note to self

You're feeling sorry for yourself again. Don't. If you feel sorry for yourself then people will feel sorry for you and you hate that, remember? You want people to admire you, not look at you like you're something broken. Stop thinking everyone sees you as a failure. They don't. And if they do, it's because you feel like a failure. But you aren't. You've done everything you've ever set out to achieve and that counts for something. Maybe for a lot. So don't be so dramatic. Stop looking around and comparing yourself to every single one of your friends and wonder how it is that you are the only one who can't get a relationship to stick, or a guy to fall in love with. I know what you're thinking: They're prettier. Thinner. They dress better. Maybe they're smarter or funnier or just luckier. I guess you don't have the best of luck. Don't cry. We've been through this. Lots of women are single at 30, it doesn't mean they wont get married or have kids, eventually. Remember what they told you. He'll come into your life when you least expect it. Or when the time is right. You won't find him, he'll find you. You'll find him when you're open to it. When you're ready. I know you think you're ready but clearly you're not. And stop feeling lonely. Embrace your freedom. One day you'll be a wife and mother and you'll long for your single days. But you don't believe that. You're scared. You're afraid you'll never know what it feels like, to be a mother.  You want to feel like all these other girls, who have men loving them and taking care of them, like that girl who sits next to you in your office whose husband brings her water because he's worried she forgets to drink. You're jealous that no one cares if you forget to drink. Stop. Close your eyes. Imagine he is there. He is walking towards you with a glass of water and a tender smile and you're feeling really lucky. Like you're not alone. Picture him sitting next you at the dinner table with all your friends. Feel him holding your hand and smile because now you're finally like everyone else. Open your eyes. Don't cry.

into the wild

It's a peculiar world out there, for those of us single gals and guys. I've been in the dating world in and out for the past fifteen years, and believe me when I tell you, the times are now different.

Forget the friend of a friend you might accidentally meet on a night out and hit it off. By thirty, you've met practically all of your friends' friends. And their new friends are all married couples, so of course there's no potential there.

Forget the seeing a cute guy sitting at the bar and asking him for a lighter to catch his attention. The last time I did that, it turned out I approached a total loser/creep/psycho who spent the rest of the night stalking me, sitting (alone) on the table next to ours staring at me for more than an hour, not taking no (many, many nos) for an answer.

Forget making eye contact with a complete stranger at ladies night (a trendy Dubai thing to do mid-week, where ladies can basically get very drunk for free), followed by the smile to invite him to talk to you. I fell completely under his charm for a good hour; until his friend told my friend that he is actually engaged and getting married in 6 months.

No, now it's all about the apps. How much you know of technology and how good you are at it. Flirting on social media, that's a thing. There's a wave on Instagram I recently experienced: one follows, you check out his pictures, maybe follow back. You get a like, you give a like. A person can look through your pictures and decide they like your personality (or at least, your Instapersonality) they may take the leap and send you a private message. You may even answer.

Then of course there are the actual dating apps. Or sex apps, still unclear who uses them for what. Apparently Tinder is now passé, kind of trashy. Happn is the newer, more classy version I hear. I'm yet to try it out, though I feel like I'm all app-ed out. I'm guessing the principle is the same. You basically get hundreds of guys putting their best pictures forward (the topless one, the petting a large animal one, the holding nephews and nieces one) or those who try to remain mysterious by only sharing a faraway picture so that you can't see much more than a silhouette... you swipe left and right (left a lot more than right) and strike up a conversation (as dry and textbook as they come) and you try your best to find some kind of connection even though the entire setup doesn't help you out at all --it's a lot of work and a lot of energy, for not much return. Sometimes they'll call you "baby" after a two sentence exchange and you wonder what on earth you've done wrong in your life to be in that position at that moment.

And then... then: There's the odd time when one of those many encounters materializes into an actual date. A real live date, a drink or a dinner, a face to face with a stranger usually subdued by one or four drinks, to help you through that awkward hour where you're trying to get to know a stranger. And it can be bad. Or even worse, it can be okay. He's nice enough that even though he took you to the completely wrong place, can't tell you an interesting story to save his life or make you feel anything but awkward politeness, you hang in there. And then you have to spend the next 3 weeks trying to politely, awkwardly, reject every other attempt he makes at asking you out again, until he finally gets the hint.

