Merigoesaround

...to write during periods of happiness. Up to now, I haven't been able to. Not to say that the last 200 posts have been a product of sadness but I realize that the happier I feel and the more places I see, the less I write. In order to write this blog I have had to change the music from lively African rythms to distant Russian folk music. Am I losing part of the curiosity that threw me into luggage girl life? Is this a sign of getting older? Maybe I am just scared of ending the peter pan lifestyle. Some writers find inspiration in the most miserable moments of life, others' writing reflects only the highs of their daily monotonies. I am not yet the writer I'd like to be. One that writes about the tears and the smiles of others, that portrays life as it is in many corners of the world, from the poshest mall in Paris to the darkest corner in the medina where boyfriend husband lives. So during 2010 I am planning to breach new boundaries in the art of writing/communicating. Wr...

"Oh music in the street", I said after repeatedly hearing music outside the building. "It is the rubbish collector", my interlocutor replied. I smiled politely with my embarrassed I-am-a-tourist face.

They looked at me and said "What do you stare at? we are shoes". "I know" I answered. "Are you lost?". They started weeping. Their owner had gone to buy tobacco and vanished, just like smoke in the air. They were together, milimetrically in parallel, side by side. I smiled at the random solitude of those shoes and kept on walking. Alone.

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.

If you are ever in a plane and you notice somebody looking like the lady in the picture there are chances the weirdo is just me. Flying is always an adventure. Even before reaching destination. I now travel with a rosary, drink water constantly, chew an average of five gums per flight and practice the Valsalva method often, very often...all in all to avoid cabin pressure looocura. In my last flight the pressure on my ears was so bad that the flight attendant brought immediately what is now a normal ritual during my plane shows: two plastic cups with paper soaked in warm water inside. It might be psychological but the steamy sensation helps.

My memory box mysteriously opened up today with the image of my grandmother running hysterically around the house, armed with a sweeper and screaming to the mice populating her kitchen: "son of a b...bastards go to hell". Grandma was bad to the Royal Spanish Dictionary and the Spanish mannerism, she often invented words and she used lots, but lots of funny insults, nasty words of those that make you laugh. At least they make us, Spaniards, laugh. The squeaky kitchen mice got beaten, many times to death. My grandmother was so not special that that make her unique and special. Every time she drank water would make a noise with her lips, like a kiss to the air, and rumored "how delicious". She would also hide the last piece of bread, that one that always seems to be left over the table, in her pocket. This behavior was probably normal for somebody who lived through a civil war: she highly appreciated water and bread till the end of her days. Mice were enemies, robbers...

I spent the day willing to scream to my office mates, to the building guards, to the lady sitting in front of me in the metro, to the world that it was my birthday. But I did not. I observed my colleagues and measured all their movements, are they preparing me a little surprise as we normally do ? do I feel some nervousness or tension around? what would be my "thank you" speech? 'guys you are simply the best', I rehearsed mentally. Where is the cake, are they hiding it on another floor?. I checked the fridge twice. Nothing in there. I imagined my parents signing me 'feliz cumpleanyos' through the phone and my uncles' band playing the birthday theme as they normally do every 14th of August. But NOTHING of that was happening. Nada. Nobody said 'happy birthday', no songs. No cake or smiley colleagues. It was already 5pm and no happy birthday love at all. I decided to sms my parents: 'Today is my birthday'. Answer: 'We did not have your cel...

My friend the ex-banker recently started working in development after many years in commercial banking. She wears too much gold during donors' roundtables and hasn't yet learned to manage the politics in a conducive way (conducively towards the goal of the institution you represent) but in general she is a hands on 4x4 lady. Her first appreciatiation of the international donor arena is this: 'People working in development are nerds and bad looking'. Full stop. We analyzed the sample we are currently immersed in. 300 individuals, over 100 nationalities. We run some domestic descriptive statistics to find out that there are only five goodlooking men in our sample. 1.6% beauty ratio. Since the five of them are taken and so am I gossip is rare, hence, the girls in campus spend our time talking about microfinance first, and finding a boyfriend after you turn 30, second. *Notice strategic order in case my boss happens to read this. My friend the ex-banker says it is tremendou...

So everything is allowed unless Islamic law prohibits it. Easy enough to remember. Mr. Khan is a friend from Pakistan. We have spent the last weeks having interesting conversations on Pakistan, Western Europe, from microfinance or marriage to religion. It was after a class on Islamic banking that Mr. Khan told me 'let's go for lunch, I hope I can survive this last week on fruit and vegetables'. I told him that he could find meat in the cafeteria. His anwer: 'it is not Halal enough'. We discussed the meaning of Halal (allowed) versus Haraam (forbidden) in the Islamic law on our walk towards lunch and I realized that even if the cafeteria was prominently displaying the Halal certificate, it would be difficult for Mr. Khan to eat that meat in good conscience. 'In Pakistan we have too many rules, I am not sure they follow them here in Italy'. He also told me that he was not feeling well because he could not pray on Fridays in a Mosque. This conversation reminde...

whether you sweat when you swim? I have.

Two youngsters. Slim. Drunk. Armed. - 'Do you think she carries a girl or a boy?' - 'A boy' - 'No way, I think is a baby girl, I am sure of that'. - 'You are wrong and very drunk. She carries a boy', insisted one of them. - 'I bet you five bucks the baby she has in her belly is a girl'. - 'Okey, let's see'. They shot her in the head, opened her stomach with a knife and rejoiced at their finding. 'You see, it is a girl, give me the five bucks'. Sierra Leona, only 10 years ago. This story was explained to me by the school professor of these two youngsters, today an official at the Central Bank of that country. He is proud of his new country, the democratic election, the new mood but I see the trauma and shame in his eyes, I see he is wondering what did he do wrong.

Reading about somebody I would like to emulate in the next years, Rory Stewart , I realized that even those who seem so sure and certain of where they go and what their contribution to society is or will be suffer from the accute syndrome of reinventing yourself. This syndrome makes you be whoever you want to be, learn as many languages as you can, travel as many countries as time and money allow you to, and struggle with an internal conflict between your life now and your life one second later from now. The constant reinvention of who you are and who you want to be can be tiring but is the path to self-improvement.

Somebody from the Far East told me recently that I was probably a man in my previous life. At first I thought the male in question was insulting me. To be fair with him it is true that it is difficult to dance salsa with me because I always try to lead the movements, spins and tempo...in short, I take the man's role. However, from that to have chest hair...nah. Man or not the comment made me wonder about the belief in previous lives and how strange, mysterious and almost comical, the concept of 'previous life' sounds to the Western Christian ear. Wikipedia tells me that Christianity, Islam and Judaism reject the concept of reincarnation while Hinduism and Buddhism endorse it. I've been googling 'past life', 'reincarnation' for some minutes now and all google comes up with are 'past life generators' that when you click into a mirror tell you what you were in your previous life. I did it twice and twice the mirrow showed male pictures.

Bongo, recently departed ex-president of Gabon: “Africa without France is a car without a driver,” he said, "but France without Africa is a car without petrol.” Courtesy of Mr. Blattman .