what we're leaving behind

Another day, another bomb.

This weekend it was all about the piles of trash that weren't picked up by Sukleen. Last week it was a tie between the EDL strike, the STL trial and a blog post by my colleague about how only Christians can save Lebanon. The week before it was also a bomb; or was it the week before that? And there was the Chattah assassination, and the Christmas and New Year traffic and reunions, and the amazing article by Fifi Abou Dib in L'Orient-LeJour describing exactly what it is that we keep losing, as Lebanese.

I'm leaving on Sunday, on a one-way ticket to New York; I don't have a job waiting for me, I'm not one of those lucky many to hold another nationality, I don't have a dad with unlimited money and I don't know what I'm really going to do there, but I know I can't stay here any longer.

And I know very well what I'm leaving behind. It's not the bombs --that are more present on my Facebook feed than in my reality. The bombs will come with me, because every time I hear there was in explosion in Beirut I will frantically try to call my family and friends to make sure they are all ok. It's not the lack of government, or the social segregation, or the power held by Hezbollah, or the sunni/chiite/orthodox/maronite/etc. bullshit that I could never wrap my head around, or the towers of cement growing like mushrooms in Beirut --none of this is what I'm going to miss. It'll all be here when I return, whenever that may be.

What I'm leaving behind is my sister, the person I love most in the world and who I wont be around for every day. I'm leaving my dad, my childhood home, and all the places where the memory of my mother is still alive. I'm leaving my friends, the friends I made when I was just a little girl, going to school in this very neighbourhood where I lived through all of my most important memories. What I'm leaving behind, what we are all leaving behind, is the potential for something great that will unfortunately never be. I have travelled a lot, met many different kinds of people. As a journalist, I've heard and told many stories. And I have yet to see families love each other as they do here; or groups of friends form ties that last longer than anywhere else; or a diversity that I really believe could've made us special in stead of hateful.

What we are all leaving behind are the brave. The young hopefuls who create LiveLoveBeirut to shout out the love; the heroes like Nidal and Kholoud who defy all odds and fight to marry civilly, and have the first secular baby in Lebanon; the activists who fight for children, for the poor, for the sick, for the environment, even though they get no help and no encouragement. And so we go; writers, filmmakers, designers, finance tycoons and doctors and whatever we may be. We go, and we come back for the people we've left behind. In the country we've lost.

I'm going now, it's all very real

About a month and a half ago, I came back from New York City after having spent 5 weeks there, on pause. No work, no obligations, the city that never sleeps and a good friend was just what I needed to get my shit back together. I realise that I often lose my own path and find myself wondering again and again what I want to do, really. That trip made me realise many important things: first that I need to leave Beirut, at least for a while. Second that when I'm far away (i.e. 5,600 miles) I feel free from the family-related responsibilities that take up so much of my energy when I'm around. That my dream is still to write a book, and that I should just sit down and write it already. And that my life isn't going to change if I don't change it myself [basically, if I sit back and wait for change, well, it's never going to happen.]

So armed with all this new and wise information I've processed about my current situation, I decided to try my luck and move to New York. Note that I'm doing that with no real plan in sight, except for the hope to pitch some good stories and make some money working freelance, no money (well, that's a lie, a bit of money that could last me a month I guess) and no work permit (don't even get me started on that). Am I scared? I'm terrified. And absolutely excited about it.

Before I left New York at the end of November, I promised myself I was coming back. Even left a few sweaters at my friend's apartment (because they just wouldn't fit in my suitcase) and told everyone (and I mean everyone) that I was planning on moving back to New York in January. I told everyone so it would make it harder for me to back out on this decision. Because, as it happens, the more time I spend in this country, the more anxious I become about making the move.

Truth is, it's not that big of a risk. Worse comes to worst, I'll just pack it all up in a few months and fly my ass back here, at ground zero, where I suspect things will still be the same.

So two days ago, I received a payment which I had promised myself I would use to buy my ticket to New York. I didn't let myself spend a penny of it, I just immediately went online and picked a flight, return date back at the end of May. There we go. Paid. Done. I'm going now, it's all very real.

I should maybe have a farewell party, but I know I'll be back soon enough, we always do. Maybe I'll start a new blog when I get there, New York Rhapsodies or Rhapsodies in New York, don't know yet. The topic: Late 20s Lebanese writer decides to change her life and buys a ticket to New York with no plan and just enough savings to survive a month. She will crash on her gay best-friend's couch (for a little while, I promise!) and they will have lots of fun adventures to share with the world (I hope).

Writing this and posting it, just like telling everyone I was planning to move before I bought my ticket, also makes it more real for me. I'm doing it, even though I'm scared. I'm usually a planner, you see --my friends make fun of me because I need to make a list about everything and anything; it comforts me to know what's coming. Yet I also like adventure, and this is one I'm jumping at with both feet. Whatever happens, I hope I get good stories out of it. That's all that matters in the end.

little bits of happy

Maybe I'm feeling particularly sentimental because I'm leaving New York tomorrow, but I feel like writing this down.

I've had so many small bits of happiness in the last few weeks here, I had forgotten how much there is that is wonderful with the world. I should be more down, I guess, since I don't have a job to go back to and I just broke up with my boyfriend... But the truth is, I feel good.

