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.

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.

the "nice" girl syndrome

I have been repeatedly accused of being a nice girl.

You would think that it's a good thing, to be considered nice, but of course it's not. It's like the worst thing you can be called. Like when you ask about someone and the answer is "she's nice", you know there's not that much else to say.

Except that I know for a fact that there is more to me than the whole nice girl aura. But as soon as there is too much niceness, people wont see much else anymore. I've studied the freakin' rule book by heart: men love the chase, yes, it's been written countless times and proven and said by so many men and women that I've lost track. God forbid you should ever let your guard down and not challenge a man for ten minutes.

In long term relationships, it translates as the girlfriend who is too convenient, too caring, too available. A man can love you, worship you, want to spend the rest of his life with you and suddenly, because you're having a bad time and you are unable to hold up the whole "I'm a mysterious woman who can leave you at any second" role, he can just let you go because --well, it's just not exciting anymore. I'm guilty as charged, I'll admit it. I have a hard time following the bitch-persona because it's just not who I am. I've tried and failed. And then I think about all these successful relationships around me and wonder, do all these women have an ability which I obviously lack, or do I just date men who require an unreasonable level of "challenge"?

In the dating world,  the nice girl appears as the girl who is too agreeable, too "into him", and again, too available. A man can find you hot, smart, interesting, yet you can turn him off just by sending one too many messages that just make him feel too comfortable about having you right where he wants you. How boring.

Now while a man is having this permanent need to be challenged, the woman is supposed to satiate his needs by being perfect: the perfect amount of presence and the perfect amount of indifference; the perfect amount of sexiness and the perfect amount of working-woman; the perfect amount of nights out with friends versus the perfect amount of nights spent together. We should just all write down the list and stick it on our refrigerators, pencil in the perfect amount depending on the guy we're dating and refreshing it every month as the relationship evolves. You know, just to be sure we're not missing anything.

Maybe I've got this all wrong --I wouldn't be surprised. After all, I have been dumped countless times for the same reason (yes, too nice is a reason for men to break up with you) and so I'm obviously not very good at learning from my mistakes. Unless of course, I switch perspectives. What if I'm a nice girl --with myself?

I grew up in a house where taking care of others was a pre-requisite. And it somehow settled in my DNA. When my mother died I was 16 years old --but my sister was 11, and my brother was 7. I've read somewhere that people who grow up taking care of others develop this thing called "the need to be needed." I catch myself doing it sometimes, with my friends, with my siblings who are adults now and can take care of themselves, and of course, with men in my life. And the constant advice I receive, is that if I was just as "nice" to myself as I am to others, then maybe I can finally beat this thing.

So here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to make a list of things I'd like to do for myself before the year ends, and will document it, here on Beirut Rhapsodies. And we'll see how well that works out.

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..."

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.

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"

great expectations

At the very beginning of a relationship, everything seems fun. Nothing the other person does bothers us, we enjoy the time we spend together and we try to make each other happy.

Then, somewhere along the way, something snaps. What used to be a fun, casual, happy relationship turns into this constant stress because we don't know how to make each other happy anymore, we want the other one to make the efforts, we fight about silly things but we can't help it because they bother us so much that we can't control our urge to fight. We spend time together but instead of  enjoying it we spend it talking (or arguing) about everything we think is wrong, or bad in our relationship, and we end up unhappy, frustrated, unsatisfied.

Basically what happens, in my humble opinion, is that we go from no expectations to high expectations. When one first starts dating, he doesn't expect anything. So everything that comes is a good addition, a good surprise. Then, we fall into the "efforts" phase and that's always a rocky one.

Sometimes I think it's good to stop, halt, and take the time to remember that even though we're a couple, we're in love, we're "different" than all the others, we are still two people. And by that I mean that even if we'd like to believe that we are"one" we are not, in fact, one. We are two. Hence the term "we." And it's hard enough to find someone who we like to share our time with, with whom we get along most of the time and who makes us laugh --so, we should be lenient if that person doesn't want to do exactly what we want to do at the exact time we want to do it, or if that person turns out not to be able to read our minds (crazy, huh?) or if that person isn't in the mood we'd like them to be in.

