The Bathroom Smile

Something has been driving me wild with curiosity lately. I have been noticing for quite some time now that whenever I am in line to go to the bathroom in a public place, the girl who is using the restroom right before me always smiles at me on her way out to let me in.

What is with the stupid smile ladies?? What is so funny about it? Give me one valid reason for this absurd, and international if I may add, gesture. Is it the smell driving you numb and unable to control your facial expressions or what? God I am grossing myself!

Boys, I am not sure, does this happen with you too? Is it a unisex rule? Are these the internationally approved restroom manners??

As weird as it may sound to you girls, I simply don't - and won't - smile at you on my way out of the restroom. Call me stubborn, but I just don't see the point! People, it is irrational!! 

I bet girls reading this article would ask what the hell I am talking about. Ladies, you would deny you do it. But you do, trust me, you do. You just can't help it. You don't notice it perhaps, but that is only because you know it is not rational and there is no proper reason to do it, and so you sincerely believe you are not the kind to do it. But I repeat: You do!! You are probably not aware of it, but do me a favor and next time you want to use a public restroom, please do pay a little more attention to your facial expressions on your way in or out. In in case you are waiting for someone to go out, and out in case there is someone in queue waiting for you to go out. I now realize, after having wrote it, that the previous sentence could be used in a book under the title: Bathroom for dummies, or Bathroom 101. I just felt the need to explain what I meant even though it was obvious. Anyway...

I have no idea what the point of this endless rant is, but I had to rant somewhere, and my blog seemed as good a place as any.

Doha 2: The Revenge

I know the title makes no sense in this blog because if you go through my very small archive, you won't be able to retrieve an article with the title Doha or Doha 1 anywhere, but let me explain.

I went to Doha, Qatar for the first time at the end of 2008 to work there as a production assistant at Al Jazeera Children Channel. It was the first job I nailed after graduation. I had studied Audiovisual and Cinematic direction and it took me around 9 months before I found this position. I was thrilled about it, although it meant that I would have to move away, leave my country, my family and friends.

I was happy in Qatar then. I had a great job, very nice friends, a boss I got along with, and most of all, I felt independent for the first time in my life. I had both personal and financial independence, I felt stable and secure. Nothing beats the feeling of having your very own apartment.

I had a bright future ahead of me in the channel. I was going to great places - career wise - in my mind. I saw it all becoming true. I saw the raise I would be getting very soon. I saw the car I was going to buy when I got the raise. I saw the beautiful house in Beirut I would own as soon as I had saved enough. 

It all came crumbling down on me a few months after I had joined the channel. My residency permit got refused. Why you may ask? I couldn't possibly tell you, because hard as I had tried to find out the reason behind this shocking piece of news, I wasn't able to get a straightforward honest answer from anyone. 

It has been almost 3 months now since I have last had a job in Lebanon, and desperate as I am, I decided to accept an offer I got to work as a production coordinator in Al Kaas TV in Doha. 

I can't help but worry: what if my permit doesn't get accepted this time as well? What if I am still as unlucky as I was back in 2008? Because honestly, my luck has barely changed in every other area. 

It would be delightful if it works out for me this time around. There is nothing I want more in the world right now. This will make everything else seem easy in comparison. Fingers crossed for a longer and merrier stay in Doha this time.

Holidays Bogus Cheer

Since when is Christmas decoration supposed to be blue?? Do fashion and trends include even that on their never ending list?

I totally dislike the decoration all over Beirut's streets this year. Electric blue neon lights randomly hanging around tree trunks and sliding from top to bottom of already ugly buildings. Where is your sense of taste people? Is everyone suddenly so negligent and tasteless?

Are we decorating now just for the sake of it? Has it become an obligation, a simple habit that we find hard to leave behind?

This holiday has become obnoxiously commercial. Where is the Christmas spirit? Has it been Grinched away?

Oh and don't even get me started about the traffic, the last minute Christmas shopping that has recently become the only kind of Christmas shopping around here. 

Christmas presents used to be thoughtful. Now they are whatever is faster to get, and most importantly, what is cheaper to get. 

Families' gatherings have become an old fashioned way to celebrate Christmas. Sitting around a nice fire with cheese, baked potatoes and wine (whiskey for me though) at grandmother's house in the village is now a fuzzy souvenir from days past. 