Happiness isn't just about having a man in your life or having a great job and making lots of money. Turns out there are thousands of ways to feel bits of happiness.

For me, it comes with walking around the streets of New York and suddenly looking up, and for a second realizing the size of the world. It's spending a night with one of my best-friends playing like 12 year-olds making a music video for a Lady Gaga song and having so much fun doing it. Or going to a store and trying on a dress and feeling you look hot in it. It's going to Bikram Yoga when I haven't been in a year, and having the possibility to go any day I want (turns out, not that many!). It's listening to pandora (even though my friend says it's outdated and I should use spotify, I haven't been able to use pandora since 2008 and I've missed it!) and finding yourself dancing alone...

I'm going to be honest --because it's the whole point of this blog. Last year when I said goodbye on this blog, I thought I was moving on to bigger and better things. Unfortunately, things didn't quite work out the way I planned. I didn't get in the screenwriting program I applied to, I didn't move to Paris like planned, I broke up with my boyfriend and found myself lost and back at point zero. But very quickly, I decided to take my life in my own hands, and I bought a ticket to New York. Best decision I ever took. In Beirut, it was like I was waiting for my life to start. Like I was on pause and just watching the time pass by. But here, I feel alive. And suddenly, I feel like I have all my answers.

If I'm unhappy in Beirut, I should just move. Even if it seems complicated because of my Lebanese passport and visas and all the shit that comes with it, I have to just try. I realized that when the Polish housekeeper came over the other day: she doesn't speak a word of english, she wasn't as lucky as me in terms of education, she also isn't as lucky as me in terms of financially ability, and yet she is here. She tried and found a way to make it work. She took a risk; why can't I? People do it every day.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote in a post that I was going to start doing a lot more things for myself, and I've actually started doing it: Buy a dress that makes me look (and feel) sexy, even if it's outrageously expensive (I think of it as an investment in my self-esteem). Have entire days to myself, where I don't have to do anything I don't want to do, or see anyone I don't want to see. Dare to dye my hair kind of blond to see if they actually do have more fun.

And, best of all: I got an idea for a story. When I started Beirut Rhapsodies 3 years ago, I said it was my way of getting back into writing, because all I want to do is write a really good novel. And now, I finally feel like I have my story. I know exactly what I want to write about, and I can't wait to get started.

All this to say that sometimes things don't work out as we planned --but if we just open up, even a little, a whole new world of possibilities appears. Sometimes, you just have to take one big step, and the rest happens on its own. Like this quote from a book I'm reading: "Fret not where the road will take you. Instead, concentrate on the first step. Once you take that step let everything do what it naturally does and the rest will follow. Do not go with the flow. Be the flow." (Elif Shafak, 40 Rules of Love)

So here's what's next on my list: move to New York.

how technology is changing the way we date

And I thought the time of MIRC was rough. That awful year in 1999 when I'd wait for dial-up internet connection (we all knew the sound it made by heart) and join these chat rooms with weird names like "blue flower" and ask people "asl" because that was the "new" language, the internet language --asl standing for "age, sex, location" in case you forgot.

It was supposed to be cool. I remember I was 13, but always pretended I was 16, because that's how old the girls were in that movie "Clueless" and those girl were super cool.

But in those days --it was the easy stuff. Nothing like 2013. I can't even count the number of methods you have for tracking someone down now... Monitor their whereabouts, through Facebook pictures and trip-advisor reviews. Read what they read from what they share on twitter or their newsfeed. Listen to the same music through Spotify and FB, of course (basically with Facebook you can do everything but appear on their screen and jump them...)  But not just that... You can actually tell the number of hours they waste in the day by tracking their "last seen on" update on whatsapp. Now how creepy is that?

So, to sum it up --not only are you supposed to watch your behavior when you're out on a date or on the occasional phone call, but you also have to watch yourself when you're talking to friends on Whatsapp (what if you don't want him to know you're awake? No seriously?) or when you're liking something because FB will record the exact time you did it (why? who cares if I liked it a 1:46PM?)... And you now have to make sure every picture everyone has ever taken of you looks amazing because you never know what will end up on Facebook... It's just so much to think about! I mean, there was this guy who liked every Instagram picture anyone I knew ever posted, and we all thought "boy this guy has a lot of time on his hands" --so yeah, I'd say people notice and judge you for your social-network behavior too. Funny, no?

What is crazier? The other day I got a Facebook inbox-message from a guy I was newly seeing and imagine my surprise when at the top of that message, there appeared a message I wrote, wait for it... on March 27th 2007, at 8:22pm --basically when I was 22 years old and still living in Manhattan, I apparently had wrote him a message that went unanswered. Did I remember ever writing that? No. Did he remember ever reading it? No! Yet Facebook did a great job reminding us, and sort of helping him get points 6 years later... Do you know how embarrassing it is to re-read something you wrote 6 years ago?

But then there are the good thing about all this technology. Like how easier it makes it for my two friends who are crazy about each other but living in different countries --at least, they have Viber. And Skype. And Facetime. They can send each other videos and audio-notes on Whatsapp. They can somehow manage to share their days with each other, as much as technology permits them to.

