Ehud and the Bible

Hello everyone,

I am back in Paris after spending two weeks back home visiting my family and friends.  It was a very lovely time and I was not ready to come back to Paris.  There is a certain level of comfort that can only be reached at home, and while in Paris, I find myself searching around to find something similar to it, but with a lack of familiarity comes a void.  And so it goes.  

My story today comes from a rather strange experience I had on the plane ride over.  

It was cloudy, it was cold, it was rainy.  I kept hoping (but I dont remember ever verbally stating) that my flight would be delayed and then cancelled so that I could spend one more day at home.  Alas, (haha, or maybe not, depending on how you look at it) the flight took off around the general time it was booked.  When I checked in, I asked the man behind the counter if he could give me a seat closer to the front--preferably exit row (more leg space, duh).  He told me he would try to find something and I should ask again at the gate. 

Yeah.  Not only did I have one of the last seats on the plane.  I was 44 K.  Middle seat, people.  I went to the counter four times to ask if there was any way I could switch my seat, at least to an aisle or window.  I even considered telling them that I was claustrophobic or had a terrible fear of flying that would only get better with an aisle or exit row seat.  But, I'm pretty sure those things have to be stated when you buy your ticket, or at least when you check in.

So, I was fated to a middle seat.  The dreaded seat.  I hate hate hate the middle seat. 

Sure, it's uncomfortable.  But its not just that.  It the throw up thing.  If I'm on the aisle, or in the window seat, I only have to sit next to ONE stranger.  So the probability of sitting directly next to someone who is a plane vomiter is considerably lower than sitting next to two complete strangers.  I wish it were normal to ask the people you're sitting next to if they usually vomit on the plane.  That way, I can mentally prepare myself (haha, yeah right, I will never be able to mentally prepare myself for vomit) OR I mean, that could be a reason to ask for a change of seat, right. 

"Excuse me, but if I sit next to this person, and he/she vomits, then I will in turn, begin hyperventilating and/or crying and/or behaving in a manner similar to those people you see in the psych ward of the hospital.  

It's not me, I swear.  Something ticks in my head and I can't control the way I react.  Sometimes I think I've calmed down about it, but even if it doesn't get me right when it happens, I have nightmares about it.  That is, if I can even fall asleep.  Most times, I spend the night awake thinking about it.  

ANYWAY, I don't like the middle seat when I'm flying on my own.  Actually, even when I'm flying with my family, I don't like the middle seat.  WHO likes the middle seat?  Does anyone actually enjoy flying seven hours stuck between two people?  Crazy.  

So, I board the plane and I'm walking to my seat.  Walking past business class is disheartening, especially on international flights.  I mean, they set the bar high.  You'd think that with a bar that high, economy would be a LITTLE better.  Right?  I mean, come on, a little better.

Finally, I got to my 44k, and I noticed that on one side of me sat a very large man, African, carrying rosary reads and reading the Bible, adorned with gold-laced pages.  And on my left, an older man, rocking a kippa.  I laughed, yes, this WOULD happen to me.  Me, who has the SSS stamp on every single one of my plane tickets.  I think this was actually one of the first flights in a while where I was NOT searched.  But, what's more:  after contemplating whether or not I should, I had decided to carry on the book I'm reading at the moment, "Inside the Jihad: My Life with Al Qaeda."  Yessssss.  Yes.

So I smiled, sat down, laughed to myself a little, got comfortable (rather, got as comfortable as I could get) and waited for the plane to take off. 

Now, the first half of the trip was nothing too remarkable.  I kept to myself; read my book, watched "Smart People" (pretty good movie); ate some (really gross) food.  Monsieur Yamaka on my left got a kosher meal, that per Ramin Ostad's remarks, I took to taste much better than my beef concoction.  

By the time "Smart People" was over and "Sex and the City: the movie" had started, I was officially bored.  My eyes strayed over to the golden pages of the Bible, and lingered just a little too long because Agha rosary beads looked at me and smiled.

