The Predictability of Lightening

I’m having one of those moments where you go to a new place thinking everything is going to be just peachy – I have a taxi waiting for me there, I know Arabic already, I have friends in town who are going to take me out on my very first evening.  No.  Wrong.  False.  Ehhhhhhhhhhhhh.  I hear one of those buzzers in my head when you get a question wrong on Jeopardy. 

So far I’ve been overcharged about 20 bucks by my taxi driver, I arrive to my apartment and the power is shut off because the generators for the building overheated.  Forget about power in Lebanon.  State regulation has made it so that the simplicity of receiving 24-hour electricity – something we take for granted in the States and Europe and elsewhere – has now has become a luxury.  Power is as unpredictable as the wind.  An hour after the first power outage I’m out looking for phone credit.  I’ve forgotten my passport, which is apparently a prerequisite, so I go back to the apartment, then back to the credit store then back to the apartment only to realize that they’ve given me a SIM too large to fit my phone.  Til tomorrow then.  Hanshoof.  We shall see.  Inshallah.  God willing. 

Grocery shopping goes well, though I fumble through Arabic conversations in a dialect I do not know, putting me back to square one in that department.  I’m also confused as hell about the money and still not used to paying for things in quantities of 20,000 or more.  I go home and make pasta that’s little more than noodles in broth and I sit in the room with the AC and check my emails.  The power goes out again. 

It’s amazing how quickly your eyes adjust to darkness.  It’s amazing how quickly your body and sanity and lifestyle adjusts to what you are provided.  The second power outage lasts less time than the first but I am ready this time with candles, which are already burned down to their wilting brown wicks and are adorning every surface of every room.  I have learned one thing from my experiences abroad in the Middle East: nothing comes easy.  But this time I am ready.  So darkness please, come swift and strong. 

Berlin, du bist so wunderbar

They say that New York is the city that never sleeps but for me, whenever I hear that slogan, I will always think first of Berlin.

The sun is shining as the boy and I lug our (my) suitcases up 5 flights of steps to a beautiful, quaint Berlin apartment. The weather is warm and the city - the vast, sprawling metropolis - is silent, as if waiting for something, someone, me, us, him.

We attend a play at the Berlin Ensemble theatre. We see Peter Pan, directed by Robert Wilson with music by CocoRosie and I sit there, captivated by the sheer beauty and horror of this epic that only a city like Berlin could have produced. The sets are dark and the costumes are dark and the makeup is dark and sickening and lovely. Tinkerbell reveals a set of yellow, diseased teeth as she beams at the audience. She jerks and twitches her way across the stage in a black tutu with hints of underlying green. Wendy bounds after her with mechanical gestures and bats those big, pretty eyes which are framed by lashes as long as the legs of bulbous black spiders. She lifts her skirt up over her knees to reveal legs like splinters and canters around as she sings "to die would be a great adventure", breathing life - or rather, death - into the ballad. Peter comes next, flanked by a troupe of lost boys all in black, and the song that accompanies them rises and falls in dreamy, incomprehensible notes that are likely more akin to screams. I am spellbound by the nightmare, and yet caught in its grappling hooks as the delicate raptures of childrens' sing-song voices pull me from the comfort of my reality.

Berlin is unique in this way. Buildings warped by age and decay and a history of violence are now covered in the violent colors of street art and graffiti. "Exzess, miene liebling," one wall reads. Excess, my darling. I am reminded of the play and the way layers of glitter gleamed from the crest of Peter Pan's crown as he sang. Glitter showers the stage - its cast, the audience, the air, everything.

Excess, most certainly. But it is not an excess of wealth or of beauty or of things. It is an excess of life and spirit and motion. The city has soul. It is a tumult of paint-spattered sidewalks and derelict youth dressed in the haute couture of tattered elegance. There is always cheap food and cheaper beer and somewhere to be though the perfunctory act of needing to be somewhere never matters. So put down your talisman, because Berlin will guide you into the darkness and you will wander nowhere and find everything as you stumble through the city of excess and decay and glitter and spirit and light.

So come, meine liebling, because tonight will be a great adventure.

Paris, til we meet again

As the semester comes to a close I sit in a small Parisian cafe with a friend I’ve made over the course of the past months speaking in a mix of French and English. We listen to the sounds of the other patrons – French, something more guttural, German, another language I can’t identify, Chinese – while the sweet aromatic tendrils of coffee seep into our clothes. I look forward to saving the smell for later. It always reminds me, this cafe, of the idealistic Paris I’d envisioned and have, in some small part, gotten to know.

This past weekend I was in Lyon, for Fete des Lumieres. A festival of lights commemorating the day that Mary saved the town from the plague. They’d all prayed for her protection and put lights in their windows, as if they could send their prayers to heaven’s gates through flame. I watched a young girl and her mother light candles from a balcony’s window, and it was easy to imagine in that old, small town, a different generation from centuries earlier doing exactly the same.