In 1949, my grandparents met at a summer hotel in Lebanon. But after the summer, my grandfather returned to Cairo and my grandmother to Beirut. For seven years, they exchanged letters. Sometimes, they would go months without any news from each other. Months. Not minutes or hours like we count them now. They had to wait for the mailman. How amazing is that? If my grandmother was here now, I'd love to ask her how she thinks all this technology would have affected her long-distance relationship with my grandfather.

Of course, whether we like it or not, it's happening. This new way of dating, of connecting with other human beings, there is nothing we can do to change it. Yet I feel lucky I had the chance of knowing a bit of both worlds. I'll have to remind myself to write my children letters one day, so they get to experience it too.

feeding the status quo

I've been writing on this blog for over a year and a half, and sometimes I get terrified by the fact that I have nothing to say anymore. The truth is, when I began, I wanted to find a way to push my writing and get me to write a novel, which is basically my dream.

And I thought, "Beirut Rhapsodies," well that should be fun. I had a bunch of single friends who always had some kind of story about that girl or about that guy, I thought Beirut was this endless source of fun stories that I would always be able to incorporate in my blogs. I was wrong though. After a while, stories run dry.

The problem with this city is that we live in a box. As a person of a certain social class, it is very unlikely that you ever find yourself with people from different social backgrounds. It's not like in other big cities where anyone and everyone find each other uncomfortably close on a subway ride.

In the Beirut I live in, there are clear boundaries and there are walls closing in on us. Everywhere you go, you see the same faces, week after week, month after month, year after year. Someone told me the other day they went to White and "it was the exact same people sitting at the exact same tables" as last year, and that is a scary thought. But it's true. You go to any bar or night-club or rooftop bar --because frankly, there is not much else to do-- and you know exactly who to expect. And then you have the same conversations over and over again. And when you overhear someone else's conversation, you realize that they are talking about the same thing too.

As a writer, you get inspired by other people, by places and encounters. You feed off other people's conversations, you meet someone who will tell you a story, you see something that gives you an idea. Sometimes you just need to take a walk and look at things happening around you to get creative. Other times you just want to sit under a tree in a park and read a book to get your mind flowing. But here we have no parks. And if you take a walk in the street you spend half your time ignoring the idiotic sexual purrs of every other guy passing you by and the other half trying not to get run over. And although some people try, very hard to bring some culture to this country, by opening an art center or by throwing a film festival, it is very unlikely that it will get as much attention as a new fashionista clothing store, another Lebanese designs jewelry shop, or the latest bar in town.

This is what we do here: We take the status quo and we feed it, so that it becomes more snob and more blase, more induced in that heartbreaking comfort zone and more lazy, until we do nothing but try to make enough money to keep a lifestyle we're not sure we enjoy. Our lives revolve around relationships and jobs, and for many girls, about appearance and body image. It is what makes for most of our conversations, except on Sunday when we have a family lunch and someone has the grand idea to talk about politics.

And then we say we have the greatest country in the world. We can infamously "swim and ski" in the same day and the sun is out 9 months a year. But what's the point? We're so beyond closed up there are still people who decide to cross the street when the light turns green. And it's our own fault really. We find excuses for everything: We had 25 years of war goddammit. We need people of action in government in stead of a bunch of grumpy old men who want to settle their own personal scores but we're the ones who can't let go of them and keep them in office. We don't want to learn how to recycle or wear our seat-belts before more important things in the country are taken care of, because what's the point? And it's never, never our own fault.

The bigger problem is, we act the same way with our own lives. We drown in our own comfort zone, we stay safe, we get lazy. We complain but don't do anything about it, hoping someone else will. And secretly also hoping they wont, because change scares us and we're not sure we can handle it.

nothing was different, everything had changed

I know I know I know. Bloggers aren't supposed to disappear for weeks at a time but I swear I have a great excuse...

I went on a trip in the last three weeks that took me a long way back.

It's funny how our past only exists in our memories. I mean we know we lived through all this stuff, we remember it, we have pictures to prove it, but otherwise, it's non-existent. And I realized that by going back to New York after almost four years. I was nervous to go back in a way, even though I was mostly very excited. When I was 16 and I went there for the first time, I remember standing at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Central Park South, looking down towards the skyscrapers I was seeing for the very first time, I thought to myself: "How can anyone live anywhere else in the world?" And I ended up by moving there and living there for two years. It was the first place I went to build a life of my own, getting my first apartment, getting by without asking money from my dad, learning to be an adult. And I got to do it in one of the greatest cities in the world. And here I was, going back to my city and it turns out, nothing had changed. My favorite Barnes and Noble was still at the same spot, my Bikram Yoga Studio still had the same schedule, the 1 train is still just as disgusting as it always was and Artichoke pizza is still heavenly. I hadn't forgotten my streets and avenues and still knew how to take the subway and buy a metrocard without holding on to a map like a tourist and it felt like I had never left the city at all. Except that I had.

And although nothing was different, everything had changed.

I am not the same 22 year-old roaming the streets of Manhattan listening to "Suddenly I see" on my i-pod. My memory of New York hadn't changed but in the present, it did not feel the same. Suddenly I saw the streets of Manhattan as too busy, too noisy, too crowded. The buildings were too big and the lines were too long. The very things that used to give me energy drained it out of me completely. I'm the one who was different. The last four years of my life changed me.

