That's it. I've finally become the very image of an Expat Wife. Why else would I have a cocktail at 11.00 a.m.?? And not just any cocktail, but one for women (or rather girls) only. Sparkling pink
(both bottle and content), with a surprisingly refreshing taste of litchi and raspberry.*
No, no, let me reassure you (and myself...), I was not having this cocktail while taking a break from shopping at Kenzo with my expat girlfriends. This was a case of emergency! I found myself in a place I should never be on a Saturday - at the shopping centre Auchan. The crowds and the kilometres of foodstuff were just about to knock me out when I saw this alluringly pink bottle, and I steered right through the crowds and accepted the plastic cup the smiling sales lady handed me with tremendous relief.
It worked! I even got a bottle - as a present for my Bridget Jones friend of course (I wonder if she'll share it with me though). *
* This is not a commercial for the new Girls cocktail...or is it?
11/19/08
10/9/08
10/8/08
Authenticity
"A mes yeux, le Luxembourg s'est toujours voilé derrière un masque, derrière un vernis difficile a percer. Le Luxembourgeois est si distant: les rares personnes ouvertes au dialogue ne se donnent pas facilement. Or celles qui se donnent à voir ne m'intéressent pas et celles que j'aimerais percer à jour ne se donnent pas. C'est un constat que j'ai pu vérifier en m'installant à Lyon. Alors, au contact des Lyonnais avec lesquels le rapport est aisé, sans détour et franc, je me suis rendue à l'évidence que ma perception des choses n'était pas erronnée."
- The way I see it, Luxemburg has always been hiding behind a mask, behind a varnish that's hard to break through. The Luxemburger is so distant: the rare person who is open to dialogue doesn't show himself easily. Those who do, do not interest me and those I would like to break through to don't show temselves. This is a fact I was able to verify when I installed myself in Lyon. There, in contact with the people of Lyon, so easy-going, straight forward and free, I realized that my perception of things was not wrong.
- Corina Ciocârlie, Rumanian writer living in Luxemburg *
Right she is. This is what I've come to. I see the mask and the varnish as a lack of identity, nationality and authenticity. And poor Luxemburg, how can she possibly find this when nearly half her population are foreigners and an additional 100 000 or so cross her borders every day to work. Through diversity? Perhaps, but the diversity of a rich mans world becomes uniform.
When I move on, to Lyon or elsewhere, I will search for authenticity. In man. In land.
*The appendix in the paper today, from where the above quote is taken, is strikingly called "Identity and Nationality".
- The way I see it, Luxemburg has always been hiding behind a mask, behind a varnish that's hard to break through. The Luxemburger is so distant: the rare person who is open to dialogue doesn't show himself easily. Those who do, do not interest me and those I would like to break through to don't show temselves. This is a fact I was able to verify when I installed myself in Lyon. There, in contact with the people of Lyon, so easy-going, straight forward and free, I realized that my perception of things was not wrong.
- Corina Ciocârlie, Rumanian writer living in Luxemburg *
Right she is. This is what I've come to. I see the mask and the varnish as a lack of identity, nationality and authenticity. And poor Luxemburg, how can she possibly find this when nearly half her population are foreigners and an additional 100 000 or so cross her borders every day to work. Through diversity? Perhaps, but the diversity of a rich mans world becomes uniform.
When I move on, to Lyon or elsewhere, I will search for authenticity. In man. In land.
*The appendix in the paper today, from where the above quote is taken, is strikingly called "Identity and Nationality".
9/16/08
Impressions de Cannes
Cannes. Flashy people (or les People as they say in France) + flashy shops + flashy boats = high score on the bling-bling scale. But that is not what makes an impression. What makes an impression, is the people who get lost in all this. What makes an impression, is the contrasts.
Like a baglady in a little black dress. Front covered with cheap bijouteries. An attempt at a hairdo. If you're a baglady in Cannes, you'd better try to have some class. So be it that the effect of the little and oh so short dress which covers oh so little is quite heartbreaking when your body is like that of a sumo wrestler and the bags you drag with you containing your life are revealingly worn and dirty. Her eyes are revealing too. And the way she walks. She's tired now.
A table next to mine seats some french-american mixture with fake smiles and fake teeth. As dicretely dressed as the baglady was indiscrete, but just as revealing. Bling-bling. A young, frail girl approaches the restaurant carefully, holding a paper cup. The couple at the first table she comes to turns her down, as she had expected. As she moves on towards my table, the bling-bling lady from the other table comes rushing towards her and snarls: - Dégage de là! Get lost! Like she was shouting at a dog with rabies. With such contempt in her look and in her voice that I lost my speech and my appetite. The girl vanished, tail between her legs, I didn't even see her. Had I seen her, or had I thought about it, I would have called her back and given her money. Or, I should have walked over to their table and sung - oh, think twice, it's just another day for you and me in paradise. As it was, and as it often is, all I did was stare at her, with all the contempt I could muster and I shook my head. Not that I think anything would work with the likes of her, but maybe the others at the table would think twice.