Since now it seems that all Christmas means anymore is unwrapping presents, everyone will be disappointed this year; due to the bad economy, the bad taste that people have acquired this year - if that is how they are decorating, I don't even want to imagine how they are choosing gifts - and the collective thoughtlessness, Christmas will fade away not too long after these horrible holidays.

How many years will Christmas survive? I am not sure, but they are definitely not too many.

Planet Paprika

Planet Paprika is the title of a fantastic hit song by Shantel. I was at a loss on what to write tonight, and the song inspired me, so I decided to go with it and see where it takes me.

Imagine, instead of being from Planet Earth, a planet that is starting to bore us, annoy us, and exasperate us - through our own fault of course - being from Planet Paprika. 

What could Planet Paprika be like? 

The landscape would not only be green, some trees would be red and blue, and would borrow each others' color during the seasons' changing. The sky and the water would change their color depending on the population's mood. There won't be any buildings, only beautiful suburban houses painted with all kinds of colors. 

People would be generally happy and content. Nobody would be short of anything, everything will be provided to the comfort of the population, in exchange for 4 hours of work per day in a chosen trade or craft. 

Everyone would have an artistic talent, but only one, and they would be extremely good at it. Competition would serve to push people forward, but no one would be jealous or envious, the words won't even exist in Planet Paprika.

Food will be imported from Earth mainly, because that is one good thing about Earth that people of Planet Paprika like, but whatever they are eating, it is seasoned with Paprika of course, because Paprika for them is like water for Earth people, they can't survive without it. 

Paprika is a drug free planet, but alcohol is something its people enjoy making and drinking. They know how to have a good time, and they have a special Paprika mix to avoid hangovers. 

Parents and children in Planet Paprika have a very harmonious relationship. Children are granted a house each at their 18th birthday. They also get 20 Paprika dollars (equivalent to 20,000 USD) to furnish it.

Planet Paprika knows no religion. People aren't considered atheists though because they have no idea what religion is to begin with. They appreciate each other and respect one another as well as the rules of their community, that is about as religious as it gets for them. 

No conflicts arise in Paprika. There is no religion, no racism, and especially, no politics. They have no elections, no politicians and no public offices. Each family runs its own house and helps keeping order in the neighborhood. No one meddles in their neighbor's business, and peace reigns all over the planet.

People are allowed to choose whatever future they would like to have. They could be construction workers or bank managers, they would still be earning the exact same amount of money, and they will be happy doing what they do.

Traveling around Planet Paprika is free. Every individual is entitled to 5 days off per month, plus weekends, plus a full month of annual leave.

Education on Paprika is mandatory. Starting the age of twelve, each student must read at least one book a month, and start taking lessons to improve their artistic skills. They are all grateful for it when they turn eighteen.

Crimes do occur on Planet Paprika, but they are mostly small crimes, such as candy theft and the like. Murder is unheard of on Paprika, except for people who have been to Earth and brought back CSI DVDs as souvenir.

For entertainment, people of Planet Paprika throw huge block parties once, if not twice, every week. They also enjoy visiting art galleries and museums.

There are no fashion trends on Planet Paprika. People dress as they like and see fit. Negative comments and criticism are considered rude, and thus banned. 

The people of Planet Paprika are fit and well built. Other than the occasional headache, there are no illnesses, except for people who catch a cold or something similar while visiting Earth. It is usually treated with Paprika tea. People of Paprika die of old age, normally between 80 and 90 years old. Smokers tend to live to be a 100. 

I will leave the rest of Planet Paprika's aspects to your imagination, while I meditate on Aldoux Huxley's Brave New World and George Orwell's 1984; I believe these works are the true inspirations for this article.

On a political level

As anticipated, last night was another prerecorded Saturday night. But it wouldn't have been completed had I not met new uninteresting people, which I did. Only one actually, but he was surely enough to prove the theory.

Khalil works for Cafe Najjar, a prominent coffee label in Lebanon. What does he do there? Well Khalil isn't your common employee, in fact Khalil is in charge of everything that has to do with the company: supermarkets? he is in charge. import and export? he is your man. Coffee shops franchise? Khalil is the boss. Anything else you might think of that is related to the coffee trade, Khalil is already on top of it. All this might give you the impression that Khalil should be at least 40 years old. Wrong. Khalil, by my humble estimation, is no more than 26 years old, 27 at most.

When Khalil used to work as a bartender at Movempick, he not simply doubled the sales and improved everything, he tripled the sales and took charge of everything. They didn't simply give him a good raise, they doubled his salary. Why he quit you may ask? We didn't get to that, so it is a question I won't be able to answer, not now and certainly not in the future, because I am hoping the future won't put Khalil in my path ever again.