Then I went to Paris for the first time in 18 years and that was a pretty big leap into the past as well. I lived in Paris from 4 to 8 years old and I really only remember bits and pieces, but I know it feels like another lifetime. It was a time when everyone I loved was still alive, we went to Disneyland for christmas, I was carefree and spoke with a Parisian accent. Again, all I keep from those days are pictures my mother carefully put together. But I went back to our old address and the building was just as I remembered it. I actually recognized it from far as we walked towards it. The gate was still there, the little path leading to the main door just like in mind, and the smell of the wooden stairs which for some reason stayed with me all these years. And the neighbor I used to play with on the 5th floor? Still there too... Except now she has a 2 months old baby.

But Paris was also something new. It was inspiring, with its pink skies and its brasseries. I liked the creek of the wooden stairs even when it was a 6th floor walk-up. I enjoyed sitting on a green bench and watching people go by, going to the Opera for the very first time and having real discussions with people. It made me want to write in Cafe de Flore like Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. It made me want to walk under the rain (and I hate the rain) and kiss my Parisian in the middle of the street, just because.

It made me realize that the past is in my memories and the future something I dream of. The present, however, that's where I'm living.

My favorite Pizza in Manhattan

My first real apartment in New York

Where I lived 18 years ago in Paris

broken machines

"Maybe that's why a broken machine always makes me a little sad, because it isn't able to do what it was meant to do... Maybe it's the same with people. If you lose your purpose... it's like you're broken." Brian Selznick, The invention of Hugo Cabret

Sometimes we feel like broken machines. Except that for machines, it’s straightforward: you know exactly what a clock is supposed to do, what a car was built for, what a microwave does. Machines have a clear purpose. And when they break, we just replace the defective parts.

People, now that’s a whole other ball game. Are we supposed to just know what our purpose is? I watched a very interesting video yesterday, which was an illustration of a lecture by Professor Renata Salecl. She was talking about the overwhelming anxiety created by the endless choices we have. I’ve written about this before, in the “Paradox of Freedom” [funnily enough, Prof. Salecl's lecture is called the Paradox of Choice]. I, for one, am the first to admit that the vast amount of choices available out there is paralyzing. I don’t know what to do with myself. And the mere idea of having one purpose and finding it –now that alone can leave you anxious for a lifetime. What if you spend your whole life looking for a purpose instead of living?

There is this idea that anyone can “make it.” That we can all become that one person who is the best –or at least who is famous for being good at that something. You can now be the unbelievably smart person who decided to create a twitter account for @AngiesRightLeg and have 50-thousand people following you overnight and journalists and bloggers mentioning you in every other article. A twitter account for @AngiesRightLeg. Now that’s purpose.

I have always been a victim of choice. When I was a child, even a teenager, I wanted to be an award-winning actress. I wanted to be famous. I wanted to walk down the red-carpet. And when I watch the Oscars every year, part of me still wants to be that. I look around at the crowd gathered, the Octavia Spencers and the Jean DuJardins, who last year were considered nobodys, suddenly becoming superstars. Anyone can make it, right? But what is it we want to make? I want to do humanitarian work. But I also want to be a writer. And I want to be an actress. And, one day, I want to be a mother. I want to live in Beirut. I want all the cliché advantages of having your family and friends close by, living an easier, bubbled life. And I want to live in Rome. Far away from inquisitive family members and in a vast, open culture. And I want to live in San Francisco. And in Thailand. And in Barcelona.

But now everyone has the same choice. You’ve got self-made men and women everywhere you look. You have a Masters degree and that’s good for you but there are hundreds of thousands of other people who have the same exact degree and the same qualifications and it’s up to you to put yourself out there and find your own unique little thing that will make you shine over everyone else. Or maybe it’s just a little bit of luck.

And then we wonder why so many marriages end in divorce, so many relationships end up in the gutter. To me it makes perfect sense. How can we actually expect anyone to stay in a committed relationship when you always have the choice to be with someone else, someone prettier, someone thinner, someone richer, someone just plain different. If you always have that choice, why would you settle?

And where does that leave us? Dissatisfied.

My Parisian told me yesterday: happiness shouldn’t be in a goal you set for yourself. It shouldn’t be achieved. It should be found in the moments you have all the time. In the lines of a good book, in a glass of good wine shared with friends, in a laugh, in a kiss, in a breathtaking scenery. Otherwise, there is no purpose at all.

There’s no point in thinking “I’ll be happy when I get a promotion,” “My life will make sense when I leave this country,” or “Things will be better once we get married or have a child.” Living in the idea of a future that could make us happier is not living. It’s waiting. And then "choice" has the opposite effect of what it was meant to be: we feel trapped. Just like Oscar Wilde said: “To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”

so, I called in sick

I wanted to get started on my list of things to do to get over writer's block [see looking for my mojo]. Not really sure how these particular challenges are going to get the juices flowing, but I'm trying. It's not like I have anything else to write about.