Bottom line is: expect less, be happier.

Just my two cents.

no such thing as perfect

I realized something today. Well actually I realized it many times before but as I've been trying to come up with a smart blogpost everyday for the past week and still haven't come up with anything, I asked myself what exactly I was trying to write about anyway.

I mean, every day I browse dozens of articles on Huffington Post (they have sections on women, weddings, divorce...) I read blog posts from different people of different ages and different places, and I have at least 8 or 9 books at home also on the very same topic; in recent weeks, I've interviewed couples on the realities of marriage and I talk about this with anyone who cares to to hear different perspectives and different takes and try to boil it down to something concrete. Something useful. I'm talking about the recipe for a good relationship, of course.

And am I better girlfriend for it? I don't think so. You see what I noticed is that everyone has their own kind of relationship and you know what? There's just no labeling it. The other day I read a post on open relationships and although in some way it seems like a smart solution to the modern couple, it is also impossible for me to actually imagine having it. But then again, when a gay friend of mine explains to me that wanting and having sexual intercourse with men other than his boyfriend has absolutely nothing to do with his love for him and their relationship, I understand it. I even accept it. Although I would never accept it for me. And all these questions we try to find answers to: should we move in together? I mean statistically is that better or worse for your couple on the long run? Because I read an article that confused the hell out of me and all I got from it is that it works for some people and doesn't work for others... Big surprise. Well what about marriage? How soon is too soon? Can we have a baby without getting married? Look at Angelina and Brad --it took 6 kids from 4 different countries before she agreed to wear a ring. But then again if you do that in Lebanon than your child will be registered as a bastard and society as a whole will "frown upon" you.

I look around and see the people surrounding me and I honestly can't compare my relationship to any of theirs. Although the patterns are similar and the feelings are similar, it's never like 2+2. So what's the point, right? If none of us have the same story and if advice doesn't apply to everyone, then why read books and why write this blog? I think that by sharing, we learn more about ourselves. We take the things that do apply and adapt them the way we see fit. Trial and error and tears, and maybe you'll end up with your own recipe. Just note that you'll probably have to change it with the next person in your life.

do a great deal of it

"You do get to a certain point in life where you have to realistically, I think, understand that the days are getting shorter, and you can't put things off thinking you'll get to them someday. If you really want to do them, you better do them. There are simply too many people getting sick, and sooner or later you will. So I'm very much a believer in knowing what it is that you love doing so you can do a great deal of it." Nora Ephron


Today Nora Ephron has died and you might not know who she is but you most definitely have seen her work. She wrote "When Harry met Sally" --need I say more? I, for one, admire this woman who is everything I want to be: a writer, a screenwriter, a journalist, an editor, a director... the only I would add to the list, for myself, would be actor. Otherwise, she had that life policy that I try to remember and apply, even though many a times I fail: know what you love doing so you can do a great deal of it. And if you love a lot things then you should do all of them. 


I find that even if we know that's the way we should live our lives, we tend to get caught up in the midst of bills and day-jobs and routines that sometimes make us forget. I know I forget to write all the time and when I remember, I'm too exhausted to do it. In the mean time though, life happens. Days pass by and there is no way we will ever get them back. So the only thing to do is get on that wheel and try, even if we fail. Even if we're scared. 


