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.

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.

Review of a non-life, part II

Everyone knows that the heart of Turkey beats on the Bosphorus Strait, in the busy streets of Istanbul. Ah, Istanbul, Gateway to the East, Istanbul and its 10 million (10 million!) inhabitants, its Great Mosque, its Grand Bazar and its Manhattan-like area code (212).

As luck and work would have it, however, on Thursday, July 19th, I landed in the hills of Central Anatolia. Ankara, political and artificial capital and eternal home to late ruler Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, was slowly falling prey to the dark. The long cab ride to the hotel didn't give me much to hope for. The mausoleum, unmistakably recognizable from the sky, even to the untrained eye, wasn't enough to make me look forward to my stay there.

I was excited, though. I wasn't there to be a tourist. I knew was about to be witness to a crucial moment in Turkey's politics.

So there I am, checking in the hotel and trying to get my laptop to function. It's 2 a.m. and I'm finally getting somewhere. I'm up early the next day to get some work done. In typical teacher's daughter fashion, I order a "Traditional Turkish Breakfast." Turkish tea (blacker and stronger than the blackest and strongest of English teas), fried eggs, bread, tomatoes, olives (olives!) and this smell... Oh sweet Baby Jesus... The smell of the goat cheese on my tray... It's more than my sleep-deprived organism and sensitive stomach can bear. As I stumble to the bathroom and shove my head down the toilet, I vow to stick to the pancakes. So much for open-mindedness.


Around noon, the city is relatively quiet under the scorching sun. As I step out for a quick break, a beautiful, sweet and almost chilling melody fills the air. It's the muezzin, calling for prayer. What a voice. Years since I had heard that. I was so little I don't even know how I could even have kept that memory. For the rest of my stay in Ankara, I'd stop and listen, every time.

I make time to visit the Mosque. At the entrance, I realize I left my scarf in the hotel room. I curse my forgetfulness and sneak in, hoping to observe and not get caught. It's about 30 seconds before the guard spots me. He walks towards me, gesturing, and drags me to a small cupboard. He chooses a pink, flowery scarf and wraps it around my head. There, woman. Now go. I go.


The Mosque is beautiful, the light flows in from all sides and the air is cool. The carpet is thick and soft under my feet. On the surrounding balconies, women are praying in small groups. Men are sitting in the main space, solitary and thoughtful. The serenity is palpable, it's all so inviting, I feel like spending the rest of the afternoon there.


But Atatürk awaits. His remains lie at the top of a hill, on military ground. Talk about worship... I won't go into it, but it does look like he both threw Turkey into modernity and traumatized it. He even "invented" a whole new alphabet...


He's been dead for 70 years, but his über-secularism is still causing mayhem in this Muslim country. He thought religion held the country back. As he put it himself:


The army still believes that it is its duty to preserve the secular principles of the Founder. In a public statement that eventually led the government to dissolve, it opposed Prime Minister Erdogan's choice for a president: a man whose wife wears a scarf in public. In a country where the military holds such political power, these early general elections turned out to be a true exercise in democracy.


And so the people spoke: they gave full legitimacy to a religion-friendly government who also made Turkey's economy one of the most attractive among emerging markets. Foreign investors applauded, civilians sang and danced as the military wavered from this giant slap in the face. A retired officer, interviewed by BBC World, called the event a "backward step."

All of this is fascinating, but have I mentioned my hamman experience? Not wanting to miss out, I let a young woman bathe me. I lay on the marble while she scrubbed me from head to toes, then soaped me up, washed my hair and rinsed me with warm water for the enormous marble sinks. She then took me to a room full of beds and I relaxed to the sound of a fountain and ate juicy pears to quench my thirst. Probably the most sensual half hour of my existence.


