Merigoesaround

How can somebody with the whitest white of the upbringings become color-blind? The first time I mingled with somebody racially distinct to the other 100% of my friends, relatives, neighbors and fellow citizens was when I met a friend of a friend who had himself a gypsy friend: Pepe. Pepe was not even in my highschool but we went to the local disco a couple of times and I always enjoyed imagining he belong to a different and relatively unknown culture, his roots were exotic to me, and his skin was beautifully tanned. Then, somehow young for the average Spaniard of my generation but terribly late compared to my same demographic cohort Europe-wise, I convinced my parents I would learn English in a summer and I flew to the UK for my first ever job. The job deserves a blog by itself (I worked in a turkey slaughterhouse in outer Norwich) but my key color blinding British moment was quite a thing too...just after landing, when I saw an airport packed with exotic Desis, women wearing colorful ...

I wondered. I was buying some eggplant and onions at the organic shop. I am not sure why I keep on going there. I might be saving the planet but it is costing me almost 1 euro more per onion. So I was playing the bohemian me in the organic shop and when I grabbed the tofu 'nature' my shopping bag accidentally fell down and a very tall guy helped me putting my aubergines and onions back in order. He was actually quite good-looking but the most visible feature adorning his face were a pair of ginormous black-framed vision glasses. I think this city is obsessed with artistic crazy glasses. I thought funky glasses owners were leftist kind of people but with the average pair at 300 euros and the onions double the normal price I think they are all undercover little Sarkozys.

A morning walk through the neighborhood. Coffee and croissant at the Boulangerie Boulangerie. It has no name but the croissants deserve walking two blocks further. Saturday routine of dry cleaning, supermarket and domestic chores. And lots, lots of beautiful temptations in my hood, almost as good as the croissant. Beautiful rings Very special gold, it has an Indian type of shine. Terrific bags I passed by the shop in Rue Saint Sebastian and saw a dirty window with what looked like an old bag hanging from a metallic bar and a Japanese magazine showing an article about the dusty bag hanging lonely. Very artsy. Powerful song and a new zen sport straight from California to the Parisian Marais. No socializing, no boyfriend husband, nobody. The street and you, the book and you, the rain and you, nobody to share your happiness with, nobody to care or worry. The happiness of being anonymous and free in this big beautiful city.

In a letter to Dear Economist this week somebody asked him about what to do when facing the good boy/bad boy dilemma. One of the funniest letters I've read lately. Let me explain. The letter defines “good boy” traits as thoughtfulness, caring, and emotional support versus “bad boy” ones: adventurousness and sexual attractiveness. You can find a good bad boy, but it is rare and some of the traits do not last long enough. Personally I think depending on your caring, emotional, physical needs a distant lover might suit you and solve your good/bad boy dilemma. We all go through the spectrum good/bad boy or girl when looking for a partner and when available in the market of love. I mean: 'bad boy wanted' and 'tonight I am a bad girl'. So, what to do?. Polygamy, cheating? We happen to have a friend resident in a non polygamist country who declares quite openly having two women in his life. One is the wife and the other one, with whom he has a kid, the lover. My mum would...

We entered the place with an enormous smile and some stereotypes polluting my mind. A squat? in Paris? They must be people living on the edge of society. I imagined empty bottles all over, pans and pots with leftovers of petrified food, filthy bathrooms, girl hair all over the floor, yellowish sheets. If that stereotyped squat exists, this was not it. Instead, I met Romain, Claire, Kapoani and another guy whose name I forgot. They occupied what used to be a gym for the employees of the French Utility Company (Electricite de France) some years ago and now it is their spotless, orderly, funky and, more importantly, free of charge home. The generosity goes as far as free electricity. They aim small and live big lives. Romain completed an elite school in France, Claire went to Harvard, Kapoani is a film maker and the guy with no name publishes creative stuff side by side to types such as Mr. Simpsons: Matt Groening. And yet, they probably don't make more than 10.000 EUR per year. And t...

I just realized I spent the whole summer thinking I did not need a holiday because life is holiday indeed. A quick break home made me think that holiday can be even better. *Courtesy iHugo and his amazing phone applications that make me go crazy most of the time and happy once I see the result.

This photo might look oldie, but it is not. It is from last week. Emmanuel used to be BH's cook. Now he is a (small) restaurant owner. Emmanuel was the ultra religious type. I think he did not like me. Maybe because I slept with the patron without being married to him. His religious aura and cooking skills conquered Hugo's stomach first and pocket later. A small loan made this possible. To me, the home version proof that access to financial services can work and a good lesson learned about trust and generosity.