This year’s repertoire includes Manon (June 1^st), Madama Butterfly (July 4^th) and Cendrillon (July 13^th), with a special hum-along treat (Humming Chorus from the second act of Madama Butterfly) at 7pm on July 4^th conducted by the Royal Opera House.

When: 7:30 pm, on June 1^st, July 4^th and July 13^th

Where: Trafalgar Square, London and many more locations

Entrance: Free

More information

Where:
the Little Theatre of Happiness in Montmartre
6 Rue Drevet – Paris
Metro Abbesses (line 12)

When:
Every Sunday at 7 p.m. commencing on May 8th until the end of July

Contacts:
www.theatredubonheur.com
ptdbonheur@gmail.com
Tel: +33 (0) 6 50 70 26 26
FB : Petit Théâtre du Bonheur

For a moment I was worried, but realizing that this wouldn’t prevent me being engulfed, I looked back to my host and pretended to be calm. I asked: “What should I do?” He said: “Look at your footsteps behind you and come back the same way. Move slowly to pull one leg out, then you’ll follow with the second.” It worked. In a few minutes I was out of danger and, deciding to abandon my conquest of unexplored lands, I went back into the water and reached the boat in which ‘Uncle’ Gabriel and ‘cousin’ Alex were waiting for me.

Neither Alex nor Gabriel were my relatives, but they became so in those three days when they invited me into their lives in this remote village – Nagè – on the Rio Paraguaçu in Brazil. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” was the first thing Alex asked me when we met. I said yes as I entered his house, he gave me a pillow to sit on before he took an old clothes iron plugged into the mains and threw it into a bowl of water.  A singular way to make water boil, but the coffee was delicious.

I was there almost by mistake. Some days before arriving I had heard about a guy who built his house from plastic bottles in a ‘nowhere’ place at the end of the river. I was skeptical about the news, but decided to go and take a look. As soon as the bus reached Nagè, early in the morning, I saw from the window a green house, which stood out from the rest. Intrigued, I went looking for its owner and there I met Alex, 26, who immediately decided we were cousins.

My first question was about his house. I wondered how could he live in a home made of plastic bottles. He smiled and explained to me that plastic bottles, inflated with the right amount of air, are more resistant than stone. I was surprised and kept asking questions: How did you know that? How do you inflate them? How do you stop the air from leaking out? And so on. He laughed and he showed me his tools: a piece of old bicycle; a piece of a spray gun; a nozzle from a perfume bottle; a razor blade, and one or two other bits of kit. They were joined together in a single machine that he had made, designed to cut the bottle in a precise circle, fill it with air, and then fit the bottle into the next. There was no glue at all in his construction.

He spoke a lot and everything he said pointed to a possible idea for the next invention.  His bed, his tables, his shelves, and the outside garden with several weather vanes, so that each of the four winds could have its own, all were built by blown bottles. The carpet that linked the gate to the door was made of bottles filled with water, to give the feet a pleasant massage. I was amazed, even more so when I discovered that Alex was not able to read and write. “How do you know all this physics?” I asked. “I like to observe”, he answered, “sometimes I spend hours just looking around me and thinking.”

While I was finishing my coffee he went out for a second and came back with two bikes. Mine was small, red, and in good condition, while he rode on a green one without brakes. We cycled all over the village to show me how people were living there, as if he was reading my mind. I saw the ladies sat on the ground of their stone houses working at ceramic pots, the famous “paille de barro” which are sold in the nearest city. I saw the men working at rolling cigars, in dark rooms of abandoned little factories. Here and there we stopped at some friend’s house, where I was offered delicious cakes or pastries straight out from the oven.

To end the day we went up the hill, where we left the bikes and climbed an old water tank from which I could see how all the houses where placed to follow the shape of a big bookshelves.

We watched the sunset and came back down. At night we had dinner at the house of Gabriel, who informal. He lived in pentagonal house build above the water, full of white geese and a dog.