Being in Lyon was a good time to reflect on the experiences I’d had in Paris – frustrating, but good too. The people in Lyon were significantly nicer than their Parisian counterparts, and made me wonder what my time in France would have been like outside of a major metropolis, and just outside of convention… But my reflections can’t be filled with regret as I know that once again I’ve been blessed by a series of experiences so exquisite its hard to imagine I’m deserving of them. The chance to meet new people, and stay near to close friends; the opportunity to go to Tunisia and translate, fully submersing myself in an alien environment, and being challenged to a grueling extent; the chance to live with a kooky host family that I won’t ever forget; to be in Paris, and work on my French…

I’m a lucky girl.

I only have a few days left.

A semester that was just as mad as the summer that had preceded it. Its amazing how relaxed I feel now, sitting over this cup of coffee and flicking through pictures of Lyon’s ancient monoliths bathed in modern day lights. This stillness comes in spite of the fact that my life feels like constant motion – a wheel rolling in a vacuum through space. I think of how quickly I have changed and how drastic those changes have been. Throughout the course of my college experience, each year – each semester – has marked a new beginning, and a sweet end. And now is time for yet another…

Enchante, Paris, and farewell.

 

 

Thanksgiving, redefined

I had not expected much out of a Thanksgiving in Paris.  And then one of my friends I made here in Paris, invited me to hers.

The place was decadent.  Not in the overwhelming white linen table cloths, five or more pieces of silverware kind of way.  But in the way where every candlestick somehow has charm.  The ceilings were painted, like Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel.  And the whole room was vast but somehow quiet, and warm.  It was a welcome reprieve from the bitter Parisian winds and I took my place at this long table full of family members I did not know, but who welcomed me like an old friend.

Bottles of wine made their way around the table, and deep red wine glowed cherry inside my goblet.  For my entrée, I ordered escargot followed by duck topped off by crème brulee.  Thanksgiving redefined, as one of the girls on my program said.  It was sumptuous and wonderful and I felt at home especially when the girl's mother assuaged my confidence, now shaken, of my upcoming job hunt, as I'll be graduating soon.  Pay it forward? I hope one day I can one day be in a position where I can help the next nervous senior as others have helped me.  And they have helped me.  And I am infinitely thankful for that.

So this Thanksgiving I have to be thankful for new friends, their families, for brilliant and talented Parisian cooks, like artists, and for my own family and friends waiting for me back home.  Family comes first, and being abroad has made me realize that.  I'm thankful that I'll be home soon.

Ana bahib Tunis barsha barsha

I touch down onto the tarmac wearing a scarf, hooded winter coat, and underneath it all a thick woven sweater. Now I'm hot. I think about all of the cold weather clothes that I packed with me and know I'm an idiot. I'm in Tunisia for christ's sake. I breathe in and can taste Africa on my lips.

Tunis smells like dust and sunshine and salt, like the sea. The breezes that blow through the trees carry with them tendrils of cigarette smoke and something much sweeter, shisha. I can hear the clanking of tongs not so far off even though the chairs I'm sitting in are much more comfortable than the Cairo ahua-style plastic seats that have become so familiar to me. Interlaced in this melee is also a soft murmur that flutters through everything. The language is complex at first, being a rapid-fire hybrid of Arabic and French, the two languages that I know separately, but never together. Never together. The words become easier to tear apart as time goes on, and the part of my brain that has worked so hard to compartmentalize languages by Wednesday has dissolved, like a rubber band released. I can now type in English what the members of these meetings are saying in French and sometimes Arabic at a nearly fluid rate and I feel good and proud and as if I have actually earned my living wage.

I met the most fascinating people while in Tunisia - members of the Finance Ministries, members of the Prime Minister's cabinet, internationals working at the World Bank and the IFC and prominent consulting firms like ECOPA, other Tunisians dealing with the promotion of foreign direct investment, brilliant minds dealing with the intricacies of trade... I have never learned more, nor have I ever had to so severely test my own limited knowledge - built from the haphazard scraps of first hand experiences crudely strung together by an-almost university degree. O what life has given me.

The woman who has hired me and who has taken the risk of bringing me along to Tunis, talks to me on our second to last evening about God. She tells me the story of her life, from being raised in a Soviet-occupied Armenia to this vengefully successful reality in which she lives now. And it is vengeful, and beautiful, and twisted and yes, blessed beyond belief.

I feel that I have lived seventeen lifetimes in the span of my 21 years and so many times my mother and father's friends congratulate me on being so lucky. And I've never been one for blind belief and I've never been one to really put stock in serendipity, but as I'm standing on the edge of a precipice staring out at the Mediterranean with the cobalt blue doors framed by stark while stucco-ed walls of Sidi buSaid behind me, I know that it has to be just a little more than luck guiding me.