So the other night, I was talking about this to... my dad. Last person on earth I would ever talk to about my dating life. Because knowing my dad, he'll try to set me up with every eligible bachelor he comes across. And then I thought for a minute, that it might not be such a bad idea after all. I am, it seems, pretty old-school about the whole "how to meet someone" thing. And yes, I choose organically above technology any day. And having my father set me up is the one thing I haven't tried yet. So... I wonder how that will go.

the seventh wheel

I should've guessed that writing a blog about being single in my twenties wouldn't make me much of a relationship expert --but rather an expert at being single, at going on bad/weird/okay dates, and collecting stories for the ages. It's a good thing I'm writer, at least the stories have somewhere to go.

Which is basically why I find myself back here. To the blog that started a little over five years ago, just as a relationship was ending; like an ominous sign that I was about to lose a part of my life and I needed to reconnect with my words to survive it.

There's been a lot of ups and downs and trips sideways since then. Not just in love, but in life. And somewhere along the way, I turned thirty. And writing a blog about dating and relationships and life in your thirties is a little different. I no longer have a rat-pack of guys feeding me their latest conquests stories. Almost all the rats are married. Or engaged. The girls that used inspire me with broken hearts and awful dates are now talking wedding arrangements, house decor and baby feedings. But I'm not ready to write about any of those things.

Because I'm still stuck in another phase. The one where you're supposed to be a grownup, supposed to have your life together, a real apartment (but you have a really cute studio!), a boyfriend who is marriage material, money on the side... and you don't.

So I'm here, writing. What else am I gonna do? My words, they keep me company. They keep me from driving myself insane. When I write them down, it stops them from growing fangs in my brain. When I put them out there, I know that someone might relate.

You joke about being the Bridget Jones amongst your friends. You laugh about being the seventh wheel every Friday night at dinner because everyone else comes in pairs and you just come with a new hairdo. You smile when the one-hundredth person asks you if you've "met someone yet" when you go home for the holidays.

Until one day, the joke doesn't make you laugh, it makes you cry. You feel a little lonely in your world and you're tired of hiding behind your feelings, because they'll think you're being a drama queen. Or a martyr. God forbid you should actually admit that you're lonely sometimes. That being single isn't easy.

But it's not all drama. The truth is, I'm just having a bad day. A lot of the times, I'm happy I'm still free. That anything can happen, that my life could turn upside down and that the possibilities are endless. That age, despite how much society defines it, is just a number and if people think I still look 23, well then I must be.

The man under my window

I’ve been back in Beirut for almost two months now; and all I’ve done is complain since I got here. I came back from New York, you see, where I was isolating myself so I could write a book (live my dream) and not have to deal with all the distractions of the Lebanese life. I forget sometimes, that no matter how many times I’ve wished otherwise, this is where I’m from.

I came back and the first thing my father told me is that I think twice before flushing and that I can only take a shower once every other day because there is no water in the country, you know, it didn’t rain all winter, and we can’t get the “citerne” every damned day. I came back and quickly forgot the pleasure of walking in the streets of Manhattan, where side-walks are four times the size they are here. I got in my car and remembered the infuriating tragedy of being behind a wheel in this country, where scooters seems to have a law of their own. The three kids that run to my car every time I stop at a red light, also I complain about. I die a little inside every time I see one, and I don’t want to see them mostly because they make me feel guilty about sitting in my little red car, thinking about what a piece of crap it is and how I’ve spent way too much money on repairing it –probably more money this little kid has seen in her entire lifetime.

I complain that I can’t find all the organic ingredients I had when I was in New York just a block away from the biggest organic supermarket in the world, and that’s probably why I’ve gained a couple of kilos since then.  I complain about the lack of recycling, about the smoking indoors even though it’s been banned, the state of the country, the lack of president, the effing government, the electricity (I had to climb 7 flights of stairs, twice) the valet parking in front of my house whom I fight with everyday, the chairs they put when there’s a space open to “reserve it”, the lack of parking spots, the ticket I got, the bank that closes at 2pm, the internet connection that cuts in the middle of an episode of The Good Wife. Yes, all that.

And then yesterday night, it was pouring rain outside and I was standing at my window, and I saw a man on the stairs below. He was dusting the floor with a blanket, then he sat against the wall that had was a small roof, put his head on a big bag full of stuff, and slept there, all night, under the rain.

I complain a lot, but I forget to be thankful sometimes.

Tonight I saw the man under my window again. He is still here, sleeping outside on a blanket and a bag of his stuff, probably content that at least tonight, it isn’t raining. 

