Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about “missing” - about the emotional ache that is felt that can be attributed to the absence of something that was once present. I’ve been thinking about this because – obviously – I’ve been feeling it quite a lot.
There are things about this emotion that I’m grateful for, things about it that concern me and things that I’m just confused about. I’m disturbed, for example, about the tendency to “romanticize” things that are lost. Why does a mind do this? Wouldn’t it be healthier to retain a true memory of reality, a vivid recollection of the sum of both good and bad that would prevent the feelings of loss from becoming overpowering? Rather than such a reasonable approach, I am in a constant battle with my mind over the desire to remake my mental documentaries into blockbuster Hollywood romances.
My mind has a tendency to become fixated on the most random of memories, and convert them into great symbols of “all that once was and could have been.” Case in point: Routine car rides with Someone Who Shall Not Be Named. Rather than recall the regular disagreements over choose-a-topic-don’t-worry-we-fought-about-it-unless-it-was-a-tv-show-or-movie, my mind plays a screen shot of a turning head, a beautiful smile. Over and over and over. More than irritating, this is befuddling. Am I to learn something that I have not yet learned? Is that why my mind is stuck on repeat?
Similar scenarios race through my head throughout the day, with variations in location/props/dialogue. Always, I have to reason with myself. Yes, I say to myself. You’re right. That was lovely. I can see why you would want that back. Yep, those were enjoyable – those THREE MINUTES. IDIOT. Think. Do you not remember the preceding SIX HOURS???
Well, no. Actually, I DON’T seem to remember the preceding six hours. That’s part of the problem. Even stranger, if I do force the memories to return, they seem to pale in significance next to those three minutes of glory.
What the fruit? What kind of crappy malfunctioning mind did I get in the brain lottery?
There are other times that I feel gratitude for these feelings of loss… times that I use them to justify time spent, emotions invested, dreams sacrificed… If I were not feeling the way that I do, I might question whether or not I had been truly invested, or whether or not I had really “lived” the experience to the fullest. These moments of gratefulness are fleeting, because – frankly – the ache is unpleasant. Still, they are like flickers of light – indicators of a stronger light that may come, when I am ready.
Here is another disturbing thought: Something is happening in my life, right now, that I am going to miss later.
How do I know what it is? I’ve learned that you can’t predict the specifics of absence that will trigger pain. Who would have thought that today – more than fifteen years after letting go of my pony – I still miss the feeling of his body standing behind me, of his nose softly blowing warm air down the back of my neck as I sat on the ground before him? At the time, I never realized the gift that he was giving me. What other gifts am I failing to notice right now?
Perhaps the answer is that I can’t know with certainty. I will – inevitably – feel the ache of loss. It is a part of life. This I can accept. What I cannot accept, however, is that there is no way of channeling it - of embracing it and feeling less pain and more gratitude. Undoubtedly some of this comes back to a recurring theme – that of living “in the present.” Now is the only time that I have to appreciate the things that I have – with any assurance – only right now. If I know that aspects of today’s life will be gone, I either enjoy them to the fullest or wish – later – that I had. And perhaps that leads into another aspect of the pain… regret.
I think that the “missing” that I feel most acutely is that which is mixed with regret. Perhaps regret is a magnifier of emotion, an element that creates mental disproportion. It would explain quite a lot of my own personal experiences and lingering, persistent thoughts. I have regrets, and they – undeniably – have me. I am, for the moment, caught in their grasp. Perhaps the regrets that I have accumulated thus far will always have me, to some extent. That is a topic for a future contemplation.
Today, though, I have a goal. Today I will accumulate no new regrets.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Right Now
Tuesday evening, I had dinner with my friend J. As tends to happen in discussions between us, our conversation meandered through a maze of existential thoughts that paused, periodically, to reassess and change directions. At one point, I found myself describing my marriage and the manner in which I “lived” through it.
“I felt,” I said, considering it, “as if I was always waiting for my REAL life to begin.”
J watched me for a moment, then reached into his pocket for the notebook (or – as he calls it – his exto-cortex) that he carries with him at all times.
“Say that again.” He directed. I did, and he wrote it down.
Today, in an email, he mentioned the quote again and how it had struck a chord with him. “Anyway,” he wrote, “I guess my point is that I am getting the feeling that my real life really is the collection of things that happen to me from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep.”
These are not new thoughts – likely not for either of us – but because he is giving them such reflection I find that I am considering them with new attention as well. I am quite aware of my tendency to live out of the moment – always in the past or in the future – but allow myself the delusion that because I know that I SHOULD be in the moment I am MORE in the moment than most people. This – I think now – is not true.
As I look about me, seated in my apartment, I see all of the signs of my inability to secure myself to the present. In the business card holder in front of me rest a stack of cards that label me as a Communications Director – an identity that I shed nearly two months ago. To my right is a stack of papers, magazines, artwork and all sorts of confusing and disjointed items that I have lumped into a category that I call “to address.” Within this pile, I know, are remnants of times that I have been unwilling to leave behind. To my left rest a couple of stacks of books. There are similar stacks in my bedroom, and in the bookcase behind me. Many of these books have placeholders in them, marking the spot that I chose to abandon the path that they offered. In my mind, I am still reading them. In reality, many of them have not been opened for months.
There are known pockets of items that I need to dispose of, labeled in my mind, and multiple tasks that need to be completed. These responsibilities are the physical manifestations of the weights that that burden my mind.
I am, you see, a compulsive planner (with a healthy degree of “bend” in my personality.) At all times I have a mental list of each of these tasks that I have identified. Most of the time, I have multiple paper lists as well. I know all of the deadlines that lie ahead of me in the year, I secure living arrangements months in advance, I know what I will be doing on weekends (to a logical degree) for the rest of the summer. That’s the part of me that lives in the future. I’m quite comfortable there. A bit of that is healthy, as it allows me to be secure in the “right now.” Too much of it just keeps me in a place that does not exist.
On the flip side, there’s the part of me that’s quite attached to the past. It likes to think about it – a lot. It brings it up during business meetings, during yoga, when I’m trying to sleep, when I’m in the shower… pretty much anytime. Once the topic is raised, my mind likes to consider the past for lengthy (VERY lengthy) periods of time. It considers how I – as a person – might have done things differently, or (even MORE constructively) how OTHERS might have chosen to live differently, and how that might have impacted me.