In her memory, here are some of my favorite quotes of her:

• "What failure of imagination had caused me to forget that life was full of other possibilities, including the possibility that eventually I would fall in love again" [Nora Ephron, I feel bad about my neck]

• "It’s always hard to remember love -years pass and you say to yourself, Was I really in love, or was I just kidding myself? Was I really in love, or was I just pretending he was the man of my dreams? Was I really in love, or was I just desperate?" [Nora Ephron, I feel bad about my neck]

• "Everybody dies. There's nothing you can do about it. Whether you eat six almonds a day. Whether or not you believe in God. (I Remember Nothing: And Other Reflections)

• "You can't retrieve your life (unless you're on Wikipedia, in which case you can retrieve an inaccurate version of it).” [I Remember Nothing: and Other Reflections]

• "Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim." — '96 Wellesley commencement address

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

the better story

In films and in books and in romance in general, love at first sight is a big thing. Two people see each other in a crowd, their eyes meet, and they both immediately know that they are meant to be. And I've heard about stories like that in real life. My dad always says he knew the minute he saw my mother outside his high-school that she would be his wife someday. And the other night, my aunt's friend was telling the story of how she met her husband: they were in Paris, she was taking a seminar and he was teaching it. She dropped her pen on the floor and he picked it up for her, and their eyes met. She immediately told her friend "I have the strangest feeling this man is the man of my life." And they've been married twenty-years or so now. 

These stories are great. They make us all dream and smile, and hope for the kind of love that you see in "The Notebook" which makes every girl cry her eyes out. 

What's funny though is that many a times, these words have been said and things did not work out --so they're quickly forgotten. If things had worked out, the story would be told on every rooftop. My friend Rebelious got engaged 6 months after meeting her boyfriend, because "they just knew." They were married another 6 months later and at their wedding, he told the story of how the night they met, he told his friend that this is the girl he was going to marry. And he did marry her. But then they got divorced two years later. So much for a romantic story.

I'm not trying to poke holes into wonderful romance. I love these stories. I just think they trap us in these little boxes and make us feel like that's what we should look for, someone we're just going to look at and know within minutes that he's the one. I don't believe that anymore.

I think I was in love once or twice before. And each of these times, I had decided that I was "in love" almost instantly. In love with someone I didn't even know. Now I am convinced this comes from watching too much Cinderella and the Little Mermaid as a child, because how someone can love a person they know nothing about now seems completely absurd to me. You're in love with someone first and then you get to know them? And you find out what they're like and you have to accept them with all their faults because you already decided you love them. You love what, exactly? 

Love at first sight now seems  like a recipe for disaster. You meet someone, fall in love, have a picture of them in your mind and what happens next, in most cases, is that they keep disappointing you --they don't live up to that image. They are not want you wanted them to be, and once the infatuation wears off and you realize it, it only goes downhill from there.

And then you meet someone one day, and you don't expect anything. He makes you laugh maybe, something peeks your interest, but wedding bells aren't ringing in your ears, and you haven't pictured what your three children are going to look like within an hour of meeting him. You just meet him. And spending time with him is what makes you want to spend more time with him. And suddenly you find yourself surprised by the way he is. Good surprised. You didn't build-up an image, he builds it for your, little by little. You discover each other and the more you learn the more you like. And I think that's a better story.

the next best thing

Yesterday was mother's day and for the first time in eleven years, I wasn't sad. Of course I miss my mother, like I miss her every day. But I was so much closer to her yesterday than any other year I spent curled up in my corner afraid to look at all those people buying flowers for their mothers. I always thought the only time I would ever enjoy mother's day again would be when I would become a mother. Turns out I just had to change perspectives. 

I woke up drowned in kisses from my Parisian which immediately put a smile on my face. Then I went to the spa to enjoy an hour-long facial something where they put cream after cream on your face and massage your head and all you have to do is lie there and close your eyes and enjoy it --if I can't send my mother to the spa, why don't I just treat myself to it? 

Then I called my sister, and unfortunately, she was not in the same mood as me, so I decided to take her out to lunch. There's this adorable new diner in Mar Mikhael I knew she would love and we stuffed ourselves with burgers and fries and I spotted her smile. If I can't take my mother out to lunch in a place named after the diner in Grease (one of her favorite movies) then taking my sister is the next best thing.

She then took me to a place called Karout, where you buy anything you can think of for very reasonable prices and we spent two hours there buying things for this crazy brunch I'm throwing on Sunday. It was fun because it was the kind of outing I would love to do with my mom and it just so happens that it's also great to do with my sis. When we left, we got sort of lost and had no idea where we were, got stuck in terrible traffic, and I started getting worried that we would never make it on time to visit my mother at the cemetary. And sure enough... three minutes later, we find ourselves across the street from it!