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.

it's your birthday, mom

Hey mom,

It's the 7th of January, 2014. Last time we celebrated together, it was 2001. Kind of crazy, huh? We had organised a surprise party for you, and I guess we all knew it would be your last. You never had big birthday parties as a kid --you always told me how your brother and sister both had birthdays in December, and then there was Christmas, and then New Years, and by the time your birthday came no one really had the energy to do anything, so it was called "eid el tlet baraneet" (the 3-hats party) because the only people there was you and your siblings.

I didn't always have presents for you; mostly drawings or cards or something I made myself. But I always had letters. And I figure I can still do that, write to you on your birthday.

You would've been 59 today. You never wanted us to know that, your real age, and for as long as I can remember you always turned 33 and that's how you'll always remain in my world. You would've been the proud mother of a 20-year-old son who is off to college in Montreal, studying environmental science and in love with sports and nature, just like you. I can imagine you two would have had a hell of a time exploring mountains and discussing global warming. You would've been the proud mother of a 24-year old daughter who is a graphic designer, just like you were, and who could've taught you how to do it all on photoshop (no, they don't use pencils and papers to draw logos anymore...).

I close my eyes, and I imagine I would have taken you out to lunch today, just like I did 13 years ago; and we would have talked about my plans, my wanting to move, the book I'm writing and why I keep getting my heart broken and you would've probably had some tough love in there for me to snap me back into place. Of course, I would've probably spent the entire time talking about me, because that's what kids do, right? Just like I'm doing now. It's your birthday, and all I can do is talk to you about myself.

I will take a moment and say something about you though. I found it in the letter I wrote you that last birthday you were still around. I wrote: "The only thing I can give you today that matters are my words. You will always be my mother. The years go by, things happen that we don't expect, and all the tears we cry wont change anything. So let's look at the world positively, isn't that what you always say?"
 It is what you always said. Even sick, even dying; and I will never forget that.

Happy birthday mom, wherever you are now.

why I haven't been able to write a word

I've been back from New York almost 3 weeks now. I'm currently not working which means I have lots and lots of free time, all to myself, with nothing to do but sit at my computer and write. Or so you would think.

I've sat down and opened Beirut Rhapsodies and tried to work on a new post --wrote something, read it, realized it was very "blah". Left it in the "drafts" folder and forgot about it.
I've tried to work on the story that I came up with when I was in New York, a really exciting project for a novel that I absolutely can't wait to get started on, yet I haven't been able to do anything about it since I've been here.

Every day I've woken up and told myself that today, I would get back to my active lifestyle and go to yoga. I check the schedule, pick the class I want to attend --and then don't end up going. I spent the last two weekends on my best-friends' blue couch, because it's my comfort zone: we each sit on a side, watch some ridiculously mind-numbing TV series and let the day go by.

When it rained last week (superstorm Alexa really wasn't that bad, was it?) I hid under my covers and listened to the honking cars outside, imagining the traffic and feeling delighted that I was completely avoiding it.

So what the hell is happening? Everything I'm describing is me at my most passive behavior. No inspiration to write when it's all I should be doing. But I recognize this feeling. It's me being in Beirut. I get sucked in this black hole of no motivation and no creativity, and the only thing I've actually been able to write about is just this: nothingness.

The truth is, I'm a dreamer. I don't like to feel insignificant, in my little life, driving my little car, running errands and taking way more instagram pictures than I should have time for. So I've been hiding.

But I want to come out now.

a love letter from the grave

Love letters. Something that seems improbable to get today, in the age of email, sms, whatsapp, audio-notes and skype. Just a mere 60 years ago, it was the only way my grandparents kept in touch in the seven years in between meeting and getting married, when one lived in Beirut and the other in Cairo. Without these letters, I probably wouldn't even be here.

So what's better, in 2013, than getting a love letter, in an envelope, written with ink on a paper? I'll tell you --it's finding a letter that my mother wrote my sister 14 years ago, and realizing that it is timeless. The love of a mother, it seems, can overcome the fact that she passed away almost 13 years ago.

Today, my sister got a new tattoo: she took my mother's words from the letter, in my mother's handwriting, and had them tattooed on her arm. Now if that isn't love...

I translated the letter here because I thought it was beautiful. And because even though my mother didn't write this to me, I feel like she would've wrote me the same thing.