The problem – of course – is that all I really have is "right now." Technically, the past is just a concept in my head. No one else shares the same idea of the past that I do, so how can the reality of it even be validated? Beyond taking the time needed to learn what I need to in order to live a healthier life, there is no purpose in being there – no purpose, that is, other than to avoid the present. The future is a similar delusion. There is no guarantee that it will ever arrive. What is assured is that I am here at THIS VERY MOMENT. This is the time that I have to savor, and right now I am safe, warm, and have a full tummy. I am surrounded by the noises of my pets, and I have a cozy bed in the next room waiting for me.
I know that this chaos around me is sending a message that I should heed. I know, also, that I am human, and that I am flawed, and that there is great value in the act of trying. Tonight, I will allow myself to ponder the past – a bit - and will spend a small amount of time considering what my future will bring. I will also – however – take five minutes to absorb the sensations of where I am RIGHT NOW, and when I finish I will remove the old business cards from my desk and tuck them in the drawer, where they belong.
“I felt,” I said, considering it, “as if I was always waiting for my REAL life to begin.”
J watched me for a moment, then reached into his pocket for the notebook (or – as he calls it – his exto-cortex) that he carries with him at all times.
“Say that again.” He directed. I did, and he wrote it down.
Today, in an email, he mentioned the quote again and how it had struck a chord with him. “Anyway,” he wrote, “I guess my point is that I am getting the feeling that my real life really is the collection of things that happen to me from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep.”
These are not new thoughts – likely not for either of us – but because he is giving them such reflection I find that I am considering them with new attention as well. I am quite aware of my tendency to live out of the moment – always in the past or in the future – but allow myself the delusion that because I know that I SHOULD be in the moment I am MORE in the moment than most people. This – I think now – is not true.
As I look about me, seated in my apartment, I see all of the signs of my inability to secure myself to the present. In the business card holder in front of me rest a stack of cards that label me as a Communications Director – an identity that I shed nearly two months ago. To my right is a stack of papers, magazines, artwork and all sorts of confusing and disjointed items that I have lumped into a category that I call “to address.” Within this pile, I know, are remnants of times that I have been unwilling to leave behind. To my left rest a couple of stacks of books. There are similar stacks in my bedroom, and in the bookcase behind me. Many of these books have placeholders in them, marking the spot that I chose to abandon the path that they offered. In my mind, I am still reading them. In reality, many of them have not been opened for months.
There are known pockets of items that I need to dispose of, labeled in my mind, and multiple tasks that need to be completed. These responsibilities are the physical manifestations of the weights that that burden my mind.
I am, you see, a compulsive planner (with a healthy degree of “bend” in my personality.) At all times I have a mental list of each of these tasks that I have identified. Most of the time, I have multiple paper lists as well. I know all of the deadlines that lie ahead of me in the year, I secure living arrangements months in advance, I know what I will be doing on weekends (to a logical degree) for the rest of the summer. That’s the part of me that lives in the future. I’m quite comfortable there. A bit of that is healthy, as it allows me to be secure in the “right now.” Too much of it just keeps me in a place that does not exist.
On the flip side, there’s the part of me that’s quite attached to the past. It likes to think about it – a lot. It brings it up during business meetings, during yoga, when I’m trying to sleep, when I’m in the shower… pretty much anytime. Once the topic is raised, my mind likes to consider the past for lengthy (VERY lengthy) periods of time. It considers how I – as a person – might have done things differently, or (even MORE constructively) how OTHERS might have chosen to live differently, and how that might have impacted me.
The problem – of course – is that all I really have is "right now." Technically, the past is just a concept in my head. No one else shares the same idea of the past that I do, so how can the reality of it even be validated? Beyond taking the time needed to learn what I need to in order to live a healthier life, there is no purpose in being there – no purpose, that is, other than to avoid the present. The future is a similar delusion. There is no guarantee that it will ever arrive. What is assured is that I am here at THIS VERY MOMENT. This is the time that I have to savor, and right now I am safe, warm, and have a full tummy. I am surrounded by the noises of my pets, and I have a cozy bed in the next room waiting for me.
I know that this chaos around me is sending a message that I should heed. I know, also, that I am human, and that I am flawed, and that there is great value in the act of trying. Tonight, I will allow myself to ponder the past – a bit - and will spend a small amount of time considering what my future will bring. I will also – however – take five minutes to absorb the sensations of where I am RIGHT NOW, and when I finish I will remove the old business cards from my desk and tuck them in the drawer, where they belong.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Stairway To Heaven
In Barcelona, D and I went from the plane into a taxi that sat – waiting – in front of the airport. I addressed the driver in Spanish, greeting him, and he grunted in response. Undeterred, I gave him the address of the apartment that we had reserved. With no response, he pulled out into traffic. As he drove, I kept trying to communicate – to no avail. Finally, a few hundred yards away from the pick-up spot, he pulled over. Reaching across the passenger seat, he pulled glasses out of the glove compartment and put them on before pulling a small black book out as well. I felt a touch annoyed. Why hadn’t he indicated that he needed to move away from the airport, and also that he was apparently of poor vision?
Resolving to give him the benefit of the doubt, I started talking again. At first, the driver seemed determined to persuade me that the road in question did not exist. When I insisted, he grudgingly located it on the map, but pointed out that no vehicular traffic was permitted. He would need to drop us off a block away. At this point, I was feeling more than willing to get out of the taxi at the earliest convenience.
Despite his gruffness, I have fond memories of the Barcelona taxi driver. We had – after a plane delay – landed in the middle of the night (literally.) Considering his age, and the time of night, and his occupation, this man had every right to be a grump. No doubt I would be as well, were I an elderly taxi driver working the night shift from the airport, hauling tourists about.
As promised, we were dropped of on a main street. We walked down a side street that closely resembled an alley, and worried that we had been dropped in the wrong part of the city, and that – even worse – possibly we would be accosted, burdened as we were with our giant suitcases and numerous bags hanging off of our persons. Fortunately, we spotted the correct doorway before our panic could truly set in.
We had been directed to ring a specific number, and we did so. The door buzzed open and we walked into a high-ceilinged entryway constructed of smooth, light-colored marble. There were two sets of a few steps, and each set had a smooth, stone ramp built into the left-hand side. This was fortunate, as – like I mentioned – it was the middle of the night and we were heavily burdened. The gratitude that I felt, however, was brought to a screeching halt as we turned slightly to the right and spotted the stairway.