Later that day, we drove up, my brother, my sister and I, to Baadat, where my aunt lives. You see, she lost her husband about three months ago and so we decided together with her 3 daughters that we would do something special for her. We got there before she came back home and prepared a nice dinner for her, put her favorite flowers (Mimosas) all over the house, and waited to surprise her. And when she saw us, she cried of happiness. If I can't celebrate my mother and shower her with dinner and flowers, then I can do it for the only other woman who has known me my whole life and loves me unconditionally.

And now I'm sitting here and writing this and all I can do is smile because I know that through everything I did yesterday, through everything I do every day, I celebrate my mother. I don't need to be sad or cry to miss her. I can just channel it in a positive way. I can enjoy the next best thing.

Blue Valentine

So I failed one of my "writer's block" challenges. I said I would give something to someone on Valentine's Day and I didn't.

I'm not big on the whole V-Day thing. Not in a "Oh My God I HATE Valentine's day it's such a HALLMARK holiday it's so stupid... but I wish someone would send me flowers anyway!" kind of way... More in a "Oh, it's Valentine's Day? Hmm cool. Love you!" I think the most romantic gift I ever gave for VDay (and the most effort I put into it) was, ladies and gents, when I was 11 years old. I cut a heart shape out of red cardboard and glued heart-shaped pasta on it. Then I called the boy I was in love with on the phone to tell him "You'll have a gift tomorrow at school" and hung up straight away because I was mortified and embarrassed and red up to my ears. And the next day, I ran to him during recess and just gave it to him. And ran away after, of course. Back then, I'm not sure why I did it. I mean, why put myself through the embarrassment when I knew I wasn't getting anything back? Sometimes, things don't make sense right away. It may seem stupid, but this is a gift that he never forgot. And I am happy to say that 15 years later, on Monday, he invited me for lunch, and he said and I quote: "for that heart-shaped cardboard with pasta on it."

So what happened yesterday, across the globe, with people I know? Well, one of my friends who lives in Munich woke up to a message on her fridge from her three-months boyfriend saying "Je t'aime." It was the first time he ever said it to her. Some friends in Beirut when to a speed-dating event at my favorite bar in the city, Dictateur, and had a great time. My sister had a girls-night-in because her new boyfriend who is a doctor-thank-you-very-much, was on-call... In Montreal, my best-friend went to a Zumba Class because that's what she does on Tuesdays. And Facebook of course was a swarming platform of love, with some really cool links, like people around the world remembering their first loves and my ultimate favorite, the Valentine Cards of Ben Kling.

And what did I do? I met Blue. Blue is a Belgian Shepherd Groenendael. She's a beautiful, black dog and when you hug her, it feels like you're hugging a huge stuffed animal. Except that she is real and she can hug you right back. And the way she loves her master is so genuine and so unselfish, it makes you feel like it's the best kind of love: uncomplicated, forgiving, and unconditional, with no expectations other than its love to be returned.

And I guess the fact that I didn't give anyone anything on Valentine's Day isn't entirely true. I gave a kiss to someone very special. And I got one 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. 

it's a wrap!

I can't believe it's that time of the year again.

The lights are shining on every street in the country --it's not just green and red anymore, now it's purple, blue, yellow and pink. The songs are overtaking every FM station I have a hard time listening to on a normal day. We did the tree at home like we do every year, my sister, my brother and me, with the cheesiest Christmas Carols in the background because it's our tradition and it reminds me that even though the years go by, we always find ourselves once a year to do this together. Christmas had different meanings for me in the course of my relatively short life and I am surprised to discover a whole new feeling this year.

When I was a child Christmas was about presents and Santa. For the last ten Christmases, it's been about missing loved ones. But suddenly I feel like I might have grasped a new meaning to what this holiday is about, at least for me.

