Merigoesaround

What would I do without you ramen noddles? 3 minutes, boiled water, dinner is ready. What would I do without the Chinese place that closes after 10pm? Or the eventual samosa that I eat at the local Indian? How would I live without generous amounts of Danone yoghurt, liters of milk and kilos of cereal? And cheese, what to say about the importance of cheese in my gastronomic life. Bread, tears in my eyes, thinking about crunchy, fresh bread, the baguette magic effect of life. BH is convinced that I know how to cook but I haven't yet made it beyond the cheese and salmon omelet or the 'whatever-you-have-in-the-fridge' pasta. How many of you feel 100% identified with what I am saying!?

Some weeks ago I went to Barcelona for a weekend. Home. Being a short flight from Paris I do it every two months or so. Going back is always a similar bitter sweet moment. No matter how often I go, no matter for how long. You belong to there but in a way you don't belong to anywhere. Your closest friends are always welcoming, the ones that really know you, that forgive you for not writing to them, for not spending time with their kids or simply having coffee and chatting about life, love and sex (yes, this is what girls talk about when together in a group and 80% of them have had the same partner for more than 5 years). Their generosity amazes me every time. Their repertoire of sexual tips too. Being back one irremediably wonders about the conterfactuals of life: how would have life been hadn't the 'luggage girl lifestyle' started? how would have been marrying that first boyfriend that trashed your heart? how would have been spending more time closer to your parents? f...

Yesterday night I saw a short (free) movie . Go to 'ver pelicula'. Subtitled in English. and today the movie became reality. Because there are things you never forget. HT to Juliana. Problems should be that, children's games.

This year ends with words that almost rhyme. Isolation, confusion, and emotion. All of the good kind. On beautiful isolation . The dream of every woman: to travel to an exotic remote spot with 9 hot French kitesurfers. Me, the women. Them, the boys. Dakhla in the Western Sahara, the spot. This place is peacefully located in the middle of nowhere. A land that hides natural resources deep down the desert-like surface. A land ruled by Spaniards some time ago and decolonized the Spanish way, sloppily. Boyfriend Husband (BH) has strongly discouraged me from asking any local about the conflict in the Western Sahara. The journalistic me dreams of writing a small article on it and publishing it in El Pais. BH says is dangerous and Moroccans do not like to talk about it. The truth is that from our kitesurfy bungalow all I see is a marvelous sunset, gentle Moroccans (Saharaui or not) and wonderful international families making the most of this last day of 2010. If you wonder about the 9 French,...

I want a metro without pickpockets, and you? One more pickpocket incident in Line 9 of the Parisian metro and I will start a public campaign. I already designed the logo, I just need to make stickers and fill windows, chairs and doors in the metro with them. I had never ever felt so insecure taking public transport than in Paris. Yesterday, while seated in the metro I was surprised with the drivers' message out loud "Ladies and Gentlemen there is a pickpocket in the last wagon, watch out your bags".

I tried to refuse her love. I tried not to take any of her proposals for fun, for eating out, enjoying the sun, the coffees in charming bistros. I really tried to dislike her. And I did not succeed. I love Paris. La ville. Beauty is in Paris.

Read title with David Bowie's famous song... chaaa cchhh chhha cchaannges in mind. I feel changes. I have this supernatural power, according to me, to foresee the future. This belief has been strengthened after I foresaw two pickpocket attacks in the metro. I knew something would happen, I changed seats and moved away from the suspects, when the metro stopped few seconds latter they violently stole the iphone of a girl while she was talking in one case and run away with a bag in another one. I can read bad people as much as I can recognize good human fiber. My fiber tells me that changes will come soon into my life. I have already started missing Paris while still having an address, a telephone account and a job here. Very importantly, I have 10 sessions of vinyasa yoga that I finally accept will go unused since that type of yoga, despite forcing myself to like it, does not do good to my lower back. I miss my grey mini sofa, an enormous Burkina Faso mask standing in my living that...

Reporting live from Manila. I love the feeling of crossing the world in a plane. Even when the sleeping pill overdosed-Scottish middle age gigantic man sitting in front starts delirating and suddenly raises his skirt and decides to urinate in the middle of the plane. I thought we were landing in Mongolia. The face of the Dutch stewardess trying to reanimate the guy first, and making him feel ashamed second went from Munch's The Scream to Hitler in a matter of seconds. Human craziness apart, I love the feeling of flying through borders. Overflying Poland brought me back to 2001 and those days boyfriend husband and I were young and that first time we kissed in the garden of the Warsaw school where we spent a year of fun. The flight through Russian small villages (or at least they looked small from up there) flew me back to communism. In Kazakhstan I felt I was visiting a new country, even if all I could see was the vast blackness of unknown land. China, Mongolia, India...I don't ...

Inspiration comes when it comes. I know I am disappointing some of you and the snowball of blogless days becomes bigger and bigger, heavier and heavier on my shoulders. I'll be back very soon, I am in the process of planning what's next in life and putting thoughts in order. As boyfriend husband would say, there is no correct path, just yours. And I agree. He is always right.