At Ankara's citadel, otherwise known as Ulus Kale, I bought two small kilims. I was incredibly proud of myself, until I decided to show them off and compare them to the one my colleague had bought in Istanbul. His contact there had a whole collection, all made by his grandmother, for her dowry. When she ran out of cotton, she went on with wool. It had so many colors and different threads. Mine, next to his, looked pathetic and soulless. Humiliation overcome, they are now bravely decorating my floors.


We left the hotel for the airport at 4 a.m. on Tuesday, July 24th, after a quiet evening at the bar. The barmaid, at our old timer's request, learnt how to make a Silver Bullet (Bombay Sapphire, a twist of lemon, an olive, three drops of dry Vermouth). She was also kind enough to recommend a nearby Turkish restaurant and sent us on our way with the sweetest of instructions.

Bastille day in Gent

July 14, Bastille day. Train to Gent for the week-long festival. Music, beer, fries drowning in mayo. Miss Sly Stone at the Blue Note Festival. Miss Sean Lennon. Make it up with a tango class followed by a salsa class.


Admit that when it's sunny and you're drunk... And you're making new friends, you can have reasonable fun in Belgium.

Review of a non-life, part I

I'd promised myself I'd never mention anything about what I do for a living in this blog. But the key thing about my life these days is that I have none. Or rather, that it is too inextricably linked with work. Where to begin, where to begin.

I could start by all the chapters I skipped this year... The G8, at Heiligendamm, maybe. Let's see... A quick copy/paste and a few snapshots should do it:

June 6th:
"I arrived at the G8 location. Plane to Hamburg, then train to Rostock, where I had to get off, because all tracks to Bad Doberan - last location before Heiligendamm, where the meetings are taking place - were blocked by the protesters with branches and trees. They did the same with all the principal roads.


They are incredibly organized, but so is the police. It's so militarized around here, I can't begin to tell you how weirded out the locals are. They'd never received so much attention.

After an 80-euro cab ride (the detours are enormous), I arrived at my destination. The location is unbelievably gorgeous. Heiligendamm is part of a series of spa towns on the Baltic Sea coast, all of which became famous at the end of the 19th century when some king made it fashionable to summer here, where the views are breathtaking and the weather unpredictable.


Because all the hotels were booked, I had to find myself a guest house, located about 1.5km away from the centre where I work.

My transport means is a bike. A huge group of protesters disguised as a clowns was arrested right in front of where I'm staying, as I was on my way back to the center. I cycled on a dirt road through fields of cereals to get here. It's so surreal.


Oh, and I'm drinking Africola. This is coca cola from Africa. You know. To show they'll keep their Gleneagles promises about canceling the African debt."

June 7th:
"This is like the war. I'm being controlled at every corner, me on my bike. After dinner, as I was heading home, I took the gravel path across the fields. 2 barrages of polizei made me stop to inspect me last night and one this morning. Light on my face, identifying myself "accreditation, passport, ja ja, letter from landlady, I am staying there, danke, guten nacht und good luck..." Very nice guys in combat costume, holding my bike while I rummage through my bag trying to find the requested documents...

And all the while, above my head as I'm pedaling myself home, helicopters with lights checking the fields. On the ground, it's all i can do to avoid frogs and toads. which by the way, are really loud animals. I even saw a rabbit.

Today, Bono is giving a concert in Rostock, about 22 km away from here. We're going with the camera. I hate this Bono b'stard."

June 8th:

"I'm back for the last report on the G8 summit. Tech guy is unplugging all computers, we're all about to leave.


Nothing major today. The 8 leaders didn't do so good on the help for Africa, pissing off my friend Bono and a few other more capable, credible people. Putin mocked Bush and Bush dissed Putin, all very politely. Sarkozy's role was pretty much limited to announcing Bush's diarrhea to the media after the meeting he had with him this morning. And all in all, Merkel did good.

I was up at 5h45, riding down my footpath at 6h30, spent my day running around... And so I finished with a stroll on the beach, dipped my feet in the freezing cold Baltic Sea as the sun set behind a wooden pier. All idyllic, except maybe for the food. Food is crap here, and that's an understatement.