"To my darling daughter
I am your mom! And I always will be. Know that I love you more than anything in the world. And that I am always here for you, for better or for worse, and never, and I mean ever, be afraid to tell me how you feel and what you want. If there is a problem, we resolve it together, and if there is a happy situation then we will be happy together.
I love you and I wish you all the possible happiness in life. I am sure that with your smile and your kindness you will always get what you want...
Well! I hope you're going to fill this diary with happy thoughts and fun adventures...
I love you!

PS: I'm sure there are a lot of spelling mistakes, but I know you understand me..."

Are we aging or just appreciating?

I know what you're thinking --this girl hasn't written anything in ages and now she's invading my newsfeed with two posts in two days... I'm actually writing this for me more than for you, just because I'm so over-excited that I actually feel like writing and I'm not gonna miss out on it. It's magical that a simple night in is inspiring me to write.

So, last night... Let me give you some background information. I am staying with one of my best-friends, in his New York apartment. We met in journalism school 7 years ago right here in Manhattan and have been quite the inseparable pair ever since --like he said yesterday, I don't think I've ever spent so much time hanging out with anyone else. The year after we went to Columbia, we were both in our early twenties, living in New York, starting our careers... and doing all kinds of crazy shit at odd hours in the city that never sleeps.

And so yesterday afternoon, when he came home from work, I was there waiting to hear all about his day. Keep in mind this is my first night in New York City in about 18 months. He comes home after a long day (he's kind of a famous success story) and we wind down as he is telling me about his day. Then we decide to go out --for juice. Apparently New York has turned into this super health-freak zone in the last few years and everywhere you look there is something organic, detoxing, vegan-related and other things I don't understand yet. So we go to this juice bar, and I follow his lead, order this juice that is supposedly really good for you. Then we walk around the neighborhood for about 30 minutes looking for a liquor store, and I have a brief flashback of us 6 years ago... except this time, we're a going in to buy --wait for it-- ginger cognac. Not wine, not beers, not vodka or even whisky. Ginger cognac.

We get home, kick off our shoes, I start making grilled cheese sandwiches, and he takes out two pairs of those hotel slippers and gives me one. By 9pm, we were eating, drinking ginger cognac and watching The Voice ("because it makes his mind switch off"). An hour later we're both ready to shower and go to bed, and I hear him screaming from the bathroom door: "Yas... Are we aging?"

Truth be told, six years ago, on a random tuesday night, we'd sometimes end up renting a car at 11pm and would find ourselves driving to Atlantic City. So yeah, I guess we are aging. But the absolute joy that comes with spending time with a friend eating grilled cheese, drinking cognac, watching The Voice... it's priceless. Even in New York City.

New York and the Rays of Sunshine

I know it's been months --almost a year actually, but I woke up this morning and all I could think of was I need to write a blog post. So here it goes.

I woke up this morning in New York --the city I first fell in love with when I was 17 years old and made my very first visit to the United States. Since then, I visited New York countless times, lived there for two years and left it with regret. Today I find myself back here, and the feeling of walking down lafayette street on a magical fall morning is just as good as it was the first time, 11 years ago.

I already forgot all about the horrible plane delays, the missed connection, the fact that my suitcase didn't make it and I have been wearing the same clothes for 36 hours... Who cares? I am in Manhattan and the weather is at my absolute favorite: sunny and the perfect amount of cold. 7am and the streets were already alive, people walking their kids to school or walking themselves to work (how amazing to see people walk after so long in Beirut traffic) and I found myself just enjoying gazing at the activity on the street. Morning coffee at the corner barista, with the line of the usual customers ordering their usual cup of coffee, to each their own. There is something about that morning ritual which puts smile on my face. Not just the smell of coffee and the familiar interaction between the customers and their baristas but just the simple fact that people do that here: no one in Beirut stops around the corner for their morning coffee... it comes on a tray to your bed without having to even ask for it.

I stopped by Whole Foods and just enjoyed walking through the aisles of organic spreads, realizing that in Beirut we barely have a few shelves of bio products. I held onto the crispy craft grocery bag walking back home and it's not even 9 in the morning yet I'm having a wonderful day.

Why am I sharing all this? I've had a rough couple of months --not that we don't all go through bad phases but for me it was an especially tough time I was having with myself and I decided I needed a break. Destination New York because it's the one place in the world where I feel totally free. And because I have an amazing friend who is letting me crash his perfect lower east side apartment. I asked for a leave of absence from work --haven't had a break longer than 2 weeks in 7 years and now I am free for a whole month. Just wanted to take some distance and time, regain perspective and regroup my thoughts and plans. Sometimes to find your way back to yourself you need to get out of everything comfortable you know, out of the routine, far from the comfort zone --and just be able to enjoy the little rays of sunshine like New York in the fall, the smell of morning coffee, the noisy streets, and a craft bag of groceries.

time to say goodbye

All good things come to an end. And this is just one of those things.