The stairs seemed to go up…and up…and up. At least four small, narrow, stone double-flights up. I was transfixed with horror. Looking about, I could spot nothing at all that resembled an elevator. This could not be happening.
Neither D nor I saw any evidence of the party that had arranged to meet us. Logically, we had to assume that she was present – somewhere – since she had buzzed us in. Her precise location, unfortunately, was a mystery. We were not even certain of which floor the apartment was on, as the numbering system in Barcelona – as it turns out – is entirely wonky.
Things were looking bad. They began to look even worse as D began, luggage bouncing about awkwardly, to climb the stairs. I watched in stunned disbelief for a few moments, evaluating my options. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, I began to follow.
It was awful. My arm – injured from a previous stair-climbing, hill-climbing, tram-boarding torture – was struggling valiantly to pull my heavier-by-the-moment luggage over the narrow steps. We reached a platform filled with doors and – as I gazed longingly back at them – started up the next flight. Next we reached what would be – in a normal country – considered the third floor. We looked at each other, uncertain of our next move. There was no one in evidence, which was a touch concerning. With trepidation, D approached the door numbered “1” and knocked softly. No response. We looked at each other again.
From above, a voice floated through the air, questioning us as to our whereabouts. Startled – and now concerned that we might have woken someone up in the middle of the night – we quickly moved toward the next flight of steps. I looked up – to the very top – and saw a face looking down at us. She gestured, beckoning us, and continued speaking. Focused – as I was – on making it up the Ascent From Hell – I had no energy left to make out her words. Breathing heavily, I climbed…and climbed…and climbed.
At the top, I nearly collapsed. D – who had reached the summit moments before me – was already following the woman toward the door of the single apartment on this level. As they moved away, I finally made out the woman’s words.
“Why,” she was asking, perplexed, “didn’t you take the lift?”
The stairs from the landing outside our apartment. Note that I was NOT joking.
The inside of the front door of the apartment. It was AMAZING. D found it. GREAT job!!
Resolving to give him the benefit of the doubt, I started talking again. At first, the driver seemed determined to persuade me that the road in question did not exist. When I insisted, he grudgingly located it on the map, but pointed out that no vehicular traffic was permitted. He would need to drop us off a block away. At this point, I was feeling more than willing to get out of the taxi at the earliest convenience.
Despite his gruffness, I have fond memories of the Barcelona taxi driver. We had – after a plane delay – landed in the middle of the night (literally.) Considering his age, and the time of night, and his occupation, this man had every right to be a grump. No doubt I would be as well, were I an elderly taxi driver working the night shift from the airport, hauling tourists about.
As promised, we were dropped of on a main street. We walked down a side street that closely resembled an alley, and worried that we had been dropped in the wrong part of the city, and that – even worse – possibly we would be accosted, burdened as we were with our giant suitcases and numerous bags hanging off of our persons. Fortunately, we spotted the correct doorway before our panic could truly set in.
We had been directed to ring a specific number, and we did so. The door buzzed open and we walked into a high-ceilinged entryway constructed of smooth, light-colored marble. There were two sets of a few steps, and each set had a smooth, stone ramp built into the left-hand side. This was fortunate, as – like I mentioned – it was the middle of the night and we were heavily burdened. The gratitude that I felt, however, was brought to a screeching halt as we turned slightly to the right and spotted the stairway.
The stairs seemed to go up…and up…and up. At least four small, narrow, stone double-flights up. I was transfixed with horror. Looking about, I could spot nothing at all that resembled an elevator. This could not be happening.
Neither D nor I saw any evidence of the party that had arranged to meet us. Logically, we had to assume that she was present – somewhere – since she had buzzed us in. Her precise location, unfortunately, was a mystery. We were not even certain of which floor the apartment was on, as the numbering system in Barcelona – as it turns out – is entirely wonky.
Things were looking bad. They began to look even worse as D began, luggage bouncing about awkwardly, to climb the stairs. I watched in stunned disbelief for a few moments, evaluating my options. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, I began to follow.
It was awful. My arm – injured from a previous stair-climbing, hill-climbing, tram-boarding torture – was struggling valiantly to pull my heavier-by-the-moment luggage over the narrow steps. We reached a platform filled with doors and – as I gazed longingly back at them – started up the next flight. Next we reached what would be – in a normal country – considered the third floor. We looked at each other, uncertain of our next move. There was no one in evidence, which was a touch concerning. With trepidation, D approached the door numbered “1” and knocked softly. No response. We looked at each other again.
From above, a voice floated through the air, questioning us as to our whereabouts. Startled – and now concerned that we might have woken someone up in the middle of the night – we quickly moved toward the next flight of steps. I looked up – to the very top – and saw a face looking down at us. She gestured, beckoning us, and continued speaking. Focused – as I was – on making it up the Ascent From Hell – I had no energy left to make out her words. Breathing heavily, I climbed…and climbed…and climbed.
At the top, I nearly collapsed. D – who had reached the summit moments before me – was already following the woman toward the door of the single apartment on this level. As they moved away, I finally made out the woman’s words.
“Why,” she was asking, perplexed, “didn’t you take the lift?”
The stairs from the landing outside our apartment. Note that I was NOT joking.
The inside of the front door of the apartment. It was AMAZING. D found it. GREAT job!!
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
If You've Ever Wondered
[Sung to the tune of WKRP in Cincinnati]
Baby, if you’ve ever wondered
Wondered whatever happened to me
I’m stuck in this hotel in Cincinnati
And worst of all not even the water is free
I’m writing this from my hotel in Cincinnati. As it turns out, there is a “bad neighborhood” in Cincinnati, and it covers most of the city. My co-worker (S) and I were warned to “not go out at night.” Well, S was warned and he mentioned it to me as we pulled into the hotel. Nice. No matter, I’ve no desire to go out as I’m located – essentially – in this bizarre University Campus/Veterans Administration/University Hospital conglomerate of buildings. There are no other obvious types of business. Dinner – clearly – was eaten in the hotel. Tomorrow should be interesting, as S is making reservations for us to take the clients out to dinner. I cannot wait to see where we end up.
Cincinnati is so much more “Southern” than the northern parts of Ohio, which is where I’ve focused my previous travels. After walking through (what must have been) 10 miles of airport hallways this morning, S and I were shuttled over to Avis to pick up our rental car. As S took care of the paperwork, I stared at the counter, transfixed. There were four female employees “working” (euphemism.) All in their 50’s, they had eerily identical hair (short, shellacked, bottle blond), eerily orange skin (BAD foundation), and excessive eye make-up.