So, I called in sick. Seemed like the easiest, most convenient one to start with. Mostly because I had barely slept all night and was dead tired anyway. I woke up at noon, took an hour to actually get ready to leave the house. Left the house deciding to do things I've been putting off for months. Drove to the optician to get new eye-glasses because I broke mine back in June and still haven't gotten a replacement. There was no parking space so I left.  Drove to the jewelry shop to shorten the ring my aunt gave me for Christmas in 2010. There was no parking space, so I left.  Drove to the Nail Salon, to the Stationer's shop, to the shop that's been bombarding me with SMSs because it's 70% off, but no parking. So I left. I drove back home, after an hour of aimless driving, ready to have lunch. But there was no place to park.


Basically, nothing happened that day. If anything, it got me even more depressed about the fact that nothing interesting is happening anymore and it's all boring routines, traffic jams and unproductive days. I went to bed angry. 


Then the next day, I was really sick. Woke up feeling nauseous and unable to move. Slept it off and woke up feeling much better three hours later. Meanwhile, I had called in sick, obviously. So I got on my feet and walked around, even though it was pouring rain. I hit the bank, did my nails, paid my credit card bill, paid my rent. Went to my studio, which is supposed to be my writing haven and which I haven't really used properly since I've been suffering from writer's block... But my roomy and I decided to do a huge cleanup, fixed it around, and when I finally sat down in front of my computer, something magical happened: I got an idea. 


Unfortunately, I can't share that idea with you yet, because then I might jinx it and I'll be right back where I started. But the point is, it kind of worked. 


Then, later last night, I was at a friend's, and I was talking about wanting to go somewhere for inspiration. Traveling, somewhere, anywhere, just to see something new. Different experiences always inspire. So he made me play a game: there was a map of the world on his wall, and a flechette [one of those small arrows you throw]. Anyway, after about ten failed attempts for the flechette to actually stick, and my friend patiently telling me exactly how to throw it, it finally landed on South Africa. I was in Cape Town and Johannesburg in June 2010, for the World Cup. It was the last trip my ex-boyfriend and I took together, a couple of months before we broke up. I had fallen in love with Cape Town. I remember thinking that I could just buy a cottage on the beach and stay there forever. It was so beautiful, so vibrant, so colorful. We stayed at the most amazing hotel I've ever been, the Cape Heritage, and we had an amazing time, with the world-cup fury and all. But something was off during that trip. Although we spent two weeks together, alone, and we had a lot of fun, something was going sour. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but I see it clearly now. We weren't the same "us" anymore. And when the flechette landed on South Africa, I realized I had to let it go. Close my eyes and remember the sea-shore, and Table Mountain, and the unbelievable rush of watching a football game with tens of thousands of people. Remember the good memories, let go of what hurts. Because when I meet someone else, I can't be so scared of getting attached that I forget to enjoy it. I can keep the thrill of riding the helicopter, but let go of the fear. 


I threw the flechette again. It landed on Costa Rica. Might seem random but the crazy thing is my best-friend and I are planning to go to Costa Rica in April. It's the "greenest" country in the world. The goal is to go spend ten days in wildlife settings and going back to our sources. Forget our chi-chi make-up bags and heels at home, and dig our hands in the soil. Literarily. Remove all the layers we put on all year long: the brave hand-shake at a work meeting, the flirtatious smile on a night out, the mask we put on when we're feeling blue, the hello-how-are-yous we don't really care about. We want to stay away from the things we do because it's the right thing to do, or because we have to do it, or because that's what we're expected to do. In the end we don't know what is real and what isn't, what we really want and who we really are. So we want to go to a place where there is nothing but plants and trees and creatures we've never seen before. Where no one will judge the size of our hips or the things we say. Somewhere we don't speak the language, know no one and want nothing.


I threw it a third time. It landed right in the dead sea, between Jordan and Egypt. It struck me as odd at first, and then I remembered: the dead sea was where we went for our last vacation with my mother. We went to Aqaba in Jordan and on the last day, we went to the dead sea and had the funnest time floating around and putting mud all over our bodies because it's "good for the skin." During that vacation, I saw my mother dance, water-ski, laugh, run around and put mud all over everyone's face. She had such positive energy even though she was months away from dying. And I realized yesterday that this is the place I need to go to, in my mind, when I'm lost. The place that reminds me of her strength, her joie de vivre, and these amazing yet fleeting moments that get lost in the spectrum of time. When I remember the sand grabbing onto my feet and the water standing still, it grounds me. She grounds me. 


The Dead Sea in French is called la "Mer Morte." La Mere [Mother] Morte. 


So, I called in sick.  Went for a trip around the world. And brought some of my mojo back.

sundays and oranges

“Someone has somewhere commented on the fact that millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon” Susan Ertz

I used to hate Sundays.

When I was younger, the year my mother died, I used to spend every Sunday alone. I remember the rain, and the gloominess around the house, the gray sky, the emptiness of the chair where mom sat for two months straight with that respirator thing next to her, and me just staring into the television, feeling sorry for myself. My father would go out with friends, taking my brother and my sister with him, but I would refuse to go. I would rather sit on my couch, stare into mom’s empty spot and cry myself for hours, filled with hatred and anger, wanting to scream but having no one there to hear me. Sundays were cruel.

I’d think about the time when my dad was still my hero. I was six or seven, we lived in Paris, and my brother wasn’t born yet. We would have McDonald’s on the Champs Elysees, and then my father would take me to the movies, and it was our special time for just the two of us. My mom would be with my sister, and I’m not sure what they used to do but I didn’t really care, I was the older one and my dad would let me pick whichever movie I wanted, and he always enjoyed it just as much as me. We used to be happy on Sundays.

