papers to re-confirm our believes or to really expand them. Good point. It made me browse through magazines I never picked up before.

My favourite was a Creative Writing lecture ran by Lucy Caldwell, an Irish playwright. She made us write an early childhood memory in a few different styles, one of which was to tell the story through the eyes of one of the characters in the story. It created a real ‘wow moment’ for me, as Oprah would say. When told through the eyes of my mother, suddenly a whole new spectrum of emotions opened up. Try it now; close your eyes and remember something that happened to you. Now, do an inpersonalisation of one of the characters in the story and tell yourself the story from their seat.

Eye-opening.

See the empathy that came out?

I have not made many new friends which is pretty unusual, but then again, maybe it’s a reminder there is no blanket patterns to anything in life.

It was 3 weeks of hard work, the 4th week focused more on workshops like creating your own interviews, getting recorded and reviewed. It always helps to play-back to see yourself and learn new tricks. It’s official; I’m no radio reader material.

Beyond it all, spending a month in Europe’s most buzzing city, having a house of a person I don’t even know all to myself and hanging out with one of your best friends; made it all yet another memorable month of my life.

It’s one thing to hear about the biggest clubs, the best shows, the beautiful people, the drugs, fast cars, the excesses and another… to be part of it. No, not see it, be in it.

Ibiza, with a “za”, not “tha”, please.

We stay at Vara de Rey, epicenter of all action Ibiza. Luis, the Argentinean, designed, built and runs this funky hostel, each room is different; all quirky with a good vibe.

There are really only 3 things to do in Ibiza; party, beach and shop. The island is blessed with beautiful beaches and some decent hills. We hit the party scene just as we arrive on Friday; first Amnesia, then Privilege, the former being the biggest club in the world; housing 10,000 kids, 17 bars, 2 stages, the swimming pool spreads across the dance floors, DJ console in the middle of it, you get the picture. Lame drinks going for USD 10, door entry for nothing less than USD 50. Yet, even with this economy, the clubs are full. What you are paying for are the DJs working your music imagination.
Omar’s friend who is a costume designer everybody knows on this island, gets him backstage passes and drinks, making these beautiful people now available a little closer. So close perhaps you realize that seeing them on stage suffices.

The shows. The bodies. The quality of the costumes. The performers. It’s all the best you will ever see.

People of Ibiza. Hippies, fashionistas (beyond HK fashion slavery!), exhibitionists (beaches, parks), porn stars performing on the beach (not exaggerating and not sexy), Cockneys, performers, augmented breasts, Russians, 3 pairs of Manolo Blahniks in one day, you name it. I name it ; unreal. Or plastic.

Gay beaches. Men are gorgeous to look at, they take care of themselves, are fun and interesting to talk to and have no kids throwing freesbies at you. My thing.

Our day has moved to ‘late Spanish’ hours; dinner at 11p, first quiet drink at 1am as the clubs have little to offer before 2am. In bed by 4-6am. Just 3 weeks ago I did the reverse at the Vipassana meditation centre.

Then there is Luis (our hostel man) who we make friends with quickly. Supposedly gay. The day Omar leaves Spain, he drags me out of my PJs at midnight insisting his friend’s party is the best in Ibiza. He drives us in his vintage Alfa Romeo convertible, playing The Cure. His friend’s splendid villa is set off the Ibizan cliffs, Wallpaper-coverage material. More beautiful people, everybody very friendly, warm, open to talk to. Right…

2 sangrias later I tell the host I would rather not drink as I plan to cycle 50km tomorrow. He laughs and I shift into a panic mode; the sangria had MDMA in it, or ecstasy. And how can it not, it’s Ibiza after all. It’s assumed to have it.

Ibiza or no Ibiza, I do not do plastics, never did and never will. The few times I puffed on a joint I got an anxiety attack. I volunteered at a rehab center age 15 one summer, you don’t do drugs when you see what I saw.

Oh, and Luis turns out not to be gay, in fact he’s very straight and very interested. Me coming out with him encouraged him. So I play the withdrawal game from being guard-down-to-my-gay-friend to ‘let’s just be friends’. It’s awkward and I feel trapped. He does not want to go home as his ecstasy trip had just began and it’s only 3am, the night is early. Call a taxi? I don’t even know where I am.. Omar, where were you?!

A prelude to a bad, cliché horror movie? It all ended well apart from me feeling really tired, rather depressed the next day (withdrawal symptoms from X), realizing that I can still be naïve at times.

And need to work on that gay-dar too.

What struck me the most about the party scene in Ibiza is that the amount and drugs and alcohol consumed is not correspondent to the amount of fun you see people having. I ask; what happened to the good old 3 tequila shots when you are ready to climb that bar top and feel all confident to dance this samba move you never dared before.

As you do with some things, you end them with ‘Did it, know it, ready to move on’. Plastics aren’t my thing, I dig the real shit.