I'ma bike my ass home now. I'll be on my way tomorrow. To Brussels."

Tempo giusto

Feel yourself become brainless. Not one functioning cell of gray matter in that big bone cavity above your neck.

Choose your bikini carefully. Put on a sundress and your Havainas. Reach for them glam shades.







Take a stroll on a dirt road on your way to the beach. Realize that your hips are moving in a wider, lazier sway. Feel how the heat slows you down. Feel your feet scratching the ground. Feel like a biiiig mama.

Take 10 minutes to dig a hole in the sand. Plant your parasol. Give yourself a sunscreen bath. Stay away from the sun. Then get up, make your way through the Italian families to the water. Dip a toe in it, work up the courage for the rest of you to follow. Don't regret it. It's turquoise and it's fresh and it's salty. Close your eyes, turn your face up. Enjoy the fact that no one's bothering you. Swim yourself to exhaustion. Sink your head til your ears are full of fluid and you know you'll have to jump on one leg like an idiot as soon as you're on dry land.


Sit on your towel. Lose yourself in the observation of the kids playing and screaming and laughing and throwing tantrums. See the parents spank their children. Think to yourself: "won't do them no harm." Feel unbearably nostalgic. Contemplate kidnapping one of the kids so he can take you back to childhood. Consider starting a therapy as soon as you get home.


Concentrate on your tan. It's the proof of what you've been doing in these few days away and your only means to frustrate the hell out of your co-workers. Measure the progress.

Worry about skin cancer. Grab your book, be fast asleep.

Open your eyes an hour later to a gorgeous sunset. Watch it for a little bit and head back. Take a shower, moisturize like a pro, go have dinner. Notice that the night is particularly bright. Raise your head, see a full, orange moon and its reflection in the quiet sea. Let your jaw drop. Fantasize about monsters and horrible things. Sense the fascination take over. You can't take your eyes off it.

Go home, lull yourself to sleep with Gustavsen, Gonzales, Libedinsky. Feel immensely grateful to Steve Jobs, Seb and Alex for the iPod and the wonderful music.

At breakfast, chit-chat with the owner of the B&B in your non-existent Italian. Get lectured on the history of the region and actually learn something. Marvel at his niceness and his love for the land. Swear to check it out on wikipedia as soon as you get hold of a working, connected computer.

Watch that blond stewardess tell you off for checking in too late. Give her a look that says: "hey, lady, have you seen the color of the water on those beaches? Do you really expect me to act responsibly?" She doesn't. She's used to it. She shouts at people everyday. Still, just for kicks, she turns to her colleague and exclaims: "And she's not even in business class!!" Smile. It's all an act. We both know that neither I nor she would give up dirt roads, seafood risotti and salty locks of hair for all the business class seats in the world.

Sit in the plane, eat a disgusting tuna sandwich. Wonder why the hell anyone would put butter on bread already drenched in mayo. Notice that new brown spot on your right thumb. Fear that it's skin cancer. Panic. Vow to call a dermatologist as soon as you land. Grab your book, be fast asleep.

Wake up to the voice of the pilot: "it's 16 degrees Celsius in Brussels, with frequent rains." 25 minutes later, note that he was speaking the truth. Curse him and his entire family.

Feel that pain on your back come back as soon as you set foot in your home. Update your blog, don't let it end.

HAHAHA

This is one of my favorite t-shirts. It was designed by a London friend, Damien Poulain. Damien comes from Angers, where I studied for 3 years after high school. He's been a hopeless East-Ender for almost 5 years now, if the count is right. I'm a jeans-&-t girl, so I'm in it often. Every time I wear it, invariably, someone in the street points, smiles and goes "hahaha!"

Black and whiteys - part II

Quick follow-up on my previous post about Wouter Van Bellingen, 34, the deputy-mayor of St Niklaas (who now has his own wikipedia entry), who refused to let him marry them because he's, erm...

