This is it. My apartment is empty and there is an echo in the living room when I type. I closed the bills, took my name off the mailbox, threw some clothes in a couple of suitcases and handed my Belgian ID card back to the city of Ixelles. I am waiting for the expert to come and check how much damage I managed to do in the the 357 days that I called this place my own. In a few hours, I'll be in the Eurostar back to London and soon will begin to fret over the search for a new home, surrounded by people I love.
It was the shortest of years, it was the longest of years. There won't be anything to miss, with one notable exception: long, spumante-fuelled and zabaglione punctuated lunches at Luca's. The memories there, I can honestly say, were my only happy ones in Belgium.
I haven't decided what to do with this blog yet. I may just keep it and use it as a reminder that home is always where the heart is. Or I may re-title it and go on with my adventures in London.
In any case, this is another closed chapter. Adieu, but not without adding one of the most underrated of Jeff Buckley's songs.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Ayed's eyes
I win. It’s all done and signed. London is waiting for me. I’m going home.
“Welcome back to your real life,” Brussels seems to say. “Here’s some work and here’s a bit of feeling ill, enough to tie you to your bed for the weekend. It’s going to absolutely suck.” I smile. I’m alive again. Ayed’s eyes are golden and I am going home.
Ayed is a nineteen-year-old Bedouin from a tribe that settled a few decades ago in the outskirts of the Wadi Rum desert. I met him while unsaddling Assaf, my stallion for the trip. He explained to me in his disarmingly broken English that Assaf was a ticklish pain in the ass. Assaf – my white Sandstorm – sings, runs, chases mares and bites when a human being tries to brush him. He is so loveable otherwise. But no, it wasn’t a good idea to try and get him ready on my own.
So every morning, noon and night, gorgeous Ayed came to help. He wouldn’t let me carry the bucket of water to my horse unless I put up a fight. He figured it was an exploit for a teeny person like me to carry heavy buckets while walking in soft sand for distances that had to be long (you don’t keep a stallion near the rest of the herd lest he try to untie himself and mount every mare in heat or kick every other male he finds). I did put up a fight every single time, Assaf was thirsty and I wanted him to like me as much as I liked him. “Assaf, he go fat,” Ayed would exclaim, helping me saddle him after a decadent lunch. Assaf, you fat bastard, you high-maintenance stallion, thank you. Because every day, in the desert light, Ayed’s eyes were golden.
My “tentmate” Nathalie and I would try to set up camp in places protected from the wind and with as few rocks as possible. Quietly, I would lobby for a spot close to my horse. Assaf would wake all of us up at 5:30, when the first rays of sun hit the sandy plains. Every morning at 5:30, I would fake a whine and a moan, all happy and tangled up in my sleeping bag: "Not getting up. Assaf, shut it."
All day long, I rode and whispered to him (thinking Robert Redford might've had a point). Asked him to trot, canter or slow down, negotiated with him so we would both feel comfortable, getting his ears to stay where I could see them and his teeth away from other horses' asses. All of me focused, intent, all of him listening, even when he pretended not to.
From time to time, I’d look up and watch Jef tell the others about the geological formations and the first people who lived there. Someone, maybe me, would launch into a song. Soon everyone would join in.
After a few hours, we’d meet the other half of the group and Federico would crack jokes while his lovely Maddalena and the rest of us rolled in the sand laughing. We would giggle like a bunch of school kids when Faleh, the other guide, ordered us to "listen to the silence." We would nod emphatically when his older brother Mufleh would dismiss “complicated people” with an impatient huff. At 5pm, as the darkness came, we would gather around the fire to drink hot, sweet sage tea. And that became our definition of comfort.
I lost my camera on the second day. Mufleh took me in his jeep and we drove on our trails. Mufleh made me relive my day just by looking at the animal tracks: “Here, you saw goats. Here, you walked. You stopped here. The canter was there.” After a two-hour, unfruitful search, he decided it was my turn to take the wheel. There I was, driving a 4x4 in the middle of the moonlit desert, next to a Bedouin who would not stop taking the piss:
- Mufleh, for crying out loud, where am I going???”