Uncle Gabriel invited us to have a soup of fresh seafood – Rio Paraguacù is a salty river. Unlike Alex, my new Uncle asked me several questions about where I was from and where I was going. Then he decided on my behalf that I should stay at least a few days, because I couldn’t leave the village without having a trip on his boat to see the people fishing and the wild islands on the river.  I was happy to listen, and I stayed three days more in this place which lies so far from any tourist path, but so near to the kind of Brazil I wanted to know.

They made me sleep in a local school, that for the occasion become my personal hotel. Uncle Gabriel and cousin Alex took care of me as though I were part of their family, the family of Nagè. I spent the most simple and beautiful days of my three months in South America. This village, which was originally one of the first places where Europeans arrived when conquering Brazil, allowed me to be part of the local culture without asking anything in exchange. And when, three days later, I took my backpack and hit the road again, our farewell was a simple “See you”. No matter how, and no matter when.

The name seems to be very appropriate. A Història do Viajante. The story of a traveller. Travelling by means of flavours, where a Japanese market meets and melts with a local orchard. But also the result of the chef’s own travels, from California to New York, from native Portugal to Japan, eventually landing in London.

Launched two weeks ago in the context of the stylish Bethnal Green Town Hall Hotel & Apartments just off the Cambridge Heath Road, the interior has been tastefully decorated with Scandinavian furniture and by the time you are sipping a cocktail before the meal you are ready to embark on a culinary experience which has few comparisons in London. Serving exclusively surprise set menus (but you have the option to choose the number of courses), the chef guides you in a journey that is made of colour, texture, temperature and of course taste.

The apparent beauty of the dishes – some resembling an Abstract Expressionist painting, almost as if the imaginary roving traveller also included a stop at the MoMA to contemplate Franz Kline – is just one component and is not glamorous colourful appearance to compensate a lack in the substance. Instead, under the skilfully presented form, lies a layer of combinations of textures that renders Mendes’ food so interesting. Mixing and juxtaposing solid, creamy, granular; powder, puree, broth, mousse. “I want my food to surprise and delight my guests. It’s not about being shocking, but it is about being playful” says the chef. This sensory experience also involves temperature, with an intriguing use of granita both in the first course as well as in the dessert, granita being clearly an interesting element both in terms of texture and in terms of temperature. Last but not least, the taste. “Each ingredient should taste as perfect as it possibly can” says Nuno and the vegetable course that was presented as the “spring garden” was so fresh that it epitomized his belief perfectly. The journey is completed by almost crafted amuse-bouche, sorbet (lemon and Thai basil, just excellent) and optional wine pairing including selections from small vineyards.

Food experiences of such level can sometimes be daunting or excessive or insanely expensive. But Viajante is all about being intrigued by the food and the atmosphere is refined but most of all relaxed. From the open-air kitchen, the chef supervises his project conceived carefully and passionately (“I have devoted the last two years to Viajante, to planning and experimenting with each dish, each menu”) and he himself is a pivotal element in the success of the restaurant. Far more talented than other popular chefs, Nuno Mendes strikes for his modesty. This inevitably reflects in his direct creation, his food, which is so much more enjoyable and interesting because it is not perceived as pretentious, despite its sophistication.

Trained at the California Culinary Academy, with a CV which includes experiences at Jean-Georges in New York City and El Bulli, Nuno Mendes’ first London-based project was Bacchus, a converted Victorian pub in Hoxton in which he amazed his clients with sous vide food, with the ingredients sealed in vacuum and cooked in a water bath with carefully (to the 0.5°C) controlled  temperature. Then he moved (towards Dalston, so not very far) on to an exciting private dining project, The Loft, in which a spectacular tasting menu can be enjoyed in the intimacy of a private apartment by a maximum of twelve people (incidentally, the project is still running in the form of collaboration with other chefs). Finally, he opened Viajante, without abandoning the East End. In fact he says: “The East End is the place I now call home”.