Tunis Awaits

I'm on a plane to Tunisia.  Nervous jitters keep me suspended between a fine line between calm and chaos.  I’m missing a week of school to interpret for a woman who works for the OECD.  My boyfriend came this past weekend to Paris to visit me.  It’s been a whirlwind.  I miss him.  I’m excited for the future.  Wish I could remain suspended in the past.  Of all the things I’ve ever done this feels of the most important.  Something that could help me get a job after I graduate.  Aside from drowning and cockroaches, being unemployed is my third biggest fear.  This is the transition between student and real person.  I just signed my first real person professional contract.  I’ll be making money doing work that I anticipate actually being challenging.  The trip is paid for.  It feels surreal that this opportunity fell in my lap, like being thrust abruptly into a dream.

I’m in Tunisia.  It’s different than any other Arab country I’ve seen.  The sidewalks are dusty.  The buildings carry remnants of old French architecture – gothic spires rising up into the sunset, gargoyles casting monstrous shadows across the concrete.  Some of them are unfinished apartments, and I am reminded vividly of flying down Ring Road towards Maadi where unfinished buildings line both sides of the street.  Tunis is small.  Walking through the streets for 45 minutes near my hotel I’ve seen two of the dozen or so tourist attractions already.  One of them is a beautiful church, which is interesting.  The taxi driver I spoke to earlier said that there were no Christians in Tunisia.  Also, the town shuts down on Sundays.  Interestingly enough, the weekend is on Saturday and Sunday of every week as opposed to the Friday and Saturday schedule of most other Arab countries.

Chairs and tables line the sidewalks of the main roads – Cairo style – but these chairs are wicker instead of plastic and the tables have tablecloths.  Also there are tourists scattered haphazardly amongst a sea of Tunisians but the Tunisians aren’t staring (mostly), and some of the foreign girls are even wearing tank tops.  This is all new to me.  The language that I’ve spent years and classes and what feels like lifetimes learning is suddenly put to waste.  I can barely make out the accent and they can barely understand my Egyptian.  Everything is far easier in French though it sounds so out of place, cutting through the coarseness with cloying delicacy. 

I’m curious about this town. I'm excited for what awaits me. Translating will be easier said than done, especially when on a subject with which I have limited familiarity. But the challenge is half the fun, isn't it? I'm excited, and ready for tomorrow and looking ahead to the future, thankful that my past has been so shamelessly blessed. Keep on moving, like the night train rocketing towards the horizon and keep your thumb outstretched like an antenna to the stars. The work day starts at 9 tomorrow. Ready or not, Tunis awaits.

The Whole "Networking" Thing

Some days are moche.  Other days are exellente. As I last wrote my stage, or internship, with Medecins Sans Frontieres isn’t going ideally.  But this Wedenesday last, I got lucky. 

So I’ve been trying this new thing called “networking”.  I don’t really like people too much so for years this is something I’ve been trying to avoid.  Under the scrutinizing pressure of my awesome German-American boyfriend, who now has more friends in Geneva after living there for two weeks than I probably will throughout the duration of this lifetime—and the next—I gave the whole networking trend a try. 

I contacted the GWU alumni network in Paris and three weeks later they contact me back saying that they’re just starting up but happy to help me.  Someone actually volunteered to meet with me.  He did his masters at GWU and now works at the Paris branch of Deloitte.  We have breakfast.  It’s great.  He’s possibly the nicest person I’ve ever met.  We talk about how Americans are like peaches—soft on the outside, but on the inside quite firm—and how Parisians are like pineapples—kind of solid on the inside, but on the outside, tough and prickly.  Our conversation ends with him telling me that he’ll look around and see if he can find me any work, or at the very least, any interesting contacts that can maybe help me once I graduate in May because as most newly graduates and soon-to-bes, I’m freaking the shit out. 

I had a great time, fantastic conversation, and a croissant that was good and overpriced and wasn’t expecting much.  But then I get a call less than five hours later from a Mister Man from Deloitte.  He says he thinks he might have found me a job.  I’m ecstatic.  What is it?  It’s too good to be true.  He puts me in contact with a woman from the OECD, the Organisation of Economic Cooperation and Development, who wants me to travel to Tunisia and then perhaps Senegal and interpret English/French for her. 

I tell her I can do it.  I know I can.  It’s going to be hard as hell but I know that this is a worthwhile challenge.  And since being in Paris, a challenge is something I’ve lacked.  Already familiar with the language, already a semi-competent grown up and just winding down my travels, coming from places that I find significantly more culturally different, Paris has been solid, but unexciting.  So ready or not, Tunisia, Senegal—interpreting economic issues—I’m diving in.