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.

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.

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."

Back in the game - ish

Sorry for the long silence. Since last time, France elected a new president, Belgium chose a new parliament, Merkel put the EU Constitution back on its feet, Palestinians started killing each other, Paris Hilton went in and out of jail, I read my first Kundera, joined Facebook, met André and his beloved Dorine, went to Paris, The Hague, Heiligendamm, London and Luxembourg, fell ill and visited the A&E at Warren Street, managed to kill a plant, started getting a daily hit of Ben & Jerry's, changed opinion about life, love, death and God about a gazillion times. Point is, I'm alive and kicking.

Was just reminiscing here after being sent a thing I wrote last October and had forgotten about. A month before moving to Brussels, I came for a quick reconnaissance visit. With the date approaching, I couldn't get enough of London:
"i have my itunes on random, there's this spooky just-rightness going on. heard so far nas' the world is yours (the beat is really incredible), the detroit spinners, fiona apple, a beautiful track by anouar brahem, k-os, wyclef jean's cover of wish you were here, badly drawn boy's once around the block, gainsbourg's melody nelson...

had lunch at the tate with the girls. too many people at the slides so we compensated with a photo session.

brussels tomorrow. not thinking about it. not really complaining either. not explaining anything, not even going to try. i'm just getting out, taking it in. nights are becoming eternal, the fall's here. so i'm photographing it, snapshots left and right, that's all I do. it's an unending farewell. the party, the energy, the sweet hypocrisy, this crave for extremes people try hard - and fail - to repress. the day's uniforms and the dark's nonsense. the fog and the heavy clouds that always seem to go unnoticed (at least by me), the surprisingly clear, starry night skies. and now, this taste of unfinished business in every cup of awful coffee."

Memories of a melancholy ho. Don't get too excited you Brits. Bill Maher says we Frenchies are awesome:

Bill Maher aime les Français
Uploaded by yom_

(Thanks to Alex.)

And just to close the evening, a love song to all y'all:

Monday morning and a couple of good points

I know a guy who might be sorry he ever sent this to me... No matter. Great reading:
It's all feminism's fault (again), by Zoe Williams.

"Just about the only cancer feminism doesn't give you is prostate cancer, and I wouldn't put it past us feminists to start stealing prostates the way we've already stolen managerial positions and bar stools, would you? (...)

The argument that feminism has undermined masculinity is strange since it suggests that, in order to show strength, men must see weakness manifested all about them; no matter if that weakness is faked or forced or cajoled. (...)

In this ideological portrait, men cannot handle challenge, do not seek excellence and need to be indulged through lying. (...)

Even if gender parity increased your risk of illness by a factor of 100%, what do they think would happen - women would all resign our jobs and resume knitting?"

***********************
From another lady, called Laura Barton. On musical crushes vs. musical loves:

"Musical crushes only placate you, they merely tell you what you want to hear, in a voice you've heard before. Bands you love seem to answer a question you didn't even know you were asking."

B&W

There's a town in Flanders called Sint Niklaas. It seems like a nice enough place for kids to grow up and grown-ups to live and work. Interesting fact, though: 11 of the 39 seats of the city council are held by the far-right party, Vlaams Belang - some anti-immigration organization (and I would love to give you more details, except I don't speak Flemish and apparently, their stuff is exclusively targeted at Flemish-speaking Flemings, which in a country like Belgium, is, erm... quite eloquent). 11 out of 39, that's a tad more than 28 percent. Respectable score.

But, you know, to hell with contradictions. The mayor of this town is a Socialist, who was elected along with a list of deputies and other aides. Among whom a man called Wouter Van Bellingen. The guy grew up in the region, adopted, like his siblings, by a local family. Elected fair and square by the people of Sint Niklaas. So now he's an "Echevin", as they call them in the old schoolness that characterizes the Belgian version of French, a deputy-mayor.

Here, like in France, all couples have to stop by city hall to get married. And part of Mr. Van Bellingen's responsibilities is to perform weddings.

To the point. Three couples refused to have him as a registrar. Why, you ask? Simple. He's black. More precisely, he is the first black man elected in Flanders.

He's had to deal with quite a bit of shit in his life. He has colorful anecdotes, such as that time where he went after a lady who'd forgotten her purse in the train and she didn't know whether to tip him, and another man told her: "you're lucky, usually they go home with it." Or these people in the street who make monkey noises when they see him.

You'd think he'd let that bring him down. I know it would me. I'd get angry and throw a dozen tantrums (I would, I have, I swear, got witnesses). No. His response? Performing a mass-wedding ceremony on March 21st, the Day Against Racism. See how they like it.

I haven't seen much about that. Expatica, Le Monde, some TV station in New Zealand... Picked that up from AFP and Reuters. It depresses me.

But you see, it's snowing tonight. Big-ass flakes. My lovely neighbor Erick cooked a hot prawn curry and got me drunk on half a bottle of white Italian wine. And that, I like. So I'm going to bed. A wide, tired smile on my face.

With tree-hugging, hippy, Scandinavian love (and thanks to the sis):

Coffee, please

Oh my. I thought the alcohol was always the main culprit of my feeling sick on school mornings following a night out. Turns out sheer lack of sleep might also have something to do with it. This is what happens when I update this thing, then have dinner, then take a quick shower and go to bed with the papers at 1:30am.

Allow me to discuss French matters today. Here's what The Guardian prints this morning: "Bruno Dumont, the award-winning golden boy of French independent film whose recent offerings could be described as a mix of extreme violence, extreme sex and extreme boredom, is the latest victim of audience desertion." I love this. French cinema, at long last, getting embarrassingly real. This story is merely stating the obvious but, as one of my smartass colleagues puts it, someone's gotta do it.

On a more political note, there's something happening in France foreign press doesn't seem to have picked up on yet. Most of you know we're electing a new president in a few months (if not, where have you been?). Disillusioned by Socialist Party's candidate Ségolène Royal, a dilly-dallying populist with no clear vision for her country, and scared of right-winger Nicolas Sarkozy, an economic revolutionary (good) with fascist tendencies (bad), a growing minority is seriously (yes, seriously) considering François Bayrou (who?) as a viable option.

The Third Man, huh...? Just look at the length of the wikipedia entries for each of them. It says it all. A few months ago, I would have laughed at the prospect and I wouldn't have been the only one. Papers like Le Monde are still snickering at the thought of it, but with apparently diminishing confidence.

People who would traditionally vote for the Socialists are letting go of the past and reluctantly moving forward, for lack of a better choice. The European constitution, the state of the tax system, the level of unemployment call for some sort of change. So far, 'Ségo' hasn't offered more than a (most un)comfortable status-quo. 'Sarko', on the other hand, told the Americans that he was ashamed of being French (I'm sorry, Mr. I-Want-To-Represent-The-French-People, what did you just say?).

Whatever it is, people are desperate for inspiration and ideas that will go beyond the anachronic right-left debate, which, I'm sorry, is totally last century. "Can we please move on?" is the question that seems to be in everyone's minds. Anyway, Paris Link is the only one so far (along with a couple of obscure Canadian publications) that has bothered writing something up on it in English. Wonder if others will catch up.

Good day, now.