Propped up against the counter on one end was the cleaning man, also “working.” He held a dishtowel in one hand (clearly a prop) and a spray bottle in the other (see previous parentheses.) A few feet away from him stood an elderly gentleman, occupying a spot that one would expect to find a customer in. It appeared – however – that he was there for the guaranteed audience that he found in the Avis employees. He was talking, and talking, and talking…. As it turns out, he served in the Marines for many years. When he left the service, he tried to get a job but was 49 and no one wanted him. (This caused a great uproar among the Avis ladies, who agreed passionately. “Uh-huh!” They exclaimed in their southern accents. “They don’t SAY that, but they think it!” They all shook their heads in commiseration and the cleaning man chuckled into his fake cleaning rag.)
Eventually, the elderly man found work driving a dairy truck, which – he informed everyone, repeatedly – was HARD work. Having exhausted the subject of employment the man moved on to his life in Kentucky/Cincinnati. (As it turns out, this was only a temporary pause. It seems that this fellow just recycles old material as needed in order to keep a constant stream of chatter going.) I learned that he had resigned himself, originally, to five years here, but was now in his 22nd year. This caused another wave of excited chatter among the Avis gals. “Isn’t that how life goes!” “Uh-huh!”
On and on the conversation went, and the entire time I was bothered by one thing: The man’s belt. It was a leather belt, and it had letters pressed into it. The first letter was covered by his belt loop, but I could clearly see the next four. They were: a-r-g-e. I was perplexed. The most logical assumption would be that the covered letter was an “m” and that the word was the name “Marge.” But why would this man be wearing a belt with a woman’s name on it? I’ve never seen that done, and I’ve seen a lot of tooled/embroidered/pressed leather belts in my time. (Spend a little time with a Hispanic population and you’ll realize what happened to me…) I couldn’t figure it out, and – obviously – still can’t. Just as I was debating actually approaching the man, S came toward me, gesturing for me to follow him out the door.
I took one final look at the mysterious belt, and turned to leave. Perhaps I should not have done that. Perhaps I should have satisfied my curiosity. That would have avoided such lingering effects as this blog, for one thing. I’d probably sleep better than I will now, the belt floating before my closed eyes…
Still, maybe it’s for the best. There's something very appealing about the idea of leaving this city with this image burned upon my brain. In my head, I see an audience of aged Southern women, behind an Avis counter, lined up before a mysterious white-haired man known only as A-r-g-e.
Baby, if you’ve ever wondered
Wondered whatever happened to me
I’m stuck in this hotel in Cincinnati
And worst of all not even the water is free
I’m writing this from my hotel in Cincinnati. As it turns out, there is a “bad neighborhood” in Cincinnati, and it covers most of the city. My co-worker (S) and I were warned to “not go out at night.” Well, S was warned and he mentioned it to me as we pulled into the hotel. Nice. No matter, I’ve no desire to go out as I’m located – essentially – in this bizarre University Campus/Veterans Administration/University Hospital conglomerate of buildings. There are no other obvious types of business. Dinner – clearly – was eaten in the hotel. Tomorrow should be interesting, as S is making reservations for us to take the clients out to dinner. I cannot wait to see where we end up.
Cincinnati is so much more “Southern” than the northern parts of Ohio, which is where I’ve focused my previous travels. After walking through (what must have been) 10 miles of airport hallways this morning, S and I were shuttled over to Avis to pick up our rental car. As S took care of the paperwork, I stared at the counter, transfixed. There were four female employees “working” (euphemism.) All in their 50’s, they had eerily identical hair (short, shellacked, bottle blond), eerily orange skin (BAD foundation), and excessive eye make-up.
Propped up against the counter on one end was the cleaning man, also “working.” He held a dishtowel in one hand (clearly a prop) and a spray bottle in the other (see previous parentheses.) A few feet away from him stood an elderly gentleman, occupying a spot that one would expect to find a customer in. It appeared – however – that he was there for the guaranteed audience that he found in the Avis employees. He was talking, and talking, and talking…. As it turns out, he served in the Marines for many years. When he left the service, he tried to get a job but was 49 and no one wanted him. (This caused a great uproar among the Avis ladies, who agreed passionately. “Uh-huh!” They exclaimed in their southern accents. “They don’t SAY that, but they think it!” They all shook their heads in commiseration and the cleaning man chuckled into his fake cleaning rag.)
Eventually, the elderly man found work driving a dairy truck, which – he informed everyone, repeatedly – was HARD work. Having exhausted the subject of employment the man moved on to his life in Kentucky/Cincinnati. (As it turns out, this was only a temporary pause. It seems that this fellow just recycles old material as needed in order to keep a constant stream of chatter going.) I learned that he had resigned himself, originally, to five years here, but was now in his 22nd year. This caused another wave of excited chatter among the Avis gals. “Isn’t that how life goes!” “Uh-huh!”
On and on the conversation went, and the entire time I was bothered by one thing: The man’s belt. It was a leather belt, and it had letters pressed into it. The first letter was covered by his belt loop, but I could clearly see the next four. They were: a-r-g-e. I was perplexed. The most logical assumption would be that the covered letter was an “m” and that the word was the name “Marge.” But why would this man be wearing a belt with a woman’s name on it? I’ve never seen that done, and I’ve seen a lot of tooled/embroidered/pressed leather belts in my time. (Spend a little time with a Hispanic population and you’ll realize what happened to me…) I couldn’t figure it out, and – obviously – still can’t. Just as I was debating actually approaching the man, S came toward me, gesturing for me to follow him out the door.
I took one final look at the mysterious belt, and turned to leave. Perhaps I should not have done that. Perhaps I should have satisfied my curiosity. That would have avoided such lingering effects as this blog, for one thing. I’d probably sleep better than I will now, the belt floating before my closed eyes…
Still, maybe it’s for the best. There's something very appealing about the idea of leaving this city with this image burned upon my brain. In my head, I see an audience of aged Southern women, behind an Avis counter, lined up before a mysterious white-haired man known only as A-r-g-e.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
I Don't Understand The Parisians
I don't understand the Parisians
Making love every time they get a chance
I don't understand the Parisians
Wasting every lovely night on romance
- Leslie Caron as "Gigi"
On my first night in Paris, I took a long walk. Meandering rather aimlessly, I strolled farther and farther from my hotel. At length, I found myself at the end of the Champs d'Elysee – a rather famous designer-boutique-lined shopping avenue in the heart of the city. It was a long street which was punctuated – at one end – with an impressive masterpiece, the Arc de Triomphe.