And then Sundays became all about how empty my family was. Without my mom to hold us together, I could feel it all coming apart. I was sixteen and I had just lost my mother and I was angry and life was as gloomy as those Sunday skies in February.

Then Sundays started changing, with the seasons and the years. When I moved to New York, Sundays became my favorite day of the week. We would wake up late and head down to Soho for brunch, and it is on one of those lovely New York Sundays that I tasted Eggs Benedict for the first time in my life --what became one of my absolute favorite things to eat. 

When I moved back, Sundays turned sour again. I worked for a TV station, which meant that it was open seven days a week, and I worked the Sunday shift. And I did not like my job. And I was stuck behind my computer for seven hours in a gloomy office with no windows, eating Casper and Gambini's Santa Fe salad. The upside? I'd get a message from my entire family who would be gathered for lunch, saying they watched me give the 5 o'clock news. It felt good to know the only reason I went to work on Sundays was for my family to sit around and ouhhh and ahhh at me from 5 to 5.25pm. 

When I finally quit my job, I was so excited to have Sundays back in my life, that having lunch with my family was pure pleasure. I learnt how to actually appreciate it when my uncle and my dad would fight about politics, when my cousins would scream about who broke the computer, and when my aunt would serve us the most delicious meals we would have all week. 

And then, as the catalyst of most changes, the infamous breakup happened. And it was on a weekend. So that started a whole new tradition of me spending every possible minute at the Twins' house. One comforted me with his world-class scrambled-eggs, and the other listened to me whine for weeks. And months. The tradition of Sunday brunch with friends was finally installed. The sound of the Hyper Twin working away in his kitchen always brings a smile to my heart. I walk in and sure enough, there he is, hidden behind pots and pans and cutting boards, one eye on the boiling water, the other making sure he doesn’t chop off his finger along with the tomatoes. I put my bag down, take off my jacket, and before we even say hello, he starts giving me directions. "Start pressing the oranges. There are more of them in the fridge. We need at least thirty."Ah, the oranges. I get the same task every time. 

Now since I started working on a TV Series, Sundays have a whole new meaning. The alarm rings at 6, or even 5am sometimes. Then it's a myriad of things to do, actors who we need to get to the set in time; schedules we ned to follow, the lunch we have to make sure is here on time, the make-up for every actors, oh, and the actually acting...  We go home more tired from the weekend then from the week at work... But it's the kind of Sunday that mixes productivity, good company and fun. And that has to be the best kind of Sundays of all.

Now yesterday was a Sunday. I woke up with a kiss, went to brunch with my friends, talked about different TV opportunities with my TV peeps, had coffee with Classy, had a whatsapp group conversation with 5 friends who are in five different countries for about two hours (felt like we all went out for coffee), then had dinner with my family --finishing it all off with my grandmother's most famous dish and my ultimate favorite: horra2 osba3o. 

I guess I kinda' like Sundays now. 

the goal is to bring him home tonight

This is about the other girl. Not the one that I always rat about, who gets tugged around and played with and endures the calamities that come with dating men. This is about the girl that sees a guy from across the room, and with one look she already knows that he's going to be hers. Because the truth is, when a woman confidently sets her mind to something nothing can stop her.

Now don't get me wrong: this can be the same girl. I've seen it. I've been it. You can be the victim at one time and you can hold the reigns at another --it all depends on the situation and the guy and the timing. A couple of nights ago I was having a drink with a friend and she says to me "the goal is to bring him home tonight." I smiled. There I was having a girlie drink with one of my girlfriends and in stead of analyzing what this new crush of hers said or did, she just wanted to go through the motions and establish a plan that would get him into her bed. I loved it.

My other friend (whose nickname sets off alarms so I'm keeping it anonymous) usually meets a guy and plans the wedding ceremony within the same hour. But lately the balance seems to have tipped her way. He's the one talking about "us" for the next three years while she is still trying to remember his last name. She finds herself on a guy's bed and he's the one who doesn't want to go any further... yet.

Or this other girl who met this guy who is really insisting on trying out a long distance relationship.  Or my friend who is having trouble in her relationship because he thinks she is not making enough effort. Or my other friend who is feeling bad because she is using a guy for sex and moral support even though she knows he is in love with her and she doesn't see it going it anywhere. Sounds like I'm confusing my pronouns.

And then there's me. I'm an open book, literarily, just read the blog and you'll know what I'm thinking, what I've been through, when I'm depressed and when I'm happy. But even I can have the bring-him-home-tonight attitude sometimes. Think some guy can make me feel like shit for no reason and then come back and pretend like nothing happened? Not this time. If there's anything I learnt this year, it's to put myself first. Wise-rat told me: "You need to find a guy who will treat you like a princess." And there will be no settling for less.

when did we get to that age?

Summer used to be about the beach. It used to be about the sun and the sea and the fact that we didn't have anything to do for three months except sun-tan and have a good time. It used to be about a week in Faqra in August, a trip by boat every once in a while, beach parties at night. But somewhere along the way, summers have come and gone merging into the other seasons, ending before we realize they've begun. I have to consciously stop and look at my calendar, and tell myself that it's July 14 and I haven't been to the beach yet. Not once.