There were two children at that table. They learn that it is allowed to treat a fellow human being with such a complete lack of respect. If the lady had had a silky dog in a Gucci bag, she would have treated that animal far, far better. The very least the girl deserved was a polite no and perhaps even a smile. We don't know her story.
She calls out to the man on the street
sir, can you help me?
It's cold and I've nowhere to sleep,
Is there somewhere you can tell me?
He walks on, doesn't look back
He pretends he can't hear her
Starts to whistle as he crosses the street
Seems embarrassed to be there
Oh think twice, it's another day for
You and me in paradise
Oh think twice, it's just another day for you,
You and me in paradise
She calls out to the man on the street
He can see she's been crying
She's got blisters on the soles of her feet
Can't walk but shes trying
Oh think twice...
Oh lord, is there nothing more anybody can do
Oh lord, there must be something you can say
You can tell from the lines on her face
You can see that she's been there
Probably been moved on from every place
cos she didn't fit in there
Oh, think twice...
Like a baglady in a little black dress. Front covered with cheap bijouteries. An attempt at a hairdo. If you're a baglady in Cannes, you'd better try to have some class. So be it that the effect of the little and oh so short dress which covers oh so little is quite heartbreaking when your body is like that of a sumo wrestler and the bags you drag with you containing your life are revealingly worn and dirty. Her eyes are revealing too. And the way she walks. She's tired now.
A table next to mine seats some french-american mixture with fake smiles and fake teeth. As dicretely dressed as the baglady was indiscrete, but just as revealing. Bling-bling. A young, frail girl approaches the restaurant carefully, holding a paper cup. The couple at the first table she comes to turns her down, as she had expected. As she moves on towards my table, the bling-bling lady from the other table comes rushing towards her and snarls: - Dégage de là! Get lost! Like she was shouting at a dog with rabies. With such contempt in her look and in her voice that I lost my speech and my appetite. The girl vanished, tail between her legs, I didn't even see her. Had I seen her, or had I thought about it, I would have called her back and given her money. Or, I should have walked over to their table and sung - oh, think twice, it's just another day for you and me in paradise. As it was, and as it often is, all I did was stare at her, with all the contempt I could muster and I shook my head. Not that I think anything would work with the likes of her, but maybe the others at the table would think twice.
There were two children at that table. They learn that it is allowed to treat a fellow human being with such a complete lack of respect. If the lady had had a silky dog in a Gucci bag, she would have treated that animal far, far better. The very least the girl deserved was a polite no and perhaps even a smile. We don't know her story.
She calls out to the man on the street
sir, can you help me?
It's cold and I've nowhere to sleep,
Is there somewhere you can tell me?
He walks on, doesn't look back
He pretends he can't hear her
Starts to whistle as he crosses the street
Seems embarrassed to be there
Oh think twice, it's another day for
You and me in paradise
Oh think twice, it's just another day for you,
You and me in paradise
She calls out to the man on the street
He can see she's been crying
She's got blisters on the soles of her feet
Can't walk but shes trying
Oh think twice...
Oh lord, is there nothing more anybody can do
Oh lord, there must be something you can say
You can tell from the lines on her face
You can see that she's been there
Probably been moved on from every place
cos she didn't fit in there
Oh, think twice...
7/23/08
Look up - look down
Normally, I would say we hurry along and look down far too much, instead of just taking one second to look up and around us. Colours, details on a building, a cloud the shape of a crocodile - even a smile...
But sometimes, looking down is a good thing.
7/3/08
2321
When I last was in Paris, what made me stop in front of l'Hôtel de Ville was not the magnificent building in itself, nor the happy skaters in front of it. What made me stop and what made me freeze was this reminder, counting the days that Ingrid Betancourt had been held hostage. 2154.
The counter stopped yesterday at 2321. Hers is a story of 2321 days of captivity and combat, of tremendous courage and enduring hope. Hers is a story of a mother losing more than 6 years of her children's lives. And finally, hers is a story of freedom. Her story makes an overwhelming impression.
She became a forceful symbol of every man and woman who had their freedom taken away by the FARC guerilla. The counter stopped for her and 14 other hostages yesterday, but it keeps counting the days for many others. I hope she remains a symbol for them, of hope and freedom.
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