The entire experience was amazing, and I was caught up in it for some time. It was only after I noticed that it had grown dark that I began to give some thought to my return to the hotel. No problem, I thought to myself, I’ll just take the metro. I had not yet taken the metro in Paris, but I had used similar systems in countless other cities. How hard could it be?
As it turned out, it could be very hard. The only option for purchasing a ticket – which one needed to get through the gate to the train platforms – was from an automated machine. Despite my best and vigorous efforts (all of which were watched from the corners of many curious eyes) I could not get the machine to even register my presence, much less dispense anything to me. Optimistically (this I say because – by night 1 – I had already realized that practically NO ONE in Paris spoke English) I approached the information counter.
“Do you,” I asked politely of the grim-faced woman behind the glass, “speak English?”
Of her response, I only understood the first word, which was “no.” After that, the speech was reminiscent of those that I’ve seen played out by vagabonds on street corners all over the world, punctuated by waving arms, clenched fists, and fierce facial expressions. I'm not certain of what I was meant to take away from the encounter, but I suspect it might have something to do with the idea that perhaps I should learn the language of a country BEFORE I attempt to navigate its subway or bother its people. As I’m relatively certain that this woman is the French version of the American disgruntled DMV employee, I didn’t let the experience bother me.
I emerged from the underground station and joined a crowd that moved in a promising direction. As I did so, a man met my eyes and said something as he passed. I had only been in Paris for the day, but this had happened multiple times. I’d also noticed a number of “double-takes” as I made my way about the city. I was not certain of the reason for this, but had adopted a policy of ignoring all such actions. Not so difficult, since I couldn’t understand what was being said if I did hear it.
I did not, therefore, put any more thought into the passing man. Imagine – then – my surprise when, as I stood in a group waiting to cross the street, he suddenly spoke into my left ear. I jumped and turned to face him – recognizing him – and he spoke again. In French, I spoke my most useful phrase – “I don’t speak French.”
“Ah….” He said, and nodded. Then he rattled off another ten sentences in French. Again, I pointed out the obvious language barrier. He stared for a moment, then began speaking in French again, drawing the words out v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y and using hand gestures to accompany them. I sighed. This was obviously not a situation that was going away, and it was going to require some serious effort to work through.
Eventually, we concocted – between us – a hodgepodgy language of hand gestures, select French words that I understood, and select English words that he understood. Thank heavens for that, or I never would have learned that “when his eyes met mine his heart leapt out of his chest.” This comment – which was oft repeated throughout our time together – was always accompanied with a motion that involved both of his hands starting at his chest and moving away in a dramatic arc. I also learned that my eyes were “so blue” that he could hardly bear to look at them. This comment was accompanied by a ducking of his head and a hand placed over his eyes, to shield them.
As it turned out, I had plenty of time to hear ALL of the reasons that we were meant to be together. My new comrade took it upon himself to accompany me to my hotel. When I first understood his intent, alarm bells began going off inside my head. This is precisely – I thought – the sort of situation that I pride myself on AVOIDING. I quickly evaluated the options, and realized that it was either use this fellow to convey me through a safe mode of transportation, or wander the streets of Paris alone, in the dark, and hope to find the hotel. I went with option 4-alarm – my new friend. I would, I reasoned, only allow him to travel with me in areas that were full of witnesses.
To that end, I launched a gesture campaign to communicate my desire to take the metro, and my failure to procure a ticket. Five minutes later, we were on a bus. Hmmm. On the bus, the conversation took a turn toward family, and I learned that this fellow lived with his cousin. According to him, his cousin was a fine man. I had no reason to doubt this claim, but really felt no desire to meet said man. The next thing I knew, we were getting off on a stop that was NOT my hotel, and were walking into a different hotel, where his cousin sat at the front desk. Fortunately for me, his cousin spoke English. As reported, he was – indeed – a fine man, and very helpful. He spoke in French to my new friend, clearly enlightening him as to my actual destination goal.
We once again climbed aboard the bus. As it drove through the city streets, my companion launched a litany of all of our commonalities and all evidence of our obvious shared destinies. No matter what qualities I demonstrated, they became a confirmation of our “soul-mate” status. I didn’t smoke? Neither did he!!! EVER!!! That’s GREAT that I don’t smoke! REALLY great!!! The enthusiasm with which he carried on was almost embarrassing. (To be fair, I will point out that in all of Europe, I was definitely in the minority when it came to smoking preference.) This went on until we reached the stop from which I recognized the street leading to my hotel. To say I felt relief would be an understatement. I had begun to have horrible visions of spending the next 10 days going round and round on the bus with this self-professed enamored man.
We walked the final few blocks to my hotel together, my companion spending the entire time trying to persuade me to have dinner or coffee with him. Much to his disappointment, I refused quite adamantly. At the hotel entrance, I thanked him genuinely, ignored his forlorn “puppy” look, and made my escape.
In the room, I contemplated this bizarre experience for a bit while I allowed enough time to pass that I felt it might be safe to venture back out. After such a strange night, I felt a need to connect with a world that I understood. Earlier in the day, I had used a cybercafé not far away. I made my way there and took a seat at my assigned computer.
As I sat, staring at my monitor, my attention shifted to the woman who had taken a seat to my right. Her skin was a lovely olive color, and she had dark eyes rimmed in kohl. Her hair was long and black. She was yelling at the front-desk attendant – who sat at the other end of the room – and he was yelling back at her. There appeared to be some trouble with the web-cam that she had rented and placed on the top of her monitor. This turned into quite a production, but was eventually sorted out.
I settled back into my seat and prepared to refocus on my screen. This might have worked, except that the woman was now letting her hair down and tossing it artfully about her shoulders. I peered sideways at her, trying to make sense of this behavior. She pulled a lipstick out of a mysterious location and applied it, then evaluated herself in the camera window on her screen. Suddenly, words popped into her chat window – in English. “You’re beautiful” they said.
“I know.” She replied.