- I don’t know, Saudi border?” he said, laughing his ass off.
- Mufleh, you're freaking me out.”
- I don’t know, maybe turn left? Oh look, there is shooting star.”
- A shooting star! Gotta make a wish!”
- Ok, I make wish.”
- Is this a tradition for Bedouins too? Make wishes when you see shooting stars?”
- Nah, that is tourist thing.”
By then, I’d forgotten all about my camera. Later, I realized that it turned out to be the best thing that could’ve happened. There's something about keeping your camera at hand that makes you feel like a spectator. All of a sudden, I was free to just enjoy.
It worked. Two weeks later, as I prepare to leave this God-forsaken town, my mind's still filled with all that gold in Ayed's eyes.
“Welcome back to your real life,” Brussels seems to say. “Here’s some work and here’s a bit of feeling ill, enough to tie you to your bed for the weekend. It’s going to absolutely suck.” I smile. I’m alive again. Ayed’s eyes are golden and I am going home.
Ayed is a nineteen-year-old Bedouin from a tribe that settled a few decades ago in the outskirts of the Wadi Rum desert. I met him while unsaddling Assaf, my stallion for the trip. He explained to me in his disarmingly broken English that Assaf was a ticklish pain in the ass. Assaf – my white Sandstorm – sings, runs, chases mares and bites when a human being tries to brush him. He is so loveable otherwise. But no, it wasn’t a good idea to try and get him ready on my own.
So every morning, noon and night, gorgeous Ayed came to help. He wouldn’t let me carry the bucket of water to my horse unless I put up a fight. He figured it was an exploit for a teeny person like me to carry heavy buckets while walking in soft sand for distances that had to be long (you don’t keep a stallion near the rest of the herd lest he try to untie himself and mount every mare in heat or kick every other male he finds). I did put up a fight every single time, Assaf was thirsty and I wanted him to like me as much as I liked him. “Assaf, he go fat,” Ayed would exclaim, helping me saddle him after a decadent lunch. Assaf, you fat bastard, you high-maintenance stallion, thank you. Because every day, in the desert light, Ayed’s eyes were golden.
My “tentmate” Nathalie and I would try to set up camp in places protected from the wind and with as few rocks as possible. Quietly, I would lobby for a spot close to my horse. Assaf would wake all of us up at 5:30, when the first rays of sun hit the sandy plains. Every morning at 5:30, I would fake a whine and a moan, all happy and tangled up in my sleeping bag: "Not getting up. Assaf, shut it."
All day long, I rode and whispered to him (thinking Robert Redford might've had a point). Asked him to trot, canter or slow down, negotiated with him so we would both feel comfortable, getting his ears to stay where I could see them and his teeth away from other horses' asses. All of me focused, intent, all of him listening, even when he pretended not to.
From time to time, I’d look up and watch Jef tell the others about the geological formations and the first people who lived there. Someone, maybe me, would launch into a song. Soon everyone would join in.
After a few hours, we’d meet the other half of the group and Federico would crack jokes while his lovely Maddalena and the rest of us rolled in the sand laughing. We would giggle like a bunch of school kids when Faleh, the other guide, ordered us to "listen to the silence." We would nod emphatically when his older brother Mufleh would dismiss “complicated people” with an impatient huff. At 5pm, as the darkness came, we would gather around the fire to drink hot, sweet sage tea. And that became our definition of comfort.
I lost my camera on the second day. Mufleh took me in his jeep and we drove on our trails. Mufleh made me relive my day just by looking at the animal tracks: “Here, you saw goats. Here, you walked. You stopped here. The canter was there.” After a two-hour, unfruitful search, he decided it was my turn to take the wheel. There I was, driving a 4x4 in the middle of the moonlit desert, next to a Bedouin who would not stop taking the piss:
- Mufleh, for crying out loud, where am I going???”
- I don’t know, Saudi border?” he said, laughing his ass off.
- Mufleh, you're freaking me out.”
- I don’t know, maybe turn left? Oh look, there is shooting star.”