I feel profoundly lucky. I was just thinking that on Sunday, driving down from Bikfaya where I had a 48hour shoot this weekend. We barely got any sleep, were up on our feet in the freezing cold since 5.30AM and were shooting all day with our heels digging in the mud and our fingers turning blue. Yet this weekend was magical. The energy of people coming together to create something fun, even if it's hard work, and to smile and laugh and freeze while doing it made me realize that the single goal I had set for myself this year, I've actually reached: I found passion.

I smiled as I had that thought, driving down in the fog without my eyeglasses and with smudges on my windshield, feeling completely blinded. I smiled because I realized I am not waiting for anything to happen to me anymore: it's around me, all the time, and I feel it. I wake up in the morning and I can't wait to get started with my day because I have so many things that I want to do and people that I want to see and I know that I am lucky to feel that way. It didn't used to be like that. It used to be: I believe that I will do something fulfilling one day, and in the mean time I was filling the gaps. Now the days and the weeks and the months are all converging in one giant bubble of time. I don't stop and do nothing anymore, and when I do, I actually appreciate every second of nothingness, making it a special activity in and of itself.  I've learned how to appreciate time.

When I was younger, 10 or 11, I didn't really have friends to hang out with in school. I was bit shy, I didn't know how to impose myself, so I would hide out in the school library during recess, always finding comfort in my books. Then things changed, and I met the group of people I have been friends with ever since. I've always felt lucky to have them, and I thought I didn't really need other friends. I never really made an effort being social --who needs a million acquaintances anyway? Turns out I was wrong to be so closed-up to people for so many years. This year, I met new people every week, made a dozen of new friends, each of them unique in his own way and all of them important. And I've learned that everyone I meet can bring something good to my life.

And as family goes, I've never felt closer to them. It's true, we've had another loss this year, this month actually. But Saturday morning, as my aunt enters her third week as a widow, she will still get up and make "Shorbet el Eid," stuff the turkey and set-up the table. The Christmas tree will still be lit and the presents will still come, and the magic of Christmas will have to find us despite the sadness. This is what this holiday is about for me now: last year, I had a thought for all those who passed. All those who are gone and are around us in the form of memories and pictures --and I can't believe that another face is now behind a glass frame. But this year, I'm having a thought for the living. Spending our energy on ourselves and on our loved ones who are right here in front of us, because that is the way to go on, stay strong, and make those above us proud.

So here's a Xmas thought, for the living: Go do a random act of kindness. Be spontaneous, do something big, something small, to someone you know or a perfect stranger.

there's no merit in loving if everything is easy

Some people say my family is cursed. They say we're "like the Keneddy's." That the series of tragedies never end. I guess I can see where they're coming from...  Two cancers, a rare illness called "Harada", a spinal cord injury, a heart attack, five deaths. And every time, we think that's it, this has got to be the last one, we can't possibly deal with any more. But apparently we can.

And so it has crossed my mind at some point too, that our family is indeed, peculiarly unlucky. Actually we were laughing about that on Friday night, the day my aunt buried her husband, and my cousins buried their father. 22 years before, on the very same day, my aunt walked down the aisle in a church in Paris and married the love of her life. This week, in stead of celebrating a love that was still very much alive, she wore a black dress and walked behind his casket in a cemetery.

That night, as we were gathered around her fireplace,surrounded by the pictures of all those we've lost, we all laughed. It might seem odd to still be laughing, on a day where you just buried someone you adored, but there is something about our family that goes beyond the pain we feel again and again. The entire time of the condoleances, my cousin was wearing a little paper boat clipped on her dress. "This one day, my father was crying," she said. "I didn't know what to do or how to stop his pain, so I clipped on this little paper boat on his shirt, and it made him laugh." We need the silly little things to make us smile, even in the worst of times.



What people don't know about our family is that we're actually one of the luckiest. The love that bonds us all so closely together only grows every time another tragedy hits. No one is left alone, not for a second. The other day, I was looking at my father's and my uncle's girlfriends, and I told them "What are you still doing here?" And my aunt joked: "Run! Run for your life!" Run for your life quite literately. But deep down we all know why they haven't run yet.




