Paris Paris!

It has been months since my trip to Paris, but I’ve been so taken with my move to the US that I never really had the time or the inspiration to give that beautiful city its right in my blog.

I was there to witness the celebrations on the National Day Commemoration at the Champs de Mars, I melted in the crowds in front of a fully lit Eiffel Tower, and then I went to meet my friends on what I will dub a pub trottoir in Montparnasse. While waiting there sipping blond beer and begging the waiter for more water, I took endless notes on my Paris experience, but alas, perfume spilled over the notebook in my purse and they are now lost in a multicolor aquarelle, but the memory remains. The details are awfully stained, but the big picture stands still in my head as I recall my long walks and my countless metro rides. 

My first surprise in Paris was to see people drinking more beer than wine. Could have been the summertime effect. In any case, I had no problem with that at all, because try as might, I still hate wine, and I will take beer over it anytime. And sure enough I tried wine again there for like the umpteenth time, but my answer is still no, my taste buds just reject it, even in Paris!

Paris for me was a parade of hunchbacked elders, warm suburban people and tourist processions. It was a carnival of the cutest little flowery balconies and the greenest boulevards I ever came to see. The wow effect was omnipresent throughout all the complicated trajectories I had to take, be it at something as monumental as the spectacular museums and churches, or while digging for little treasures at the Vanves flee market.

I stayed in Paris for a total of 11 days at my best friend’s apartment. I really couldn’t have asked for a more welcoming couple than her and her husband. They both made my trip a memorable one in all aspects, and I am forever grateful for having hearts big enough to share the sweetest little place in the whole of France with me. The apartment overlooked a huge breathtaking park that housed two schools and sunbathers at the same time. It was just beautiful!

Before I continue, let me get this out of my system: I was so unbelievably disappointed with the Eiffel Tower. For me, it was just a bunch of rusting metal that isn’t even that big. I know all the historical importance of the tour and everything, still, I wasn’t impressed, and I didn’t even bother waiting in that impossible queue to go up there. Otherwise, Paris was awesome!

Awesome for its magnificent architecture, minus Tour Eiffel. Awesome for the live music blasting in metro stations and on the sidewalks. For the familiar smell of fresh bread out of the countless boulangeries. For all the art pinning the walls and bridges surrounding the whole river Seine scene. For the bicycles on every corner and in every street. For high schools bathing in greenery and the newspaper stands wherever you walk. And most of all, for Montmartre and Place Pigalle.

Paris reeks of history, of marble statues and of chemically challenged monuments. I was shocked to find out on my first day that during summer, this city’s days become so long, but I learned soon enough to turn that fact to my advantage. I also learned that one euro practically has no value in Paris and that Charles de Gaulle airport seriously needs a better service department. I roamed Paris like a labyrinth, stopping by for meals of crepes and gauffre in colorful kiosks and never learning how to mask my stupid smile every time I saw a Lebanese restaurant.

Paris is the land of unisex hair salons and obnoxiously old, decaying nail polish on dirty fingers. It is the land of misplaced, odd McDonalds and problematic parking system. But it’s also the land of pedestrians, of respected disabled people, and of the Quartier Latin, housing the most inspiring bookstores and music libraries.

I fell in love with the little stores crammed in the metro, with the Moroccan corner stores and with the diversity Paris can offer you. I quickly realized how easier it was to negotiate with immigrants, especially when it came to ridiculously overpriced souvenirs.

Paris wasn’t as romantic as I had expected, but it made up for it with its Pont des Arts, with those beautiful engraved locks and with the Chinese couple taking their wedding photos at the Trocadero.  

I must admit I was baffled with the pubs and restaurants’ systems, which I would describe as bizarre at best, but it is part of what makes Paris interesting, of what makes me believe I would never be bored if I were to live there. I would still argue again again for my right to hold my drink in hand while walking inside a restaurant, I mean what kind of rule is that??

Paris in brief is the taste of the traditional versus that of the exaggerated. That sentence would sound a lot better in French, le gout du traditionel et celui de l’exagere, but it’s an English blog, and for that I am currently sorry.

If you are ever in Paris, you must pay attention not get robbed, pickpocketing is huge in the metro, and you also shouldn’t expect to hear Edith Piaff’s voice anywhere. Contrary to my logical prospects, the national events along with the pubs and clubs would only offer you English tunes for some reason.