I was intrigued. An image appeared to accompany the chat. It was an obese man, and he was naked. I tried not to jump, but I’m pretty sure that my head swiveled to take a look straight-on. I forced my head away and tried to refocus on my screen, but my eyes would have none of that. They had spotted something interesting, and they were determined to see more. I was helpless to stop them as they began reading a dialogue that was – obviously – between a dominatrix and her submissive.
I will spare you all the details, but let’s just say that I have a new insight into a lifestyle that is far more interesting than some others I’ve seen. The conversation between this “couple” continued for a few minutes, and then she signed off with promises of more to come. I refused to let my mind entertain speculations of what the next conversation might cover.
The woman left and I finished up with my own computer. As I walked through the streets back to my hotel, I considered the two experiences that I’d had – already – in this city of “love.”
Love, indeed.
Making love every time they get a chance
I don't understand the Parisians
Wasting every lovely night on romance
- Leslie Caron as "Gigi"
On my first night in Paris, I took a long walk. Meandering rather aimlessly, I strolled farther and farther from my hotel. At length, I found myself at the end of the Champs d'Elysee – a rather famous designer-boutique-lined shopping avenue in the heart of the city. It was a long street which was punctuated – at one end – with an impressive masterpiece, the Arc de Triomphe.
The entire experience was amazing, and I was caught up in it for some time. It was only after I noticed that it had grown dark that I began to give some thought to my return to the hotel. No problem, I thought to myself, I’ll just take the metro. I had not yet taken the metro in Paris, but I had used similar systems in countless other cities. How hard could it be?
As it turned out, it could be very hard. The only option for purchasing a ticket – which one needed to get through the gate to the train platforms – was from an automated machine. Despite my best and vigorous efforts (all of which were watched from the corners of many curious eyes) I could not get the machine to even register my presence, much less dispense anything to me. Optimistically (this I say because – by night 1 – I had already realized that practically NO ONE in Paris spoke English) I approached the information counter.
“Do you,” I asked politely of the grim-faced woman behind the glass, “speak English?”
Of her response, I only understood the first word, which was “no.” After that, the speech was reminiscent of those that I’ve seen played out by vagabonds on street corners all over the world, punctuated by waving arms, clenched fists, and fierce facial expressions. I'm not certain of what I was meant to take away from the encounter, but I suspect it might have something to do with the idea that perhaps I should learn the language of a country BEFORE I attempt to navigate its subway or bother its people. As I’m relatively certain that this woman is the French version of the American disgruntled DMV employee, I didn’t let the experience bother me.
I emerged from the underground station and joined a crowd that moved in a promising direction. As I did so, a man met my eyes and said something as he passed. I had only been in Paris for the day, but this had happened multiple times. I’d also noticed a number of “double-takes” as I made my way about the city. I was not certain of the reason for this, but had adopted a policy of ignoring all such actions. Not so difficult, since I couldn’t understand what was being said if I did hear it.
I did not, therefore, put any more thought into the passing man. Imagine – then – my surprise when, as I stood in a group waiting to cross the street, he suddenly spoke into my left ear. I jumped and turned to face him – recognizing him – and he spoke again. In French, I spoke my most useful phrase – “I don’t speak French.”
“Ah….” He said, and nodded. Then he rattled off another ten sentences in French. Again, I pointed out the obvious language barrier. He stared for a moment, then began speaking in French again, drawing the words out v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y and using hand gestures to accompany them. I sighed. This was obviously not a situation that was going away, and it was going to require some serious effort to work through.
Eventually, we concocted – between us – a hodgepodgy language of hand gestures, select French words that I understood, and select English words that he understood. Thank heavens for that, or I never would have learned that “when his eyes met mine his heart leapt out of his chest.” This comment – which was oft repeated throughout our time together – was always accompanied with a motion that involved both of his hands starting at his chest and moving away in a dramatic arc. I also learned that my eyes were “so blue” that he could hardly bear to look at them. This comment was accompanied by a ducking of his head and a hand placed over his eyes, to shield them.
As it turned out, I had plenty of time to hear ALL of the reasons that we were meant to be together. My new comrade took it upon himself to accompany me to my hotel. When I first understood his intent, alarm bells began going off inside my head. This is precisely – I thought – the sort of situation that I pride myself on AVOIDING. I quickly evaluated the options, and realized that it was either use this fellow to convey me through a safe mode of transportation, or wander the streets of Paris alone, in the dark, and hope to find the hotel. I went with option 4-alarm – my new friend. I would, I reasoned, only allow him to travel with me in areas that were full of witnesses.
To that end, I launched a gesture campaign to communicate my desire to take the metro, and my failure to procure a ticket. Five minutes later, we were on a bus. Hmmm. On the bus, the conversation took a turn toward family, and I learned that this fellow lived with his cousin. According to him, his cousin was a fine man. I had no reason to doubt this claim, but really felt no desire to meet said man. The next thing I knew, we were getting off on a stop that was NOT my hotel, and were walking into a different hotel, where his cousin sat at the front desk. Fortunately for me, his cousin spoke English. As reported, he was – indeed – a fine man, and very helpful. He spoke in French to my new friend, clearly enlightening him as to my actual destination goal.
We once again climbed aboard the bus. As it drove through the city streets, my companion launched a litany of all of our commonalities and all evidence of our obvious shared destinies. No matter what qualities I demonstrated, they became a confirmation of our “soul-mate” status. I didn’t smoke? Neither did he!!! EVER!!! That’s GREAT that I don’t smoke! REALLY great!!! The enthusiasm with which he carried on was almost embarrassing. (To be fair, I will point out that in all of Europe, I was definitely in the minority when it came to smoking preference.) This went on until we reached the stop from which I recognized the street leading to my hotel. To say I felt relief would be an understatement. I had begun to have horrible visions of spending the next 10 days going round and round on the bus with this self-professed enamored man.
We walked the final few blocks to my hotel together, my companion spending the entire time trying to persuade me to have dinner or coffee with him. Much to his disappointment, I refused quite adamantly. At the hotel entrance, I thanked him genuinely, ignored his forlorn “puppy” look, and made my escape.
In the room, I contemplated this bizarre experience for a bit while I allowed enough time to pass that I felt it might be safe to venture back out. After such a strange night, I felt a need to connect with a world that I understood. Earlier in the day, I had used a cybercafé not far away. I made my way there and took a seat at my assigned computer.