"Where are you from?" 

"The US, Virginia, northern VA." 

"I live in Maryland, but I'm going back to my home in Nigeria." 

*insert small talk about Nigeria/Maryland/Virginia*

"But you're not American?"

"Yes, yes, I'm American."

"You don't look American."

*Insert the part about me telling him that my family is Iranian but I was born and raised in the good ole' US of * 

"Do they let you marry anyone you want?" 

"Well, I actually havent come across that particular experience yet, but yes, I would imagine though will let me."

"So they're not strict about who you marry.  Because I know a lot of Arabs make their children marry other Arabs."

*Insert part about me wanting to share some of my knowledge on Iranian history/culture yet refraining to do so.  Why?  Why not?*

"Are you religious?"

"No."

"But, when you marry, you will convert to the religion of your husband." 

(notice that it is NOT a question) 

"No.  No. Not necessarily.  No." 

"You have to."

"Oh, but I don't believe I do."

"It is right for a woman to convert to the religion her husband practices because without a shared faith there is cause for infidelity and distrust.  If the man says he is going to church, and the woman does not go with him, she is forced to believe that he is going to church, while he may be going somewhere else.  And how will the woman know?  It will be cause for conflict.  And so, the woman must go to church with her husband to make sure he does not stray." 

"Yes, but I would rather decide for myself which religion I want to practice, if any religion, and I think it be just as destructive for me to lie and go to church when I don't believe in---"

"The MAN is the head of the household, and the woman must learn to respect that."

"I grew up thinking differently."

"Religion creates a bond between the man and the woman."

"Religion also has the ability to do much worse."

"Not Christianity.  Christians have NEVER killed for their cause."

"What about the Crusades?" 

*Insert part where Nigerian man slams Bible shut and looks at me just as the flight attendant comes and asks if we want tea or coffee.  Tea please.  Saved by the bell." 

We stopped talking after that.  But, I was riled up.  Man, was I riled up.  Conversations like that fire me up.  When issues of religion come to play, and they're mixed with gender equality.  When the mere subject of patriarchal societies come into the discussion, I can feel the heat rising to my face.  

I couldn't stop fidgeting after that.  I even dropped my Ipod under my seat (I couldn't retrieve it until everyone had exited the airplane).  

Then it was lefties turn.  We'll call him Ehud.  Ehud seemed nice.  He was quiet.  He spent most of the flight out of his seat, actually, walking around and drinking gallons of water.  He drank SO much water.

He asked me where I was headed.  

"Paris.  You?"

"Israel.  Tel Aviv."

"Oh.  Wow.  I've heard it's nice there.  My dad lived in Haifa for a while.  Actually, he may go back, but his company is not letting him go for the time being..."

*Insert the part where Ehud uncomfortably smiles* 

"Where in Haifa does he live?"

".....Haifa?  I don't really know.  Close to the coast, I imagine, he always talks about the beach."

"I have two sons in Tel Aviv and four more in Jerusalem.  You wont believe, but I have sixteen grandchildren." 

I decided I would like him.  He was nice.  He lived in Silver Spring, but his entire family lived in Israel.  He asked me if I had ever visited my father in Israel.  

"Honestly, I just want to go to Iran first.  After that, maybe.  But, I don't want to go to Israel before I go to Iran."  

He understood.  As much as I wanted to, I couldn't bring myself to ask about Gaza, about what he thought, where he stood.  I couldn't.  Every time I would get remotely close, he seemed to get uncomfortable and change the subject so we were no longer in the same vicinity.  

When we landed.  The Nigerian hastily got off the airplane and me and Ehud made our way out of the plane together.  I wished him safe travels and he told me to embrace all the time I had in Paris. 

"These are your best years"  he said.  He smiled and walked away.  