- A shooting star! Gotta make a wish!”
- Ok, I make wish.”
- Is this a tradition for Bedouins too? Make wishes when you see shooting stars?”
- Nah, that is tourist thing.”
By then, I’d forgotten all about my camera. Later, I realized that it turned out to be the best thing that could’ve happened. There's something about keeping your camera at hand that makes you feel like a spectator. All of a sudden, I was free to just enjoy.
It worked. Two weeks later, as I prepare to leave this God-forsaken town, my mind's still filled with all that gold in Ayed's eyes.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Another Eve in the apple
The thing about my life: it's full of surprises.
In the most unexpected turn of events, I had to get on the first plane to New York yesterday morning. It's been barely more than 24 hours, but here's a quick list of the notable things:
1/ How quickly I went through immigration. Last time, in September 2005, the conversation went like this:
- Where are you coming from?"
- London."
- You're French."
- Yep."
- Born in..."
- Abu Dhabi."
She pauses. I smile my most innocent smile.
- When was the last time you were in the United States?"
- 2001."
- Which month?"
- September."
She looks up. Stares at me as if I'm doing it on purpose. Bigger smile.
- Put your right finger there."
- ...
- ...
- What's going on?"
- I, er... Wrinkly fingers you see. Hyperhydrosis. One percent of the population..."
- Wait here, please."
She didn't seem that comfortable handing me my passport. Thankfully this time, the guy had better things to do than background checks on small four-eyed girls.
2/ The hilarious hotel my company put me in. W is the Starwood brand of boutique hotels - meaning designer places with lounge music in the lobby, elevators, rooms and people wandering in the hallways acting superhumanly cool. For some reason I've had to stay in a few boutique hotels this year: Hôtel Duo in Paris, Gallery Hotel Art in Florence, The Zetter and The Great Eastern in London. All different... All perfectly identical. Notice the recurrent "W" theme on this one...
Having said this, and as hard as I am to impress, this one has me with a big grin on my face. My room (probably "just" a Wonderful, as opposed to the Fantastic, Fabulous, Spectacular and Extreme Wow suites) is a corner room on the 42nd floor with view on the river.
3/ The blissful Bliss Spa line of soaps and lotions with the coolissimo retro design of a supermarket brand that leave my face smelling of bubble gum and the skin on my elbows and knees smooth like a baby's bottom. All this carried by the hotel and renewed... Everyday.
4/ HBO in the room AND a full DVD library!
5/ The memory of myself as an eleven-year old girl, at the bottom of a building here in New York, clowning around with my folks, making them laugh as I pictured myself as self-important business woman who would travel the world with a briefcase and a suit. There I was yesterday, on my way to the office straight from the airport, driving by that same building, on a business trip, without the briefcase or the suit. Thinking, damn. I'm someone I once imagined I'd become.
In the most unexpected turn of events, I had to get on the first plane to New York yesterday morning. It's been barely more than 24 hours, but here's a quick list of the notable things:
1/ How quickly I went through immigration. Last time, in September 2005, the conversation went like this:
- Where are you coming from?"
- London."
- You're French."
- Yep."
- Born in..."
- Abu Dhabi."
She pauses. I smile my most innocent smile.
- When was the last time you were in the United States?"
- 2001."
- Which month?"
- September."
She looks up. Stares at me as if I'm doing it on purpose. Bigger smile.
- Put your right finger there."
- ...
- ...
- What's going on?"
- I, er... Wrinkly fingers you see. Hyperhydrosis. One percent of the population..."
- Wait here, please."
She didn't seem that comfortable handing me my passport. Thankfully this time, the guy had better things to do than background checks on small four-eyed girls.
2/ The hilarious hotel my company put me in. W is the Starwood brand of boutique hotels - meaning designer places with lounge music in the lobby, elevators, rooms and people wandering in the hallways acting superhumanly cool. For some reason I've had to stay in a few boutique hotels this year: Hôtel Duo in Paris, Gallery Hotel Art in Florence, The Zetter and The Great Eastern in London. All different... All perfectly identical. Notice the recurrent "W" theme on this one...