Public cleanliness was a bit of an issue for me, I mean I never knew that I would ever see anything such as dry shampoo until I browsed Parisian supermarket shelves. I would also advise you against using museum bathrooms even if it puts you at risk of peeing your pants in the Louvres. Trust me when I tell you that it will feel less disgusting than using those restrooms.

I don’t wish to end this article on such revolting notes, which is why I will revert to the subject of friends. Once again I would like to extend my endless gratefulness towards the couple who was gracious enough to host me, and to all the lovely friends I was fortunate enough to make during my memorable trip!

To Paris, until we meet again…

A Letter To My Dear Friend John

A little background first: John is a wonderful friend whom I have recently met online, and not long ago, he surprised me by posting a YouTube video in which he dedicated a reading extracted from one of Amin Maalouf’s books to me. This is my way of thanking him. Although this is nothing compared to what he had given me, it is the best way I can think of for the moment to thank him. So John, please accept the following as my gratitude towards you.

Link to John's reading to me

Dear John,

I am ashamed to say that I have read only one book by my compatriot Maalouf. I should have read two by now, but alas, one of my many oddities and complexes got in the way of reading one of them. Let me elaborate.

When I was young - or should I say when I was young-er, considering that the fact that I am a woman makes me ageless, or at least not prone to admit the fact that I am getting old-er – I didn’t care much for books. I only occasionally read the books assigned by school, and rarely enjoyed any of those at the time. I tell you, they give beautiful books to people who aren’t capable of appreciating them yet. Les Miserables felt like a punishment at the time, and Madame Bovary reeked of boredom. Let alone the fact that sitting still for more than five minutes back then used to be a major obstacle between me and a book.

So, back to Maalouf. Before they had all moved away or gotten married, my uncles and aunts did a cleanup, which meant they sent me all the books they had already read and didn’t have the place to store anymore. Among those books was a French copy of Leo the African.

The cover was not attractive. The font was so small and the pages were so long that it scared me. But the oddity I had mentioned earlier didn’t lie in any of those facts, although those weren’t exactly helpful either. My major book complex has to do with the fact that I simply cannot read a used book. And although this one was in great shape, it was still a book that had been read by half of the family, who didn’t only touch the pages and rummage through the book, they also had the nerve to make notes and translate words all over the place. I think that is when I had started to be more appreciative of books. I felt that the book’s temple had been messed with, violated. I realized then that books are sacred and should be treated as such.

Now I have been ranting for so long about this you would think I treat my books like shiny silverware, I don’t though. My yellow marker covers every single sentence that I have ever liked. The thing is, I just don’t like reading a used book, and I am awfully strict about lending my books to anyone too. Once I have marked all those stuff, and occasionally written some notes, the book becomes mine rather than the author’s. All these little scrapings make it so personal.  

Dear John,

By now I have been writing this piece of nothing for weeks! And another Dear John entry in the middle of it might turn this into a diary! We wouldn’t want that, no one would want to read my shameless rambling if it goes on for over a page, so this is to commit to write faster!

And now that we have established that, where was I? Oh yes, I was rambling about myself, now it is time to ramble about you!  

You used to be a lawyer, so I gather that is where the wit comes from! And you are an avid reader, which accounts for the wild imagination.

John, this is mostly to tell you how much I truly enjoy our conversations, how much I look forward to them, and exactly how surprised I am each and every time we get to catch up; you always manage to cheer me up, even if it was with the most simple ways. I will also never forget the extremely nice gesture of having sent me the beautiful Hockney book along with the postcards; it was an utter delight receiving mail from you.

In the past few months, I have come to be online for a great deal of my time, due to personal reasons, and during these months, I have had the honor and the blessing of meeting several unique and talented individuals from across the globe, and you, by all means, and considering every aspect, climbed to the top of that chart very quickly. I can’t think of a nicest person. I can’t think of a more respectful person. And I can’t think of a more imaginative and inspiring one.

John, I believe you are one of the few, rare people on this planet who would indulge me on my mad virtual escapades, who will go with me to the end of the line when I am muttering absolute nonsense concerning a new world war that would be ignited by the Europeans bickering over the origins of the almost word yoo-hoo!