Yeah.  Paris is a good time.  A great time.  These past couple days have been hard, sure.  I've been lonely and tired (its the jet lag talking) but this semester is going to be completely different than last.  I get to take real classes AND Paris in the spring is lovely, I've heard.  So, I have that to look forward to.

to all my fellow readers--happy 2009!  I hope this year turns out to be the best you've had yet.    

Love,

Ranna 

paris...je t'aime, mon amour...ma vie...mon coeur...

dear paris,

 i should probably be writing this in french, but i'm pretty tired, and you seem to understand english pretty well...even if you pretend you dont...

we need to talk.

i leaving you for a while.  i need a trial separation.  its not you, its me.  it's totally me.  i need space.  i need distance.  fo real, i need distance.  like, across the ocean type distance.  

you know i love you, right?  i love you.  i'll always love you.  you'll be in my thoughts the entire time i'm away.   

I need to go home for a while to get my thoughts cleared up.  You dont give me a chance to clear my thoughts because with you i'm always living spontaneously.  its a good thing.  its such a good thing, paris.  dont you forget it.  but there comes a time when one must evaluate what she is doing with her life, what her goals and aspirations are, where she wants to be in the future.  

when im with you, you seduce me.  you seduce me into thinking i can remain a daydreaming dandy for the rest of my life.  

that's not life.  that's fantasy.  you are a fantasy.  

i love you so much, paris.  je t'aime.  je t'aime.  je t'aime.  i'll be back.  before you know it, i'll be back, and it'll be just like i never left...only it will be better.  because it will be warm.  well...you know...in march it will become warm.

with deepest affection, bisous, bisous, bisous, bisous,

ranna s.  

Guess what Ranna found today?

SWIFFER WIPES.......

and it feels soooooooooooo good.  

in other news:  yesterday we had a holiday party in our class.  It was the most amazing class holiday party of my life.  We were popping champagne and eating foie gras like we were Jay Z.  At freaking 10 in the morning...mhm...this is the life.  

 

and lastly--i fly home for Christmas in 3 days 01 hours 30 minutes 03 seconds 

Some songs I think you should listen to: 

yek

do

seh

bisoussssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

window shopper

I am a window shopper of the sweet sort.  My time is spent standing outside of the bakeries around Paris watching (yes, not just looking at, but watching) the tarts, the cakes, the macaroons, the flans, the napoleons, the eclairs....

People go in.  Come out.  Go in.  Come out.  They take out the pastries from the bag and take huge bites.  My mouth waters as I watch the the crumbs fall on their shirts, or the cream stick to their faces.  I imagine what it tastes like.  

I have the perfect comparison.  Who's seen "Hook?"  You know the part in the movie when they PRETEND to have a feast with the play-do looking food?  That's what I'm reminded of as I watch the bakeries.  I pretend to eat.  I pretend that I'm tasting the tarte aux framboises (too sugary), the pain au chocolats (not enough chocolate), the flan (just right).  Mmmmmmmmmmm.  

BUT, I will not give in to the pleasures baked goods have to offer.  

Ranna: Hey look at this bakery.  Mm, that looks good.

Whoever is with me: Yeah, woah, that one looks good too.

Ranna: I wonder what that tastes like.  Do you want something?  (silently hoping they say yes)

WIWM: No, not really.  Do you?

Ranna: Oh.  No.  Let's go.  (BEFORE I BREAK THE WINDOW AND EAT EVERYTHING ) 

Good thing I have an active imagination. Or else, I think I would be dead by now.  

Shab bekheyr.  Did you like the two blogs in one day?  niiicce.  

Marrakech Mint Tea

The mosque popped out at us so suddenly that I was taken aback at how large and beautiful it ended up being.  To me, it's location is arbitrary--near Place Monge, just a block away from Rue Mouffetard, close to the Latin Quarter.  

I wondered why it was the first time I was seeing it.  As we inched nearer I was excited to see what it would look like on the inside.  Already, I was noticing the beautiful tile work that ran its way up and down the colossal architectural masterpiece.  Turquoise, yellow ochre, greys and whites jumped out and created an image straight out of...Morocco (bt dubs, 'rents, I'm going to go in February).  Its authenticity was better highlighted by the old women sitting outside in "dahaat" garb drinking tea, eating persimmon, and speaking Arabic to one another.  