There is no merit in loving someone when everything is easy. When they are always perfect, and healthy, and kind, and full of qualities. Anyone can love if that's that. But when you go through the flaws, and the years and the pain, when you've seen the ugly, the poor, the sick... that's when you know you love someone all the way. My aunt said even if she knew she would lose her husband 22 years after she got married, she wouldn't have missed a minute of it, she wouldn't have exchanged him for anything. My father said the same thing about my mother. Even I look back and say that although the days when my ex-boyfriend was sick were the hardest, they were the days I loved him the most, and I can still admit that now.


This post is a tribute to Joe.

It's hard to put words together and do him justice, it's hard to write anything at all because none of us want to accept that he's gone. But there's no merit in loving someone if everything is easy.

the rats' block

I miss my Rats.

Now they are all in committed, loving, happy relationships, I have nothing to write about anymore. Never knew how much I relied on them for information, but the truth is, every conversation with them use to spark something, make me want to write, give me inspiration, and now, it's just blah.

I mean don't get me wrong, I'm happy they're happy... But seriously Rats "in a relationship" lose all of their rattitude. Which just goes to show that everything I ever said about them is annulled the minute they fall in love. No more hunting, no more games, no more Cigar Sundays. And for me, no more stories. You might think I get enough of my own stories to write about, but the truth is, lately, I've been working so much I can't remember the last time I met someone --even if it was just for two seconds.

Now I go for drinks with the Rats and their respective significant others and I can't help but feel like the odd one out, always complaining that it impossible to find a decent guy in this forsaken city.  Now they say it's because I've been leaving the house in hoodies and converse and never bother to put an ounce of blush and I guess they have a point... But it's a vicious cycle: You start out by making an effort, you fix your hair and you dress up nicely and you go out with that "open" attitude because that's what everyone says right, it's not about looks they say, it's all in the attitude. "People will know if you're open to them or not. You always look so closed of course no one is going to approach you." What the f*** does that even mean? I kind of get it, but seriously, I don't know how to do it any other way. I'm not the kind of person who is overly sociable, I don't usually make an effort to talk to random people, and honestly, I don't want to pretend like I do. "Be yourself" isn't that at the core of it?

So then I decided to stop making an effort. It'll happen when it happens. I'll just make an effort with myself from now on, and to be honest, it works most days. My life is more fulfilling now then it ever was when I wasn't single.

Yet I would be lying if I said it doesn't get lonely. You can be as independent as you want, it's human nature to want to share your life with someone. Have someone who cares about you specifically, asks about you everyday, has you on their radar. One of my best friends is having a virtual relationship over BBM and it's been going on for the past four months. And there is no real potential because the guy lives in another country and they have no plans to change that and they don't even know what it is that is going between them, and every so often, she wonders if she should stop texting him. But we talked about it, I told her honestly: I think it's always good to have that someone that keeps your phone ringing. Sometimes I look at my phone and I realize that I'm not waiting for anyone to call, and that depresses the hell out of me. And it's a tad lonelier still when your Rats are in their own holes. Yesterday I asked them "don't you have anything to give me for my blog???"

"Write about how much you miss us."

Wonder-Woman vs. Cinderella

We're modern women you and I.

We have careers to manage, or jobs to turn into careers. We love to surpass ourselves, act like wonder-woman and have everything under control. We are independent you see, a trait we learnt to develop and appreciate after all the hard work our grandmothers and great-grandmothers put in to get us that level of freedom. We want a man in our life but we don't need him.  I know how to work out the cables behind the TV and I know how to call a mechanic when my car's battery decide to suddenly die at the worst possible moment and I also know how to manage my paycheck at the end of the month and contrary to what men believe, not spend it all on shopping. We like to be sexy as opposed to sweet, powerful as opposed needy.