Even before we were properly introduced, even before I knew his name was Khalil - and by the way, who in the world would name their son Khalil?? That is just mean! - and he knew mine was Mireille, he asked me where I lived, and when I told him I lived in Ashrafieh, he put a big goofy smile on his face and delight gushed out of him. Why? Because in such a judgmental, even prejudicial society, your neighborhood defines your political preferences.


Saying I am from Ashrafieh is equivalent to saying I am a follower of the Lebanese Forces, according to Khalil, a sample from the majority of our communities. His exact reaction to my statement was: "From Ashrafieh? That means you are a "camarade" (French for comrade)". Comrade is a word the Lebanese Forces have been using to define themselves for as long as I can remember.

And when I told him I wasn't, he was completely stunned, shocked even. What else could I be but a comrade? I said I have no political preferences whatsoever. He didn't buy it. I am Lebanese after all, following political movements should be installed in my DNA. I should be breathing politics, living for politics, and from politics, as is often the case. Khalil insisted I was hiding my preferences. He even went as far as asking everyone I knew that was there if I was telling the truth. Everyone having confirmed my declaration, Khalil went to the next step. He gave me a sermon which he was hoping would give the desired result of converting my allegiance and join his ranks.

Khalil wasn't the first person who had tried, over the years, to convince me to march demonstrations along their side in favor of this or that political leader. I never budged, and I sincerely hope I never will either.

Saturday Night: Prerecorded

I am 24 years old. Saturday night by this age's standard should be a blast, one I should look forward to all week, but it isn't the case at all.

Every Saturday night, I promise myself, this time it is going to be different. Every time, every single time. And every time, it is like a cycle repeating itself, a circle orbiting around my aura.

Saturday night had always been party night for me. And since I am an old fashioned classical kind of girl, I need to wake very early on Saturday to make it all happen by nightfall.

By waking up early, I mean 10:00 a.m. And yes, that is early for me, especially since I have been on an obligatory vacation for almost 3 months now.

It begins with showering and breakfast while watching Jeopardy or some other morning game show, and then I am off to the beautician. After having had my nails done and my eyebrows tweaked, I go straight to the hairdresser's and wait for hours before I get my turn to drive him crazy while trying to explain to him how I would like my hair done this week. It is really weird; apparently all women have a very clear vision of what they want, but somehow always fail to communicate their 7 days hairdo planning to the person responsible for making that visualization come true. And it almost never comes true, even with the best of the best hairdressers.

When I am done, it is already afternoon and I head home for a quick lunch before spending a couple of hours choosing an outfit while nagging continuously: "I have nothing to wear!", although I know that a VERY HUGE FIRE would be the only reason to leave me without anything to wear. I have closet upon closet full of clothes of all shapes and colors, stuff you couldn't even imagine, things only an Egyptian belly dancer or a Hawaiian Hula dancer might get the chance to wear, and not often even.

Clothes chosen, it is makeup time. It usually takes me anywhere between 10 minutes and 2 hours, depending on the level of inspiration and the degree to which my hands are shaking due to the over-consummation of caffeine and tobacco.

Another half an hour to add the final touches, choose a belt if necessary, accessories, shoes and a purse to make it all look harmonious and effortless.

Off I go to Sassine Square then for a new dose of caffeine and tobacco in an effort to stay awake and get in the mood of seeing people.

Between 10:00 and 11:00 p.m., one of two things happens:

1- Either I don't really feel in the mood anymore. I cancel my plans and spend the night, makeup, hair and all, reading over a cup of coffee.
2- Either I convince myself that this time it is going to be real fun, I mean how many awful parties could one possibly attend? It must come to an end eventually, and tonight, yes tonight might be the time I start enjoying my Saturday nights. And so I go, and:

Horror of horrors, it is all happening again! No I am not dreaming. No this isn't a joke. No this isn't a prank. This is another classical Saturday night: I start it with a good mood and high hopes, hopes for what you may ask, I am not sure. A good time? Meeting new interesting people? Meeting that special someone perhaps? According to my pathetic experience, none of these things are even remotely likely to happen on a Saturday night. A good time, barely any. The conversations with friends and the dizzying shots would count as the peak of the party, and the rest is bogus. New interesting people: new maybe, but interesting, long shot. A special someone: do special people really exist?? I have very serious doubts about this.

