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J’aime Paris Chapter II: From the floor to the getto
Sunday bloody sunday. You know you’re young if the morning after having collapsed on your friend’s bathroom floor you feel all sparkling and cool. Well, at least I’m young. But, according to the evidence, my thirty-something years old cousin E is way younger than me. At 9.30 she rang at the door and, as soon as C opened the door, the Tazmanian Devil entered the room, opened the windows letting:
- 100.000 volts sunrays enter our eyeballs
- a gateau au framboise enter our throath
-1.000.000 words enter our soaring ears
In about 10 minutes we were all dressed up and ready to go ( everyone except C, that stood home struggling with an aching teeth. It’s moving observing a man and its relationship with his aching teeth. They have their indipendent lives, but still they influence each other, a little like Woody Allen and Mia Farrow at the old times).
…to be continued
J’aime Paris, Chapter II – To Delhi and back
When you think about Paris, first thing that comes into your mind is of course the Eiffel Tower, but the second one should be a flock of couples almost making out all around. Well, you’re not that wrong. Paris is the Sweethearts Capital, but it can also be much more than this. Last weekend M and I went to Paris at our friend C’s and, even if we’d already been in the Ville Lumiere more than once, it had been able to surprise us as if it was a completely different town we were visiting.
C. lives close to Place de la Republique, and I couldn’t imagine a better neighbourhood for him to live in, as he – who’s in love with the Arab world, or, at least, with the Arab food, the Arab tobacco in the Arab pipe and, of course, the Arab women – can find there many kebab restaurants ( the smoke coming from the windows smelle greasy enough, but I wouldn’t swear that the brown stuff turning round and round was actual lamb meat …well, only the braves…) and even a Hammam, a Turkish Bath, to spend the afternoons at ( unless you don’t like mushrooms…neither to drink nor under your feet).
Saturday morning we met P for breakfast ( trip tip: if you’re Italian and you can’t start your morning without an espresso, you’d better ask for a café serré, or you’ll end up depressed, forcing yourself to sip dirty hot water from a huge cup, that will automatically lead you to the closest toilet to eject what you’ve just ingested…let’s consider it some kind of natural colonscopy ). P is a handsome, smart middle-aged man with an astonishing predisposition for foreign languages, and he entertained us with jokes in German and Greek as we relaxed in a small café, lazily staring at a mill-run that made the whole scene look as if it was settled in Amsterdam. When one of the waiters started to fight with the clochard that has permanently settled in the cute, fancy kiosk right in front C’s apartment, we decided it was time to go, so we left Amsterdam and headed towards Paris Indian quarter.
P brought us in a super weird roofed street, where we walked for a while taking thousands of pictures to carnival suites shops and to huge papier-maché Indian elephants. There were also many Afro hairdressers, and grocers that sold varieties of fruit we couldn’t recognise, and the everything looked and smelled of India in such a way that you could expect a baboon jumping on your head all of a sudden.
Regardlessly to our stomach we asked for some original French Tandoori chicken and basmati rice, while a young guy tried some scarves on in the shop en face, jiggling as P gave him suggestion to the colour that better suited him.
Life can be a mess, but if you are in Paris, you don’t care.
Murphy’s Law or Weekend in Bari – Episode 2
Sunday
On Sunday my teenage sister broke up with her boyfriend. That couldn’t sound like a big deal for you, but it’s just because you don’t know what does being engaged when you’re 16 mean, in Bari. When you’ve been dating someone for let’s say, more than one month, you can already consider yourself engaged and this is true especially for teenagers nowadasys. While I still belong to that cute generation of girls who consider a chewed chewingum the most romantic pledge of one’s love and affection, my sister got for the “First Month Anniversaire” an Ipod. Moreover, as you start dating someone, you are automatically introduced to his whole family up to the most ancient granny’s aunt. Even though I’m sure that it doesn’t always work this way, my memories of my Pugliese mother in law still scare me. Maybe she didn’t like the fact I used to get dressed as a flea market had fall on my head, maybe she didn’t like my piercings, maybe she wasn’t very comfortable with the fact that at that time people at school thought I was a satanist, dunno, really. Anyway, I always sensed some kind of negativity coming from her, maybe because she used to meet the nuns ( did I ever tell you I attended a school ran by nuns? creepy people, really, they thought greek and latin till they were 80, after that they would retire in a farm in a village called Noci ( which means Nuts, can you see the beauty of it?) waiting to die….wwwwwh) in the school basement and spend their afternoons preparing Aloe potions and sorting out a way to defeat the devil in me.
Anyway, being engaged in my hometown is a pain in the ass, and it’s a hard work too, and I guess this is the reason why people get engaged when they are 15 years old and then just get married with the same person. I guess they reckon having an affair it’s easier.
So, now, you can understand why breaking up with V has been such a terrible experience both for my sister and us. Given the fact that I’m the working sister and that she’s the pretty one, we had given for granted that, sooner or later, V would have marry her thus relieving us from the what-the-hell-is-she-going-to-do-when-school-will-be-over? issue.
Now gotta, go, she’s calling me on the MSN messenger for some advices, and I gotta read very careful what is she saying, since the overuse of emoticons make the chat box look like a Picasso painting. God I’m old.