As I sat, staring at my monitor, my attention shifted to the woman who had taken a seat to my right. Her skin was a lovely olive color, and she had dark eyes rimmed in kohl. Her hair was long and black. She was yelling at the front-desk attendant – who sat at the other end of the room – and he was yelling back at her. There appeared to be some trouble with the web-cam that she had rented and placed on the top of her monitor. This turned into quite a production, but was eventually sorted out.
I settled back into my seat and prepared to refocus on my screen. This might have worked, except that the woman was now letting her hair down and tossing it artfully about her shoulders. I peered sideways at her, trying to make sense of this behavior. She pulled a lipstick out of a mysterious location and applied it, then evaluated herself in the camera window on her screen. Suddenly, words popped into her chat window – in English. “You’re beautiful” they said.
“I know.” She replied.
I was intrigued. An image appeared to accompany the chat. It was an obese man, and he was naked. I tried not to jump, but I’m pretty sure that my head swiveled to take a look straight-on. I forced my head away and tried to refocus on my screen, but my eyes would have none of that. They had spotted something interesting, and they were determined to see more. I was helpless to stop them as they began reading a dialogue that was – obviously – between a dominatrix and her submissive.
I will spare you all the details, but let’s just say that I have a new insight into a lifestyle that is far more interesting than some others I’ve seen. The conversation between this “couple” continued for a few minutes, and then she signed off with promises of more to come. I refused to let my mind entertain speculations of what the next conversation might cover.
The woman left and I finished up with my own computer. As I walked through the streets back to my hotel, I considered the two experiences that I’d had – already – in this city of “love.”
Love, indeed.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Japanese Take Out
This past weekend I attended the Tenth Annual Wisconsin Film Festival. I watched 12 films in four days... not bad. Normally, I might have taken a bit of time off work to allow myself to rest/breathe/eat/care for pets... you know, those unnecessary things that I like to indulge in. Unfortunately, as the film festival fell at the end of the second week of my new job, I did not feel it entirely wise to request the time off. I am, therefore, very tired. But enough of that...
I shall, this week, report out on all the films that I watched. For tonight, I only wish to mention the one that has - unexpectedly - been very much on my mind all day. It was a film that I saw the very first night of the film festival, titled Big Man Japan.
The movie was - true to its asian roots - bizarre. [Bit of a background: I purchased my tickets the very day that they went on sale, which was nearly a month ago, and a few days later departed for Europe. Upon my return to the country, I immediately started a new job. My mind, as you might imagine, has been on topics not related to the film festival, and I did not review any of the film descriptions prior to attending the festival. This made for an even more interesting experience.] As the movie began, it had the distinct feel of a documentary.
Hmmm, I thought to myself.... I could have SWORN this was a feature film. Odd.
The film continued to unroll, and I began to feel quite sorry for the central character. I was not certain of what his job was (there were many odd references and allusions to "the job" and "work calling") but he was clearly not supported by the community. Just as I began to consider contacting human rights organizations, the film took a surprising turn. The man - whose name escapes me - was called in to work. He promptly zipped over to the local power plant, where he was juiced up with electricity and inflated to gigantor proportions. He put the Incredible Hulk to shame - particularly with his fabulous Don King-inspired hairdo.
Ah... I thought, feeling a sense of recognition as the Asian film elements began to fall into place. It got much, much better. The central character ended up - throughout the film - battling an astounding array of Japanese monsters. These were fabulous and creative creatres that had the most INTERESTING features. There was, for example, the "stink" monster, and the "rubber band" monster, and all SORTS of other impressive monsters. They each possessed horrifying features that one would never find in American cinema. One - for example - was essentially a (very realistic) human face bouncing about on a lean and muscular leg, which ended in a clawed foot. Most impressive. I was quite taken with the creativity, and the insane nature of it all tickled me no end.
There is something about the juxtaposition of the serious, documentary-feel of the film contrasted with the insanity and grotesque nature of the monsters that appear throughout the story. This wasn't the best film that I saw - in fact, it was far from it. I'm relatively certain that it's not even the film that I will - eventually - put the most thought into. It is, however, the film that I am working through first, and there must be reason for that. I think that I know what it is:
In many ways, this film is one of the best depictions of real life that I have seen for a very long time.
For more information (but not very much of it) visit:
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0997147/
I shall, this week, report out on all the films that I watched. For tonight, I only wish to mention the one that has - unexpectedly - been very much on my mind all day. It was a film that I saw the very first night of the film festival, titled Big Man Japan.
The movie was - true to its asian roots - bizarre. [Bit of a background: I purchased my tickets the very day that they went on sale, which was nearly a month ago, and a few days later departed for Europe. Upon my return to the country, I immediately started a new job. My mind, as you might imagine, has been on topics not related to the film festival, and I did not review any of the film descriptions prior to attending the festival. This made for an even more interesting experience.] As the movie began, it had the distinct feel of a documentary.
Hmmm, I thought to myself.... I could have SWORN this was a feature film. Odd.
The film continued to unroll, and I began to feel quite sorry for the central character. I was not certain of what his job was (there were many odd references and allusions to "the job" and "work calling") but he was clearly not supported by the community. Just as I began to consider contacting human rights organizations, the film took a surprising turn. The man - whose name escapes me - was called in to work. He promptly zipped over to the local power plant, where he was juiced up with electricity and inflated to gigantor proportions. He put the Incredible Hulk to shame - particularly with his fabulous Don King-inspired hairdo.
Ah... I thought, feeling a sense of recognition as the Asian film elements began to fall into place. It got much, much better. The central character ended up - throughout the film - battling an astounding array of Japanese monsters. These were fabulous and creative creatres that had the most INTERESTING features. There was, for example, the "stink" monster, and the "rubber band" monster, and all SORTS of other impressive monsters. They each possessed horrifying features that one would never find in American cinema. One - for example - was essentially a (very realistic) human face bouncing about on a lean and muscular leg, which ended in a clawed foot. Most impressive. I was quite taken with the creativity, and the insane nature of it all tickled me no end.
There is something about the juxtaposition of the serious, documentary-feel of the film contrasted with the insanity and grotesque nature of the monsters that appear throughout the story. This wasn't the best film that I saw - in fact, it was far from it. I'm relatively certain that it's not even the film that I will - eventually - put the most thought into. It is, however, the film that I am working through first, and there must be reason for that. I think that I know what it is:
In many ways, this film is one of the best depictions of real life that I have seen for a very long time.