Home. A strange feeling for a viajante, a wanderer. But sometimes it can just be the intimacy of four people around a table, the conviviality. Sometimes a flavour. Sometimes the memory of that flavour – la madeleine de Proust – while the mind keeps travelling.

There is a limited quantity available every day but you can try and place an order here.

Artwords
www.artwords.co.uk
20-22 Broadway Market E8 4QJ London
65a  Rivington Street EC2A 3QQ London

As we walked into K1, ampoule one of Nairobi’s more laidback drinking holes, purchase I could sense this was going to be yet another of those male dominated evenings.
The three of us sat down at our table and were introduced to a gang of tipsy businessmen and politicians (if you’re a politician here, cheap chances are you’re a successful business man too), who were all too happy to make room for the youth.
Before long I was being given the third degree.
“Oh so you are a journalist wanting to write about Africa?” said Stigela, who works in the hotel business and is the ex-Minister for defence’s nephew. “Well let me ask you something,” he slurred: “what is Africa?”

“A continent made up of lots of different countries” I answered, unsure where this conversation was leading.
“How do I know you are not just another journalist here to make your career over stories of African corruption?” he continued, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
“You don’t” was my short answer “but you don’t need to worry either. Kenya is not my patch. At least not at the moment, my sights are set on South Sudan”
“Oh,” he said, visibly relaxed “well let’s get another round then”
Conversation stopped and started for another twenty minutes or so, as the loud music that was making communication slightly awkward. Soon my companions started to tire of the senior members of the gang and so it was decided that we should head off to greener pastures.
“Florida” suggested Patrice, who had just got back to Kenya after seven years in Texas and was dying for some action.
“Whoreida?” said Ariot, grinning “sure, it’s not as if Katy’s never been there before”
And so it was that once again my prudish sensibilities were put to the test by club Florida’s floorshow.
What starts as four pretty African girls, dancing around in mock tribal garb – basically a tiny thong with a cloth hung in front and back in order to give the impression of preserving said girls’ modesty – in what would appear to be a traditional “tribal” dance, quickly evolves in to a fairly lewd spectacle. After a few minutes the girls are joined by male partners – dressed in equally skimpy clothes – and they begin to winde and grinde, pressing their intimate parts together in such a explicit way as to make even the most hardened strip club habitué blush.
When the show is over, the dance floor suddenly becomes crowded. If you look carefully, you will notice that at first there are no men in the midst. They are holding back, on the sides, carefully eyeing up the wares as they wriggle their booties to the latest beats, waiting to select which one will be accompanying them to the closest hotel room.
I was not particularly shocked to find that upon leaving, Patrice had decided not to join us because he had “something” that he needed to do.
And so we headed off instead to Topaz, to indulge in that worldwide pastime of drunken food gorging. While in London this would entail consuming an obligatory kebab, in Nairobi deep fried roast chicken is de rigueur.
Unfortunately though, the clouds of smoke that billowed out of the fryer proved far too much for Ariot’s sensitive stomach and we were forced to head home at breath neck speed as he moaned piteously in the back seat.
Kenyan food is not particularly exciting and with the exception of the national dish, Nyama Choma a dry roast meat affair, the staple food is mainly composed of Ugali (a kind of porridge-y pap) and greens. Spicy food is definitely not a big hit in this country.
Nevertheless, much like London, Nairobi makes up for the lack of national food variety with a huge array of different eateries.
Indian food can be consumed at the Diamond Plaza, an Indian food court where, once you get though the throng of waiters insistently pushing their menus in your face, you can get tasty tandoori chicken wings for a decent price.
More upmarket however there is Haandi, currently my favourite Indian restaurant in the world, where for London prices you can eat some very rich and flavoursome traditonal south Indian food.
If Italian food is what you are looking for though, there is no lack of it either. From the wood oven pizza parlour at the Muthaiga minimarket to the Osteria del Chianti, Italians have been leaving their culinary mark here for decades.
Last but not least there are a huge array of Asian restaurants (run mainly by the large Korean community), which focus mainly on Japanese food and sushi. Although Nairobi is situated very far from the coast, this does not to seem to overly-impact on the quality of the fish. There are many daily flights between Nairobi and Mombasa on the coast and as a result the fish seems to be just as fresh as anything you would find in a London establishment (but maybe that’s not saying much).
Generally though, while here, I try to pinch the pennies and eat at home as much as possible. My diet is thus mainly made up of a combination of Ethiopian food and the odd pasta or cotoletta (the years spent in Italy by my hosts, left them with an appetite for Italian food albeit with added spice).
Maybe I’ll wander into the kitchen and see if I can pick up any cooking tips that I could share…