Afterwards, Yasna asked me what I thought these women did all day sitting outside of the mosque in the shivering cold.  I don't know.  That's their community...their group...their, "doreh-yeh zanah," (Mamman, Homah, Peggy style... only instead of Mamman's house eating khoresht bademjoon, aash, and halva, they prefer tea and persimmon).  

Through the entrance, we could see a courtyard filled with fountains and greenery.  It was refreshing, in the midst of all the grey (grey buildings, grey skies, grey people), to see all of the colors the mosque held. 

We wanted to go inside and explore (well, I wanted.  Yasna just wanted to get her eyeliner) but they told us it was not open to the public.  Later we found out it was Eid.  Really?  Was it really?  Well, Eid Mobarak.  Hey, is Dai Kami back from Makeh yet?    

The mosque had a hammam built into it and I was itching to go inside and see what the deal was.  The walls were emitting steam, and standing in the cold cold cold weather outside, I was envious of those inside the hammam enjoying the heat.  Imagine what a hammam can do for your sinuses!  It's like bookhoor X 10000!!!!

There was also an amazing cafe/restaurant.  Yasna and I went and sat there for a while.  There were golden tables, woven tapestries, couches and lush pillows all over the room.  Little birds flew in and out chirping.  The room was pretty full and in the middle of the hustle and bustle, a waiter running in and out of the kitchen carrying trays with dozens of "estekaneh chai" (glasses of tea).  

Sweet mint tea.  I was not expecting it to be shirin (sweet).  Minty, yes, but sweet, no.  My taste buds were pleasantly surprised.  The warmth of the tea was great.  It was relaxing.  It was...well, when there is tea these days, there is no cough.  So, my lungs got a little break too.  : ) Just kidding.  MOM IM FINE.  

The entire building, the entire experience inside that building was relaxing. Why?  I dont know.  If find religious sanctuaries to be very meditative in general.  I guess its because when there is always so much going on in the city, its nice to go somewhere where people are at peace.  

I'm going back again.  To drink some more tea and sit on the couches with the large pillows and sing with the birds.  

No.  I'm going back to sit with the old Arab women in front of the mosque drinking chair.  I'll even wear the "dahat garb"  to stay warm.  And I want to try to learn what it means to be a part of their community.  

Love.  

DONT

 i wish i was the relative pronoun "dont" so that i could understand the relative pronoun "dont" because if I was the relative pronoun "dont" then I wouldnt have to spend the entire weekend cooped inside the library studying the relative pronoun "dont."  

frozen bones and no nose

I wish the weather would become warm again so I could walk around again without wearing my hat and my gloves and my scarf and my coat and spandex under my jeans.  and they're telling me that it gets colder than this, and i say, "colder than THIS?!" and they say, "mais oui, colder than this." 

and i think to myself, oh dear lord, my face is already so cold i cant feel my nose.  i cant feel my nose and its scary when you cant feel your nose because then you dont know if its still there or not.  what if it falls off?  i wont know until the homeless man sitting on the corner of the street wrapped in a sleeping back and some old boxes looks up at me and says, "mademoiselle, s'il vous plait..." but before he has time to finish he screams, "VOTRE NEZ!!!" and lets go of his puppy who runs off into the street onto the ruthless traffic that runs over him and ends his short life. 

the chill is so spicy that even if im wearing my hat and my gloves and my scarf and my coat and spandex under my jeans it manages to get through down to my bones and it freezes my bones so that i have to go home and thaw.  and thawing can be messy when the water drips and drips and drips over my eyes and down my arsm and right onto my dirty floors that never get clean.  and i have to use one of my four towels to clean my wet floors.  but its ok because i would rather have wet floors than frozen bones.