This American proverb hanging from a kitchen fluorescent light bulb in a friend's house might be the best driver to live happily ever after. Don't blame yourself, don't blame others, things happen for a reason. All things. You didn't get that job. It had to happen. You found prince charming. It had to happen. You haven't yet. It will happen when it has to. This weekend we spent time with a new guru, a person I rediscovered, the eclectic kind of guru. We hit the Swiss slopes close to where he lives, we hit them so hard that boyfriend husband damaged his elbow badly. We ate immense amounts of cheese, rolled in the snow after sauna, inhaled as much fresh air as possible, and rediscovered the streets and the cafes of Geneva, a tiny elegant welcoming town that according to Borges is a place favoring happy lives . I tell Borges that the best place to visit is home. This weekend I saw small and big pictures of life.

Two nights ago a sophisticated, extremely cultured, lovely person who might become a good friend revealed to me a secret probably too secret for sharing with an stranger: "when I make love in a language that is not my native one it is never the same", he said. The funny part is that my potential friend is trilingual. So, or he gets lots of pleasure, or he is lost in translation. Maybe I am too. This blog should be about development economics and not dictionary ergonomics. But, multilingual couples of the world, speak out...I am listening.

My friend the ex-corporate-guy-now-converted-into-photographer is really good at his new occupation. He dreamt once of becoming a photographer, of expressing right out of his gut what he had inside after life gave him a kick off straight into his heart. He is succeeding. And recovering. He is so good that I want a picture with him very soon, this guy has a lot inside. Beyond all this free February love, let me explain his occupation. He takes pictures of pain. Not a very good way to relieve his, indeed. He does development porn, an irreverently ironic term that does not give credit to so many dozens of photographers around the world telling us what is beyond the Galerie Lafayette in Paris. So my friend the photographer is as good as having one of his pictures shown in the huge publicity banners of the Parisian metro. It was almost like a dream. I took line 9, my daily commute...and when I got to "Bonne Nouvelle" (literally, Good News) metro stop there she was, one of his Viet...

When I had too much food for thought at work. Courtesy of US colleagues.

This morning I met Lady Pigeon. I was sitting in the metro, half slept and hungry. My mornings are always in a rush. Always. I am fascinated by those who manage to have full continental breakfasts, with warm toasts and everything, at home before going to work. Seldom are the days I remember to grab a cereal bar. Sooo, hungry, sleepy me sat in front of a lady who was talking to her closed bag. I sometimes talk to my open bag...specially when I psychologically lose my purse inside. Girls' bags are artifacts to make you suffer. But there she was, Lady Pigeon talking to her closed bag. "Shhh. Don't move". She whispered. "Shhh. Behave". And suddenly she unzipped her leather interlocutor and a fat, grey sparrow animated my commuting today.

While it is boyfriend husband who lives in Africa, I am the one who sees (and smells) the lions and tigers every day. This are some of the externalities of living by the Circus. It all started a couple of months ago, when the season was launched. Suddenly misterious trucks covered by white overalls and a mild-to-intense smell of horse dung invaded the surroundings of the Cirque d'Hiver (the Winter Circus). One of my three windows in my micro studio was opened and suddenly I heard: Rrrrrrrrrrrrooarrr. It was a lion. A real one. From then on, the love story started and my wish to go to the Circus increased roar after roar. On Sunday me an boyfriend husband finally went to see our wild neighbors. We were probably the only couple without kids, but we were kids ourselves.

Oh la la. Shopping time in Paris. Taking advantage of the winter sale I went for a walk through the Marais. I purposely avoided those shops with dozens of French girls and loads of annoying tourists fighting for the bargain and went for a chic version of designer, hyper expensive shops that I can’t afford. Dreaming is free. I entered one of those exclusive places that sell only two or three samples of each piece. I tried on a couple of eccentric shirts, did not really like them and stepped outside of the shop heading home. I passed through “La Cactusserie”, the only shop I know of that sells only cactuses. To my left, Café Rouge, to my right, another cute little shop with socks at over 50 euros. The shop attendant inside looked at me directly, for more than 3 seconds. French looks are intense. There is a 3-second rule. 2 more than in the rest of the world. I entered the shop and while I was browsing the clothes hanging in the little shop I noticed that what I was holding in my arm was...

This year’s resolution of writing more in good and bad moments is not happening. Is Paris insufficiently interesting to spark my writing? Is the French “metro-boulot-dodo” (subway-work-sleep) motto permeating through my skin? Or as suggested by a colleague, I need a boyfriend in town to get me out of the office before 8.30pm.

Simple. When the x-ray machine guy stops you at the airport, nod profusely to whatever he says. In this case he said it was sheep ham...fact that I confirmed with a big smile. All to please boyfriend husband's craves for the precious Spanish product.

Seen at any random corner, roundabout or street in Morocco. Picture taken in a taxi. If only I could understand Arabic...