There are a lot of good things I've watched come to an end that I never wanted to see, but it's taught me to recognize when it's time to cut the cord.

You see, when I started this blog, I was unhappy. I was in a relationship that wasn't working, I couldn't remember any of the things I liked to do, I had no direction in which to pursue my career, I hadn't written in years and I didn't know what to do. And things evolved the way they should: A breakup, which taught me everything I needed to know about myself, my strengths, my expectations of a good relationship. Months of celibacy which helped me have fun again. Peaking my interest in different directions, like charity work, acting, film-making, writing for the screen. Traveling to the four corners of the world, visiting wonderful places from San Francisco to Thailand. Finding out who I am, what I am and how I want to live.

Last year like today, I met the boy who I've come to refer to as my Parisian... and as unexpected as my falling for him was, I have to say I am a really lucky gal. I'm won't overstretch on this, otherwise he'll get a big head, but in fewer words: it's been a full year now, and I am happier than ever. Because not only am I happy in love, I can now confidently say that I know what I want from my life.

So here I am, finally setting off to be what I've always wanted to be: a writer. I have decided to take a year off, move to Paris --because what better place to write than in the city that inspired the greatest writers in the world?

And so it is time to start a new chapter of my life. I am writing the closing lines to what has been an amazing experience and I am so excited to see what is ahead.  It is all thanks to the readers I've had following me through every post, hugging me on street (I swear, it's happened), telling me that what I write means so much to them, and giving me faith in my words. And now I'm ready to put those words on real pages.

So this isn't the last you'll hear from me, that's a promise.

Beirut, I'm sorry.

Dear Beirut,

I have to admit, I’ve given up on you many a times. I’ve insulted you, I’ve cursed you, I’ve tapped my feet in exasperation against you, I’ve yelled out my window at you, I’ve made fun of you, I’ve been ashamed of you, and I’ve hated you.

Even yesterday, I hated you. But today… what can I say, today?

Today I realize that whether I like it or not, whether I care to admit or not, I am part of you. And what’s worse, is that you, Beirut, are part of me.

Today I walked through the streets of Achrafieh, streets I’ve walked through my whole life. And they were darkened by evil. They were wrapped in smoke, stained with blood, screaming in fear. And I realized as I walked in front of these places where I order my food every other day, watching them sweep the broken glass from their windows just barely an hour after the blast, was that they were the places I knew the most. Because as much I love the streets of New York, Paris or Florence, they are not my streets. Not like the sidewalk where I had my first car accident with my mother 23 years ago. Not like the roads I went to school on every single day, not like the place I had my first kiss or where I smoked my first cigarette or the café where I spent hours and hours hanging out with my friends. Today, it was Achrafieh. The hospital where I was born was filled with more than 50 victims of a vicious crime. The same Achrafieh that just over a month ago, we celebrated with no cars and the most amazing sense of community. Today this Achrafieh, the neighborhood where I have spent most of my life, was blown up to pieces.

And you know what? I was blown to pieces too. Which is incredible because I really truly thought that I was over you. That my heart wouldn’t skip a beat. But I was wrong.

Today, I heard a sound that took me back seven years ago when I was an AUB student and Rafik Hariri was killed just a few hundred meters away from my campus. It took me back to 2006 when our city crumbled under Israeli fire. It took me back to those nights as a child, when the whole family was huddled up in the corridors and we lived by candlelight… And it seems like so long ago that I sometimes wonder if I dreamt it. But I didn’t dream it. I was there. Here. This is where I was born, where I went to school, where I made my friends, where I fell in love, where my mother is buried, where my home is. And even if I hate it, even if I wish I had another passport twenty-times a day, even if it drives me crazy, it’s my city. I’m a Beiruti. I’m an Achrafieh born and bred woman and whatever I am, in some way, has got to be impacted by you Beirut.

And so, I wanted to say that I’m sorry.

I wanted to say that even though I hate you, I love you. Because that’s just the way it is with things we really love. And I wanted to say that I hope, when I see a crowd spontaneously gather with candles to honor their neighbors, that we can get the chance to treat you right. To love you better. To have you always.

Yasmina.