It is now 9:13 p.m. on a Saturday night. I have been through all my Saturday routine, and am now sipping my coffee and smoking my Davidoffs at Sassine Square. An hour or so to go before the last prerecorded part of my Saturday night starts yet once again.

the 300th book

After having read hundreds of silly romance books as a teenager, I stopped reading for a while and picked the hobby again during the war in July 2006.

As I started enjoying it more and more with every book, I set myself a goal. I didn't want it to be impossible but in the same time I didn't want it to be too easy. I decided that by the end of 2010, I should have read 300 books.

Last night, I started reading the 300th book and all I have to do now is finish it before the end of the year, but will I make it?

I mostly enjoy all the books I read because I take it upon myself to do the research and choose accordingly, and consequently, every subject or novel I read is often of interest to me; I am either intrigued by the subject, either have read another book or books by the same author and like them, either am taking the recommendation from a trusted source.

None of the above coincides with my 300th book.

I was browsing books at a nearby bookstore a while ago and I came upon a set of 12 Shakespearean plays for the great value of 14 USD. Since I usually hate reading books written using old English, I was set against buying them, but after a little encouragement from the bookseller who convinced me that Shakespeare is a must read, I decided to buy the set.

My 300th book is the 5th book from the Shakespeare set: Julius Caesar. Although I admire the mastership of the previous 4 books I read, I cannot bring myself to say that I have enjoyed any. Such a complicated language, and it brings to mind the painful memory of having read Nietzsche's Zarathustra earlier this year: a great book, but an obnoxious one to read, sadly.

I hate reading a book I am not enjoying, it feels like a punishment, but I can't help it, if I have started a book, I must finish it, like it or not. This also goes with movies...

The only book I never finished was a science-fiction book by Philip K. Dick. I couldn't stand it, especially since I got it in French. Science-fiction sucks. Star Wars sucks. Star Trek sucks. Heroes and Lost rock though.

Julius Caesar, will I be able to finish it on time? it is a very short play, but...

Oh and the 7 remaining plays I have yet to read.. Oh...

I guess I must assume responsibility for my choices, even when it could be so easy to turn my eye the other way and forget that I ever bought the set. I just wouldn't be able to sleep at night, I tell you.  

The only good thing about this play: Shakespeare made a joke early on in the book, and it made me laugh hysterically. I had no idea he could do that! Let us hope he keeps the jokes rolling until New Year's Eve.

He simply annoys me!

Almost every night, I come to this coffee shop on Sassine Square to read a bit, use the internet a bit and occasionally meet with some friends.

I will tackle my history with this spot another time, but for tonight, I would like to express my frustration with this guy that showed up here a few months ago out of nowhere, and it seems to me that he never leaves anymore! I come in here at any given time of the day, sometimes I come at 5 a.m., others at 2 p.m., but usually I am here at night. Nevertheless, he is around no matter what time it is, and it is starting to get on my nerves, why you may ask, well it is because he simply annoys me! Everything about him annoys the hell out of me...

He always has his laptop laying around on some table, and one keyboard simply isn't enough for him - Plato of his time, as we say in Arabic -  he has to attach another one to his Vaio so he could infuriate everyone around with his mad, ridiculously fast typing more easily.

What does he write all day, every single day, beats me. Is it a book? Is it his premature autobiography? I have no idea.

A friend I met in here a couple of weeks ago told me he remembers him from his university days. He recalls him very well and claims he hadn't changed any since. He still rides a motorcycle and still has a ponytail. He still dresses expensively but tastelessly. He still smokes mini cigars. And my friend enlightened me with an important piece of information about him: he used to write other students' papers in exchange for money. It seems to me, seeing the absurd amount of words he types per day, that he is still doing it for living.

His air of arrogance is what annoys me the most. No, what annoys me the most is that a waiter told me tonight, after I asked him to remove the straw from my coffee, that "Jihad" does the same. I had to ask who Jihad was of course, out of curiosity to see who else shares this particularity with me, and to my utter disbelief, the waiter pointed the annoying guy out! Two major inconveniences spring out of this occurrence:

1- Now the annoying guy has a name!
2- We have something in common!!! Ugh!!!!

Now that I have had my tirade, I am wondering, what might be his view of me? What if he thinks I am annoying as well? What if he is disgusted by my clothing or my choice of books or anything for that matter? Is the figure of Jihad a mirror of myself in some way? I mean I come here as often as he does or almost as much, I have my never ending routine, and I couldn't possibly be agreeable to everyone.