But then again, there is one thing that also reminds me we're in summer: the white flowers hanging on every other door, the invitation cards flooding the entrance table, the harmonious beeping of car convoys... the names changing from double to triple on Facebook (I like this trend women have of keeping their maiden names, so modern-chic), pictures of the big day flooding everyone's walls, the honeymoons in the Maldives or San Francisco.

So when did we get to that age again? Because I think I missed the memo. Just yesterday we were sixteen and we would beg our parents to let us out until 2am and we would sneak out in the middle of the night, have sleepovers, play truth or dare, get drunk and spend the rest of the night throwing up in the guest bathroom of a friend's chalet in Faraya. Now I log on to Facebook with my morning coffee in one hand and my jaw drops as everyday I discover that a friend who I played barbies with when I was 10 years old now has a baby. And bless her heart, she's the cutest thing in the world and I'm so happy for her, but again --when did we reach that age? I log in again this morning and I see another one who is pregnant. I go out for drinks with my friends, and all everyone talks about is that dress she bought for thingy's wedding and the shoes she bought for the other wedding, and there's a wedding on Friday and two on Saturday and the engagement party and the bachelorette and if I hear these words one more time I think I'm going to scream.

There's never been a truer moment for me to say time flies. The last three years have gone by so fast I haven't had the time to pause and catch my breath. Next thing I know I'll be the one adding a name to my name and parading pictures of my belly. Maybe. And suddenly that whole Peter Pan story has a whole new meaning.

seasons of change

Summer is peaking out its nose.
It's been a long winter and we are all craving lazying by the pool, showing off tanned faces, drinking on rooftop bars and acting like we're on vacation even when we're not. There is a feeling that comes together with the change of seasons... something about renewal, feeling happier, rejuvenated, more alive. And after months of gray skies and cold nights, the sun is something to look forward to.

I was speaking to a friend this morning, and we realized that all our friends had broken up at some point during this winter, including the both of us. All long, serious relationships that came to their end, each for their own reasons, each in their own way. We each try to overcome it as best we can, we each have our own process, but it's not easy for anyone. It's crazy how one person missing in your life can create such damage, such change.

For weeks at a time, everything can seem fine. And then someone tells you he saw your ex kissing another girl. Or you spot that girl on Facebook that seems to "like" everything he does. Or something really great just happened to you, and your first instinct is to share it with her --and then you remember you can't. Most days you've moved on. He doesn't even cross your mind, until you see his car parked in front of you. You see her best-friend walk out of a shop, and you wonder if she's close by. You open a random folder on your laptop, and you stumble on dozens of pictures of the both of you. And then the wound bleeds a little.

Sometimes it's a song. A movie. The other day, it was a book. I read a passage that gave me the chills, as I felt I was reading the exact scene of my breakup. It was kind of creepy actually.

But then the stings get more and more rare. One day you see the car and you forget it was his. Her picture still evokes a memory, but doesn't hurt as much. You meet someone else that makes you smile and feel special, and suddenly it doesn't feel as hard anymore.

They say time heals all things. That as seasons change, things that seemed to have died come back to life. Right now, there are rays of sun one day and gray clouds the next. It's 30 degrees in the shade, and then all of a sudden, it starts to rain. Summer is peaking out its nose. And we're not there just yet; but we're close.

breaking away

Sometimes it feels like we're stuck in a bad relationship, a bad routine, a bad job, and we don't know how to break away. We have dreams and ambitions that we keep putting off because something or someone always gets in the way. It's easy to loose track of the things that really excite us, that would really make us happy, and just settle for easy, predictable, safe.
As we grow older, we get more scared. I guess it's the price of "life experience" and "responsibilities" and "acting like an adult." I am always trying to get back to that time when my dreams were so big I would drown myself in them, and just the fact that I had a dream place to evade to was amazing.
I got this book called "Creating Your Best Life" and it's all about how to put your goals and dreams, long-term or short-term, crazy or realistic, on paper. A bucket-list. 100 things you want to do in your life time. It's actually really hard to come up with. And there's a bit of everything in there, from writing a novel, to winning a Nobel prize, to swimming with dolphins or going to meditate at an Ashram in India. And it seems like a long shot, but last year, I crossed out four items off my bucket-list, and it was unexplainably satisfying.
We get stuck doing things we don't enjoy because we're too scared to go outside the familiar. Couples stay in bad relationships because they're afraid of being alone, of loosing the other's support, of never finding anyone else. I know I've done that. I got stuck in a relationship where I wasn't happy, where I felt more lonely than if I were to be alone, where the everyday struggle of thinking my relationship through had become exhausting. So why did I do it? I was settling. I was scared of the alternative. But once you break away and feel the freedom of having your whole life in front of you, then yes, it is scary, but it is also exciting. There is a world of possibilities that I had stopped seeing.
People get stuck in a job they hate, because they're afraid of being unemployed, of having to live without a dime, of falling off their career track. And it is scary, and it is hard to dump it all and start from scratch. But there are things we can do to prevent the really scary part. You can look for something else while you're still working. You can decide to stop postponing for next year, and make a decision before next months. It takes guts, but I think it pays off.
I've been putting off writing a book. I give myself all kinds of excuses --too much work, the routine sucks the creativity out of me, I don't have a quiet place to write, etc., etc., etc... So I started the blog to motivate me, and it worked, I now at least write twice per week, which is a lot more than I used to. But the point was to start me off and get me excited about working on a novel. And there are always new excuses, reasons why it can't be done, and truth is, it's all a question of discipline, of how much you want it.
So now i decided to stop postponing. I left the routine behind, got away from the city (and trust me, I'm a city girl, and I don't do well outside the city for very long), got myself a quiet place to get inspired, and write. So far, I got one page down. But I'm trying.
Sometimes we need to just turn our minds of, stop thinking about doing, and just do it. Just break away.