Leap of faith

I was glued to my TV yesterday my heart beating and my eyes wide open, watching as Felix jumped from the edge of space, wondering why anyone would attempt to this. Jumping at 40km from earth in an astraunaut suit, risking your life, why exactly?

And then I watched him land. And I realized how incredibly amazing these five minutes must have been for him. For the rest of us, it was just another five minutes. Many of us spent it watching him on television, or on our laptops, tweeting and facebooking and flooding the blogosphere with his name. "What did you do today?" I asked my friend who was lying on his couch, feet up, laptop on his chest, TV in the background, and I knew that's what he must've been like all day. And what did Felix do?

He risked his life, yes, just to break a record and do something no human has ever done before. And these five minutes were probably more thrilling than a hundred years of someone's else's life. That's what I'm taking from this.

You see, lately I've been in a rut. It feels like I wake up everyday to the same damn routine and it's like I'm waiting for something to change but at the same time I'm not really doing anything to change it.  And I've been having this conversation with so many of my friends lately that I know I'm not the only one who feels stuck that way. I realize it's hard. You have a job, you have a salary, you have a certain way of life and even if it doesn't make you happy, the idea of losing that salary scares the shit out of us. What if whatever we try doesn't work? What if we're not as "special" as we'd hope to be? Well, what is special about someone like Felix isn't that he is built differently than the rest of us humans that he can physically withstand a 1000km/hour speed. It's that he has the willpower and the courage to just do it. Even if the risk is death.

What I also came to realize is if I don't take a risk, if I don't jump 40km of my own edge and take a leap of faith, then I could very well live another 50 years stuck in a rut, waiting for something to happen to me. And that's not how I want to live.

two years of Rhapsodies

It feels like it went by in a flash and I wasn't even sure that I had actually accomplished anything in the last 12 months until I started thinking about it for the blog. Turns out I did okay. I think.

Let's see... Went to Cyprus for a week of delectable vacation, doing nothing but lazying around the beach of Paphos with a bunch of girls. Turned off my phone, stopped checking email, didn't go on Facebook. Remembered what it was like to think about nothing. Shot season 2 of Beirut I Love You. Acting, Casting, Writing. Realized being on a film set is my favorite kind of "workplace". Had my first on-screen kiss. Helped organize a fundraiser that raised more than 400-thousand dollars for children. Wore a (borrowed) designer dress (for the first time) by Reem Acra. Felt like a famous actress walking on the red carpet. Lost my uncle to Cancer a week later. The same exact kind that killed my mother. Met a boy by asking him for a lighter. Had a one-night-stand that never remained as "one night". Went to Thailand with the boys and their girlfriends. Walked on the most beautiful beach I have ever seen. Spent New Year's in a bar with Thai prostitutes/dancers and had my first midnight hug with one of them. Came back to my new crush and started falling in love. Fell in love. Started learning Italian on my iphone. Went to New York for the first time in almost 4 years. Hung-out with one of my best friends in his Brooklyn apartment. Went to my 5-year Grad School Reunion. Did Bikram Yoga at my old Union Square studio. That's yoga in a 45-degree room for those of you unfamiliar with it. Visited Paris for the first time since I was 8 years old. Went to see the old apartment we used to live in. Saw a friend I've kept in touch with but haven't seen in 19 years. Went to the opera for the first time in my life. Did Romantic Paris with my Parisian. Watched Game of Thrones, Dexter, Breaking Bad and Six Feet Under. Won best foreign film at the Beverly Hills Film Festival for "Anoesis." Had two films showing at the Short Film Corner of the Cannes Festival. Quit my job. Got a new one. Celebrated my brother's high-school graduation. Watched my sister get her diploma for finishing her BA. Went to Italy for 2 weeks. Rome, Venise, Bologna, Portovenere, Cinque Terre, Florence. Drove on the Italian highway. Took a 2 hour hike in jungle-like terrain with sandals on. Did the cheesiest thing ever and wrote our names on the"via del' amore". Helped my best-friend/back-up plan pick out an engagement ring. Celebrated my younger cousin's engagement. Went to my prom date's wedding last weekend.

Today I'm at exactly 9 months with my Parisian. 38,875 views on the blog. 128 posts. And two years of Rhapsodies.

"Anoesis" Short Film

                      "Saudade" Short Film

             Hanging out with one of my best-friends in NYC

                Hiking from one Cinque Terre to Another

                   Lazying around the beach in Paphos

 My sister's Graduation

                                 My brother's graduation

                          Writing our names on "Via del Amore"