My dear, it has come to my attention yesterday that you are currently facing a rough familial situation, and I already know you aren’t doing exactly well yourself at the moment. So I will wrap it up by sending you my best wishes for recovery and happiness once again. If there is someone I know who deserves all the blessings that can be bestowed upon them, it is you. Now I will not pretend I will go to church and light candles, but I do promise to keep you in my thoughts and to mention you to the Almighty while I bombard him with my endless list of demands every night before I go to sleep. May He one day forgive my negligence and selfishness.

Uncertainty

I am not sure what to write about tonight. Eva said I should tell the exorcism story, but I had my mind set on writing the cat story, which leaves me uncertain...

I am going to take the request first and tell you the exorcism story. I am not sure if it could be put into words, if I can tell it again or if it will be meaningful at all, but here is how it went. 

My mother was convinced that all my bad luck was due to a higher, evil force and so when her colleague told her about an exorcist priest, she decided he was going to be the solution to her daughter's problems, the long awaited and finally found one. 

On Monday morning, she asked me if I was free in the afternoon. I said yes, why? *and that is when I learned that I should always answer with no, why* She said she would like me to go with her and my father to church tonight; there is a priest she would like me to speak with. 

I didn't want to disappoint my mother, I am already a disappointment to her in so many ways, so I decided I should go just for the sake of pleasing her, it seemed such a small effort to make. 

And so we went. I hadn't been to church in a long time, and it seemed that since I had last been to the service, they have added a load of prayers and rosaries prior to the actual mass, which left me feeling exhausted even before the service started. And when it finally did, it took yet another hour if not more to finish.

I am not sure how I used to withstand all these ceremonies. I remembered that day why I stopped believing in all the rituals and put an end to my practicing them. I couldn't stand how fake everyone was. How mean they were. How they said the prayers between their teeth while looking at each other with utter disdain. The rosary sounded like a school poem they felt forced to recite. The mass sounded like a test they studied hard to pass. And if you ask for my opinion, they failed miserably. 

No one seemed truthful. No one seemed there because they wanted to. They all somehow "had" to be there. They either had nothing else to do, either felt it was a duty they needed to fulfill. I so desperately wished one of them would smile or seem in any way sincere.

Anyway, it was what happened after the service that needs to be told. After having waited in a "queue" of people who wanted to meet with the priest, my turn finally arrived. I went in his too white office with my mother. What ensued was so bizarre I don't even know how to describe it, but I will try. 

It started as a simple conversation. But soon enough my mother told the priest that I haven't been going to church for many years now. This occurred right after I tried to pull myself out of the session by telling the priest that I had felt peace while in the service. She just had to tell him all about my lost devotion. As if I had defected from Christianity. I haven't actually; I just did from the church. 

This led to the priest asking my mom to leave us alone. And he started bombarding me with all kinds of unnecessary questions, not to call them stupid. He tried in every way he could think of to convince me to rejoin the church. He then proceeded to make me repeat some long sentences after him, and repeat them I did, until he reached the last syllable, and then I didn’t. It exasperated him, but I felt no guilt; I had warned him not to try with me from the very start. 

At the end of a frustrating hour or so, somehow the subject of my insomnia came up. And the priest’s face lightened up as if he had just found the missing piece of my puzzle. He inquired about my dreams, and when I said that my recurrent dream was cockroaches, he gave me the title of a book to read and referred me to yet another priest who would REALLY help me. 

I wasn’t going to go to the other priest if it hadn’t been for the first one who insisted in telling my parents about it, there was no escape from going after that.

A couple of days later, I went to see the other priest. And I am not feeling into going into lots of details anymore, but the essential is that he performed the same ritual on me among many others in the church’s yard. It was an absolutely ridiculous ritual which involved him and another priest praying over my head and blowing “the Holy Spirit” IN MY EYES and noticing that when they blow their disgusting breath in my face, my eyes TWITCH!!! Oh yeah, they twitched!!!! And that of course meant that I was “possessed” by something and the treatment includes taking off my “Satanic” pendant (it was just a random piece of metal!!!) and puncturing the bottle of holy water with a pin and spraying the water every night in the house in the form of a cross. I would also have to come back next Thursday and bring with me water, olive oil (not frying oil) and rough salt, they would “pray” on those too and give me the guidelines on their usage.

Needless to say I never went back there.