shared happiness

This weekend, my friend had a down that completely resonated with me. "I need a change" she said. And I knew exactly what she meant. Sometimes we really feel like we need a change --if only we knew what it was. The problem is that for most of us women, we get caught up in collective-living and completely forget to live for ourselves. So once we are left alone to embrace the freedom and joy of being utterly selfish, independent, and free to be whoever we want to be... we have no idea what to do.
I could be wrong, but it feels like men have a better grip on being themselves. Whether they are single or attached, they pretty much live their lives the way they want to, following that job in Costa Rica if that's what their career calls for, or climbing the seven summits if that's what their heart calls for.
Women do that too, but to a lesser extend... and with a lot more difficulty when they are attached. We tend to prioritize our relationship, because we think, after all, what is more important? To get that amazing job, or to be with the person you love? For my part, I tend to put more value on relationships (not just romantic) because I think at the end of the day, if I die tomorrow, it won't matter that I won an oscar or made the bestseller list --the only thing that will matter is what the people I love remember me for.
But I also think we need balance. Because we only live once, and life is short, we should enjoy it and do as many things we like as possible. And the truth is, even with all the love in the world, it's not smart to put all your eggs in one basket. Mothers who live for nothing but their children often feel useless and completely lonely once the kids are all grown up and have a life of their own. Women who spend their time making sure they are the perfect wife, get dumped, or their spouse dies, and suddenly they end up all alone. People you love are what is most important, but you need to love yourself as well, and we tend to forget that. We make sure everyone else get what they want but we neglect our own needs. And soon enough, we forget what those are.
My friend and I want to go on a great adventure. We want to do something we've never done before, be far away from everything we know, take a leap of faith and see where we land. It'll be good for us, and we won't be neglecting anyone in the process. Waiting for change will do nothing, we need to make change happen. There's an inspiring story called "Eat, Pray, Love" (read the book, don't see the movie) where a woman decides she needs a change, and embarks on a year of travel to rediscover herself. She lived the last few years of her life in a bad marriage where she totally lost her passion for life, and she needed to find it again. She goes to Italy to do nothing but enjoy the pleasures of food, then she goes to India to meditate and connect with her spirituality, and finally she ends the year in Bali, where she falls in love. I love that story because I relate to her completely. Waking up and realizing you have no passion is scary. Passion makes you feel alive, and that's how I want to feel.
But in that search, there is one thing we should always remember: "happiness is only worth it, if shared." (Christopher McCandless) 

letting go

"There are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't want to know but have to learn, and people we can't live without but have to let go" (Author Unknown)

It's the last week of the year and it's a good time for change. This weekend, a lot of my friends had a down moment, inevitably linked to the emotions of the holidays, and there was a bit of loneliness to deal with. One waited for a Merry Xmas message that never came --even though she had no idea she was expecting it until she was actually expecting it. The other ran back to her ex after eight months of separation even though she truly knows she never wants to be with him again --Xmas made her doubt. A third found out her ex got engaged and even though it's been years since she's even seen him, she couldn't help but cry her eyes out all day. And I'll admit I cried more than a couple of times for a lot less reason than her over the last two days, including once for crashing my car (slightly) and at least three times because of my friend the Masochist.
And now it's over. It's Monday morning, and the resolutions are falling into place as we put the year, and the decade, in perspective. And before comes 2011, I think we better let go.
I don't know about the boys, but us girls, when it comes to stirring up the past and dragging it on forever, we're absolute professionals. We look back and reminisce and keep reliving moments that are gone, feeding a memory that has no more place in our lives and has nothing to do with the present. And we forget to live in the moment.
But we should have more confidence than that. Just because we lost something or someone, doesn't mean we are doomed to a life of loneliness. And just because we don't have a man in our lives, doesn't mean our lives are incomplete. Sometimes I feel like we live in a society where everything we talk about and all we live for is men, women, relationships, flings, one night stands, breakups, divorces, engagements, and the whole nine yards. I'm not one to talk, I write a blog about it, and I'm always surprised at how many topics I still haven't tackled. But it's too much. Everything all day long is about this one and only obsession. Ninety percent of conversations at all times have something to do with men and women dynamics. A friend told me a couple of weeks ago "women aren't my priority." And I thought, my God, how refreshing. I had never heard that before.
I guess loneliness is what we make it out to be. We can choose to feel like we are lonely --or look around and realize that we are lucky to be so fully surrounded. And most importantly, we should learn how to be one hundred percent good with ourselves first and foremost. That's my number one resolution.