What if Jihad has written a blog in which he states how I annoy him as well? What if this coffee shop gathers a group of people creating a vicious circle of blogs in which they rant each about the other?

Now this is all starting to give me a bad headache, either this or the blasting Shantel music in my earphones I am not sure, but it is in both cases it is a sign for me to retire for the night.

2 consecutive trips to Syria: the vices of prejudice

It has been a long time since I have opened this blog, but I was looking for an inspiring event to start writing, and the place least expected to draw inspiration from was actually the one that did the trick: Syria.

Like most Lebanese people, especially from my generation, I had a prejudice against Syria for no specific reason. When I used to think of Syria, all I saw in my mind was a country I shouldn't visit, a country I wouldn't visit and people I would definitely dislike. 

Prejudice is vile vice. Syria was none of the above when I finally saw it.

Now you would ask me - and rightfully so - what was it that got me to visit it in spite of my prejudice, and the explanation that I owe you goes as such:

I have been unemployed since the end of September, and so I started spending the money I had saved for a car's first payment until I found a job, a job that I still haven't nailed. And when I got really bored, I decided I should use this money doing something beneficial and entertaining instead of squandering it over boring cups of coffee in Beirut, a city that is starting to exasperate me. I began by inquiring about flights to Italy; it had always been my dream to visit it, but it turns out the trip would cost me a lot more than I had, and so I had to postpone that dream one more time. 

My mother and I had been discussing a shopping trip to Syria along with my grandmother ( supposedly an expert when it comes to Syria ) for a while, and I thought a trip anywhere is better than staying in here boring myself to death, and so it was agreed, and on Wednesday morning we went to Charles Helo station and took a taxi to Damascus. Upon a friend's advice, I booked us a triple room in a one star hotel, Al Rabi3 hotel. I had expected the hotel to be an ugly dump but to my delight, it turned out to be a 600 years old Syrian house with a huge garden and a fountain in the middle, just like the ones in the Syrian historical drama series that my mother is addicted to. It was simply beautiful, breathtaking and utterly unexpected! 

For three days, three generations of women roamed the old souks and bought a bit of everything, from scarves to wooden boxes. For three days we enjoyed the serenity of the hotel and got to know its employees and its residents, a heartwarming mixture of people from all corners of Syria and the world. 

When it came time to leave, I felt an overwhelming sadness overcoming me. In such a short time, I learned to love the people I met and appreciate the much needed novelty they brought me and I had become accustomed to the revelatory sensation the city had introduced me to. 

Back in Beirut, I thought I was about to explode, to suffocate. I wasn't done with Damascus, I had to go back, and a few days later that is exactly what I did.

For a full week, I visited the monuments and museums of Damascus and I shopped till I dropped. My mother arrived on my fourth day there and together we made a pilgrimage to the beautiful monasteries in the countryside. We were supposed to come back to Beirut on Sunday since my mother had work on Monday, but a storm hit the whole Middle East and didn't spare Damascus: snow fell after the rain and rain fell again to melt the snow, all the while keeping us pleasantly trapped in the hotel in the company of a lovely Franco Algerian couple and their precious little boy, a very weird looking trilingual Argentinian fellow and his French girlfriend whom he met while staying at the hotel, a sort of Mexican/ Portuguese (he was actually from Holland) white bearded Van Gogh strapping a red bandanna around his neck with his sort of Indian/ searching for her identity Maryam Nour wife and their either adopted kids or one kid and his girlfriend AND his boyfriend, and last but not least, three old Spanish ladies that I enjoyed calling 7anneh, Manneh and Elyanor ( yes I know that is not how it is spelled, but trust me, that is how she looked ) among other residents.

It took us almost 7 hours to arrive to Beirut on Monday, the journey was somewhat dangerous and the old Hajjeh who took the taxi with us didn't make it any easier, she wouldn't stop nagging as if being stuck next to her for 7 hours wasn't punishment enough, she had to talk and nag through them as well, otherwise we simply couldn't have arrived safely, her directions to our chauffeur - who was 2 steps away from leaving her somewhere on the road between the two countries  - were extremely useful for our well being and safety. 

The first trip to Syria was extremely beneficial to my health and the second one saved me a lot of money on Christmas shopping, I got everything for almost less than half the prices in Beirut from Damascus:) I also had the opportunity to exercise my favorite hobby: reading without interruption; I read 7 books in total during both trips.