We know how to do it all -but we don't really want to. Because deep down, inside each one of us is a little girl that watched Disney movies growing up and dreamt of being Cinderella, the Little Mermaid, or Snow White. Princesses in a fairytale, with a charming prince by their side. Because even if you do know how to work out the cables behind the TV, it's so nice to pretend that you don't and let your man deal with it while you're cozy underneath your covers. We like that we're able to pay for our own meals and buy our own jewlery and spoil ourselves, but we also enjoy it when men spoil us.

We try to live in this modern world that expects of us to be self sufficient but we also have this innate desire to be taken care of.

And it translates into the type of men we're attracted to. I think it's all Disney's fault. That's who I'm blaming it on anyway. Girls have high expectations because we grew up watching Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty and Snow White. They make it seem like princes are running around every corner. Take the Little Mermaid, who gets out of the water once, just once: the first guy she meets on dry land is a prince. Even in Beauty and The Beast, the freakin beast is a prince. And the girls who grew up on those Disneys end up looking for their own version of Prince Charming. The guy who is from a good family, who has enough money to ensure we can live comfortably but also take those five trips a year and go shopping every Saturday. A guy who is attentive but not clingy, tender but courageous, romantic but not cheesy.

And then there are the girls who are even more screwed up. The ones whose favorites cartoons were Robin Hood, Aladdin and Lady and the Tramp. Those who want the prince to come in the form of a street stud. Now the guy we dream about is not really from a good family, but he has made it despite everything and he did it all by himself. He doesn't have any money but when you're with him he makes you feel like you don't ever need anything  --and he would move heaven and earth to get you whatever you want.

Some girls want to be escorted in Limousines, dine in the best restaurants, vacation in Cannes and have their own Yacht. And some girls want to get lost backpacking through Europe, end up on an island living in tents for a month, having him catch a fish to fry for dinner. 

Other girls (God help us) --well, we want both.

growin' up

My brother is 18 years old today and this is for him.

When he was born, I was 8 and we had just moved back from Paris to Beirut. It was 1993, still a city covered in the rust of war. We lived at my grandmother's, my little sister and me, and my mom couldn't leave the house because she was nine months pregnant and if the electricity cut off she'd have to walk up three floors.We'd pick up the phone and we'd have to wait patiently for the line to come; the only milk available was powdered Nido and I couldn't even stand the smell of it; and the only thing on TV were the local channels and "Mini Studio" was the only watchable show.

I remember when my mom taught me how to change his diapers and how he peed on her while we were changing him. I remember when she let a flock of his hair grow long at the back of his head. I remember when he was four years old and we teased him on how he had a big penis and he ran all over the house screaming and crying that no, no, he didn't have a big penis. I remember him in his superman costume that he'd wear as pajamas. It was a time when we had a full house, and we'd wake up Sunday morning, my sister, my brother and me and prepare breakfast for our parents. There was still five of us back then, coffee for two, pancakes for all.

Everything is different now. It's like we're on another planet living in a different dimension. The world changed for this little boy when he was seven years old and he lost his mother, but watching him changes my perspective of the world everyday. When she was no longer around, I would put him to bed every night and tell him stories about her so that he would never forget. We'd talk about all sorts of things before he'd go to sleep and once he told me "sometimes my penis wakes up before me" --and I thought it was the cutest and funniest way anyone has ever put it. It was at that time that we came up with Papadopoulos together, an inside joke that only a few will get. When I left for New York, he was still a little boy. Over the phone I would hear his voice change and barely recognized him when he picked up, and every time I would visit, I'd find him taller, with little hair starting to grow on his face. By the time I came back he was a fully grown teenager. He'd receive dozens of texts a day from a dozen different girls, all crazy in love with him. He is that guy, you see, the ones all the girls are in love with.

And today he's almost a man. The world he was born into --it doesn't exist anymore. What we've learnt along the way is that nothing is predictable and anything can happen. But what always remains, throughout, is the love that you can only share with your siblings. And when your brother tells you you're "the woman of my life," you know you've done something right.