For more information (but not very much of it) visit:
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0997147/
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Flying Flock Style, Part 2
This is part 2 of 2. If you have not read part 1, this will not make a whole lot of sense. It is not - therefore - recommended that you begin reading of this segment without first reading the previous post.
___________________________________________________________________
I learned many things about my new companion. As a young bride, she had lived in Paris. Her husband had worked in many different countries after that, and she had traveled with him. This had provided her with many years and many experiences upon which to base her numerous opinions.
“Why everyone go to Paris?” She asked – at that point – looking around the plane with an expression of mild disgust. “What about Paris? I no like.”
She looked directly at me. “Americans like to fly.” She asserted.
“Oh?” I questioned mildly.
“Yes.” She nodded with emphasis. “Fly too much.”
At this point, the conversation veered back to Paris, or – more specifically – to the “French people.” It appears that my seatmate considered the French people to be incredibly rude and unhelpful. “Not,” she stated with a loud voice, “like Americans.”
“No?” I asked, uncertain of what she meant.
“No. Americans simple. You know?” She looked at me, clearly assuming that I DID know, being an American and all. I wasn’t sure of precisely her meaning, but thought that I would just “go with it.” It didn’t seem like an insult. She said it rather as if it were high praise.
I might have gone on to voice some sort of agreement, but realized that we were already on to a new topic: the grandchildren. I considered this: It did make a sort of sense, since they were first generation Americans. I slowly began to tune in fuzzily to her words, only to snap my attention sharply back to her when I realized exactly what she was saying. Surely she was mistaken??
She was telling a story – laughingly – about how much her grandchildren adore their father. So much, she said, that when they stay with him (he and his wife are divorced) they each insist on sleeping in the same bed with him at night. That alone was odd enough – but then she mentioned that his daughter is SIXTEEN and son is EIGHTEEN! SURELY she could see how strange this was?? But no, she didn’t seem to think much of it at all. Oblivious to my incredulous stare, she continued with her narrative. Now she had launched into a description of how affectionate her 18-year-old grandson is.
“When I leave,” she said, shaking her head and smiling, “he kiss me here, and here, and here, and here…” She pointed to spots all over her face. “He say ‘I love you [insert Lebanese word for Grandma], I love you, I love you. So many kisses.”
She smiled fondly at the memory, and then began to talk about how he has a habit of resting his head on his father’s shoulder and cuddling with him.
Hmmm.
I was feeling a little off-kilter. This seemed SO strange and bizarre to me that I began to wonder if I was the one with the warped view, rather than her. My mind just could not make sense of it.
Luckily, I was given very little time to think about it before we were “off” again – launched into a new conversation.
And so passed the flight, through the night, over the dark ocean and to a foreign continent. The plane landed in Paris, and – as we began the preparations to disembark – I wished my new friend safe travels. She looked at me, and I saw the concern in her eyes. With one hand, she reached for the back of my arm and squeezed it.
“You too,” she declared, in a soft voice. “You too.”
As I walked off the plane, I took a bit of my Lebanese companion with me. I felt – for a moment – sheer gratitude that I had spent those hours with her, that she had been my companion as I launched my solo journey. Stepping off the metal and unto the firm floor of the Paris airport, I sent a silent prayer for her continued well-being into the air around me. I thought for a moment, and then – for good measure – said a prayer for her seatmate on the connecting flight from Paris to Lebanon.
___________________________________________________________________
I learned many things about my new companion. As a young bride, she had lived in Paris. Her husband had worked in many different countries after that, and she had traveled with him. This had provided her with many years and many experiences upon which to base her numerous opinions.
“Why everyone go to Paris?” She asked – at that point – looking around the plane with an expression of mild disgust. “What about Paris? I no like.”
She looked directly at me. “Americans like to fly.” She asserted.
“Oh?” I questioned mildly.
“Yes.” She nodded with emphasis. “Fly too much.”
At this point, the conversation veered back to Paris, or – more specifically – to the “French people.” It appears that my seatmate considered the French people to be incredibly rude and unhelpful. “Not,” she stated with a loud voice, “like Americans.”
“No?” I asked, uncertain of what she meant.
“No. Americans simple. You know?” She looked at me, clearly assuming that I DID know, being an American and all. I wasn’t sure of precisely her meaning, but thought that I would just “go with it.” It didn’t seem like an insult. She said it rather as if it were high praise.
I might have gone on to voice some sort of agreement, but realized that we were already on to a new topic: the grandchildren. I considered this: It did make a sort of sense, since they were first generation Americans. I slowly began to tune in fuzzily to her words, only to snap my attention sharply back to her when I realized exactly what she was saying. Surely she was mistaken??
She was telling a story – laughingly – about how much her grandchildren adore their father. So much, she said, that when they stay with him (he and his wife are divorced) they each insist on sleeping in the same bed with him at night. That alone was odd enough – but then she mentioned that his daughter is SIXTEEN and son is EIGHTEEN! SURELY she could see how strange this was?? But no, she didn’t seem to think much of it at all. Oblivious to my incredulous stare, she continued with her narrative. Now she had launched into a description of how affectionate her 18-year-old grandson is.
“When I leave,” she said, shaking her head and smiling, “he kiss me here, and here, and here, and here…” She pointed to spots all over her face. “He say ‘I love you [insert Lebanese word for Grandma], I love you, I love you. So many kisses.”
She smiled fondly at the memory, and then began to talk about how he has a habit of resting his head on his father’s shoulder and cuddling with him.
Hmmm.
I was feeling a little off-kilter. This seemed SO strange and bizarre to me that I began to wonder if I was the one with the warped view, rather than her. My mind just could not make sense of it.
Luckily, I was given very little time to think about it before we were “off” again – launched into a new conversation.
And so passed the flight, through the night, over the dark ocean and to a foreign continent. The plane landed in Paris, and – as we began the preparations to disembark – I wished my new friend safe travels. She looked at me, and I saw the concern in her eyes. With one hand, she reached for the back of my arm and squeezed it.
“You too,” she declared, in a soft voice. “You too.”
As I walked off the plane, I took a bit of my Lebanese companion with me. I felt – for a moment – sheer gratitude that I had spent those hours with her, that she had been my companion as I launched my solo journey. Stepping off the metal and unto the firm floor of the Paris airport, I sent a silent prayer for her continued well-being into the air around me. I thought for a moment, and then – for good measure – said a prayer for her seatmate on the connecting flight from Paris to Lebanon.
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