If my friend and host Ariot hadn’t told me, viagra I would have never known that we are just a couple of miles away from Mathare, a Nairobi slum that holds the dubious record of being Africa’s most violent.

Sitting in the leafy suburb of Muthaiga, inhabited mainly by diplomats and UN staff, it’s hard to come to grips with the fact that the population has more than doubled in twenty years, going from just over a million in 1989, to almost three million in 2005.

Since I was here just over a year ago, hundreds of new constructions seem to be popping up all over the place. There may be a recession going on in the rest of the world but it does not seem to have significantly impacted on this city’s real estate development.

This year, freed of the bondage of private transportation, I have gotten the chance to taste what it is like travelling around like the rest of the population: on a Matatu. Nairobi’s main form of public transportation, these privately owned minibuses serve every corner of the capital and beyond.

Trips on matatus can be exhilarating, nauseating or rather uneventful. The rickety vehicles are renowned for careening around corners, their conductors leaning out the door, aggressively cajoling people into joining the already overcrowded vehicle and banging on the side to signal to the driver when a passenger wants to get off.

Recently though, laws have been passed to clamp down on the pure anarchy that had become a way of life for matatus. Police will occasionally stage massive clampdowns on  the overburdened death traps and the conductors don’t try to overstuff the sardine cans quite like they used to.

Nevertheless, matatus are still the most vicious vehicles in the town. No pavement is too high for them to climb up or space too little into which to squeeze, as they aggressively negotiate their way through the city’s notorious rush hour deadlocks.

Each matatu has a clearly defined identity of its own. You can generally tell what kind of matatu is coming your way, by the icons plastered on its sides and, as it gets closer, by the music blaring out of its speakers.

Recently though, on the exterior at least, matatus seem to have conformed to a more standardised look, all white or grey with a yellow stripe running down the side. It is now mainly the bigger buses that colourfully proclaim their alliances.

Matatu music selection is really wide and if one drives by playing something you really hate (Black eyed Peas anyone?), you can always decide to skip it and wait for the next one.

Some matatus will go for a gangsta image, pimping up every available space with pictures of the defunct Tupac (still a huge hit), Fifty Cent, Busta Rhymes and current number one bad boy Hell Rell.

If you fancy a more spiritual ride however, there are of course gospel matatus. I still haven’t managed to figure out though, whether the incidences of pickpocketing are lower here.

It is my understanding that the music videos that play out on the large screen that separates the passengers from the driver, are in a language called Sheng. I’d explain what Sheng is myself, but the author Michela Wrong has done it so well that I thought I’d rely on her words:

“A witty, cheeky, freewheeling Clockwork Orange-style brew of Kiswahili, English and indigenous Kenyan languages, with added dollops of reggae jargon, American slang, French and Spanish, Sheng originated in Nairobi’s Eastland slums in the 1980s. Adopted by matatu touts and rap artists, it radiated along the taxi and bus routes, spilling over into Tanzania and Uganda …so popular has it become, that sending an email or text in Kiswahili or English rather than Sheng is considered disastrously uncool by anyone below the age of twenty”[1]

Michela Wrong is my hero, by the way.  But more of that some other day.