Black. Ooh.

March 21st is the international day against racism. The mass-wedding will be taking place next Wednesday. 3 couples times 100 have already registered. Expatica reports.


Young Wouter with his adoptive family.

Uninspired entry

There's a tree outside my bedroom window that's totally out of it. Covered with tiny pink flowers, convinced it's spring. I don't blame it. Today for the first time, I had lunch on a bench at Square Ambiorix, listening to recently downloaded music in my spanking new iPod. Freezing cold and sunny. Lovely. That was after the guy at the sandwich place said "take away, as usual?" with a smile from ear to ear.

Couple of hours later, I received a surprise phone call from my stepdad. He was visiting Brussels and took me out for coffee. He's all excited, starting a new job in a couple of weeks, managing a development project in Ivory Coast. It's his thing, Africa, agriculture. Quite a character, my stepdad. Won't pay a dime to the government and doesn't believe in the "NGO mentality" that plagues EU delegations there. Was thinking it'd make a great story.

Still no inspiration.


Whoever said mobiles killed the phone booths couldn't have been more wrong. They're put to good use in London town.


"Valentine's day is for gay people, too." Brussels is, like, so open-minded.


Last, but not least, cookies that won't take anything for granted.


Love y'all later.

Back from the dead

I am getting quieter and quieter. Yes. Partly because I've been away and working. Partly because I have no inspiration whatsoever.

I have been compiling a few things. Chocolates, for one... Which I couldn't find on my own, nooo... Had to read about in the Cool Hunting newsletter. Charlemagne have the crappiest site ever, but apparently make hemp-flavored milk chocolate, among other things. Here's what CH has to say about it.

Photography... Philippe Chancel, so unapologetically French, in the intimacy of a falsely modest woman (who you kidding, lady), so playful in Angkor, tyrannically geometric in North Korea... And Denis Darzacq, with his amazing series on free-falling.

The sis, bless her, had the good grace of not waiting a second to share her latest find. Here's PeekVid, thanks to which I was able to watch the new episodes of Scrubs. The last two are hilarious - the musical one, especially, deserves to be mentioned. It was written with the help of the team of Avenue Q. A similar idea: alluc.org.

Sorry, people. All I can do for now. More soon, hopefully.

Only a week

It's only been a week. Too intense for me to even go into details. Here are the highlights.

I saw sweet, grey London covered in snow, where I went for work.


Paris in turn, was as sad as it was sunny.


Then life began again, early Monday morning.


It doesn't wait for anybody, does it.


Tête la première et en plein coeur. Merci.

Of shoes and other nothings

A week without a post and no one to complain about it. Wonder what that says about the readership. One, I know, was toasting herself in Cuba. Due to this, a couple of others were working overtime. Miss Y is probably on a roll in Melbourne. The sis is preoccupied by the job search (and that'll be the perfect excuse to never check this). Busy boy Alex is running around in NY... As for the rest, I'm simply assuming they've given up on trying to keep up with me if it means reading in English. Pack of lazy asses.


But the kids came to visit last weekend. We skipped the 15th Erotic Festival and successfully went shoe-shopping. Yes. Proud Euro-fashion victims. Won't have none of that big sneakers crap.


There was a lot of walking around (so comfortable, so cool, great shoes). The weather, for once, cooperated. Pictures were taken. We later stopped at Brüsel, one of'em big ol' comic stores. Ideas of images were jotted down for decorating the hostess's (me - I'm in a third person crisis today) place.


I sat in the stairs, waiting for the tourists to finish browsing.


Girl - Hey, do you like my picture?"
Boy 1 - Not bad. Except the socks and the shoes don't go together."
Boy 2 - Well that's the point, isn't it."

Yeah, man. Exactly.


On the new rules of privacy: an interesting piece in the New York Mag. They will tell you anything...