Merigoesaround

I once lived with an important person in an incredible house. It made me feel special. He owned many things, a vintage car, a mansion in Upper Georgetown, a collection of old books. He also had an original vintage poster hanging in one of the walls and used to say that the lady in the poster turned him on. This important person accumulated many things but he was all by himself. In the house, we were three, the important person and owner of everything, Usman and me. Usman was brought up in Pakistan and as a son of a general he used to call our third roomie 'Sir'. And so did I. Sir Maguire died yesterday. He was the first American I ever really met and the one that taught me most of the few things I know about the US today. Sir Maguire was a mix of an intellectual version of Mr. Scrooge and Bart Simpson. It was the best white, posh, racist, septuagenarian roommate one could wish for. Kentucky Derby Mint Juleps, Irak's invasion, the death of his ex-wife, the fact that his son...

Sometimes I wonder what a normal life would be. Do you ask yourselves that? Is normal to ask yourself if your life is normal? I think normal is boring, monotonous and makes you old faster. Maybe feeling abnormal keeps life interesting, maybe it is pure egocentrism and attention seeking. Do you know anybody normal? Why do we have so many words that mean nothing unless you make comparisons? I found the answer: normal is nothing else than a washing machine cycle (from Whoopie Goldberg.I know, I know, not precisely Plato but the message goes through)

...is my charity contribution to this city and often an enormous test to my patience. When I recently moved to a 17-minute commute from work I thought that would be a short very doable daily metro ride, especially because I do not need to change lines and I can sit, read, observe, listen to music…or so I thought. Well, I do listen to music indeed. Accordionist, Slavic and Roma singers, guitar players, drum players…the longer the ride, the wider the variety of free concerts you get inside the metro train. Sometimes those are really sad concerts from really sad people. I am intrigued by the lives of the singers who beg within the metro, their wrinkles and damaged hands insinuate hardship. Their dark voices, dirty nails, greasy hairs combed with enormous dignity, eventual golden tooth and unfashionable pullovers. Somebody should write their stories. Singing while begging deserves a coin, even if small. The worse the singer, the more I feel I need to give him/her some euro cents…I might b...

Life-a-deux has some new aspects I am really appreciating. Snoring, even if subtle, or the fact that laundry is double are not part of them.Boyfriend husband is turning 32 tomorrow. He has decided to challenge aging by buying himself a way, way too expensive longboard skateboard. BH has so many hobbies that we do not have space for his gadgets anymore. Let him enjoy, Moroccan roads won't be like Parisian alleys. Thank God (yes, God, why not, it is Easter and I am spiritually a Catholic even if rationally I am probably on the agnostic side) my only hobbies are studying challenging languages, visiting places who make my mum unhappy, reading FT from beginning till end during weekends and telling myself I am going to become a yoga teacher when I know perfectly well my lower-back is not ready for wild twisting. So, life a deux is making me think I need a more manual, physical hobby than reading or writing this blook (blog+biobook). Since getting home internet connection in France take...