Having said this, and as hard as I am to impress, this one has me with a big grin on my face. My room (probably "just" a Wonderful, as opposed to the Fantastic, Fabulous, Spectacular and Extreme Wow suites) is a corner room on the 42nd floor with view on the river.
3/ The blissful Bliss Spa line of soaps and lotions with the coolissimo retro design of a supermarket brand that leave my face smelling of bubble gum and the skin on my elbows and knees smooth like a baby's bottom. All this carried by the hotel and renewed... Everyday.
4/ HBO in the room AND a full DVD library!
5/ The memory of myself as an eleven-year old girl, at the bottom of a building here in New York, clowning around with my folks, making them laugh as I pictured myself as self-important business woman who would travel the world with a briefcase and a suit. There I was yesterday, on my way to the office straight from the airport, driving by that same building, on a business trip, without the briefcase or the suit. Thinking, damn. I'm someone I once imagined I'd become.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Two months and a few pictures
A squaw in Hyde Park.
Poppet's (I'm Poppet).
Zulu baskets in electrical wires. Wonder what percentage of the 35 euros they make.
Shibboleth.
Sisters.
Poppet's (I'm Poppet).
Zulu baskets in electrical wires. Wonder what percentage of the 35 euros they make.
Shibboleth.
Sisters.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The demands of distance
This is an attempt to give an answer to those who are wondering and/or complaining about my long silences on this blog.
Sooner or later I'll be forced to change its title or simply drop it for good, as it's slowly losing its reason to exist. I've been working in London since the beginning of September and just got back this week. The signal's pretty clear. A definite return is imminent.
No, I've not warmed up to this lovely town. It was partly circumstantial, mostly deliberate. On top of having made no effort whatsoever to become acquainted with its people, customs or traditions, I was hardly ever here, traveling for work or... for work. I am simply not interested. At all. No, really. Unapologetically so, at the risk of upsetting all open-minded and relativists out there. Anything that will get me out of here, I will be grateful for. Time to put an end to this misery.
And so miserable and stranded I will be no longer. While this historical mistake of a country disintegrates, I will be preparing my return. Whether by an act of the corporate god or sheer self-determination, I am leaving and not looking back.
Belgians and Belgium lovers, I urge you to not take offense. This is me not making excuses and not pretending to feel otherwise. Brussels is perhaps a city with a gray, dull façade which hides a gem-like heart and, unlike London, doesn't throw itself at complete strangers with reckless abandon. As I said, maybe it's just me, maybe I like them easy. In any case... I'll soon be gone.
Before I do so, however, I'll be flying to Jordan on November 16th for a 10-day excursion in Ammam, Petra, and the Wadi Rum desert from the back of a horse.
More on this very soon.
Sooner or later I'll be forced to change its title or simply drop it for good, as it's slowly losing its reason to exist. I've been working in London since the beginning of September and just got back this week. The signal's pretty clear. A definite return is imminent.
No, I've not warmed up to this lovely town. It was partly circumstantial, mostly deliberate. On top of having made no effort whatsoever to become acquainted with its people, customs or traditions, I was hardly ever here, traveling for work or... for work. I am simply not interested. At all. No, really. Unapologetically so, at the risk of upsetting all open-minded and relativists out there. Anything that will get me out of here, I will be grateful for. Time to put an end to this misery.
And so miserable and stranded I will be no longer. While this historical mistake of a country disintegrates, I will be preparing my return. Whether by an act of the corporate god or sheer self-determination, I am leaving and not looking back.
Belgians and Belgium lovers, I urge you to not take offense. This is me not making excuses and not pretending to feel otherwise. Brussels is perhaps a city with a gray, dull façade which hides a gem-like heart and, unlike London, doesn't throw itself at complete strangers with reckless abandon. As I said, maybe it's just me, maybe I like them easy. In any case... I'll soon be gone.
Before I do so, however, I'll be flying to Jordan on November 16th for a 10-day excursion in Ammam, Petra, and the Wadi Rum desert from the back of a horse.
More on this very soon.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
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