PARIS J'TAIME
The premise seemed easy: get on a plane and go from Kuwait to Bahrain. Get on another plane and go from Bahrain to Paris. In truth some of the more tiresome chores were completed before leaving: packing, giving away books and materials, sending clothes and books home, saying goodbye to friends. I met some amazing people along the way: The Sergeant at the US Post Office at the embassy who lent me dollars when I ran out sending the last box. Jordan, who drove me and my boxes across the scorching embassy parking lot in weather so hot you could feel the water evaporating from your very being, always with a brilliant smile, Sherry and her father who invited me for dinner two days before I left and were incredibly generous and friendly with me. Her father’s library was the only one I ever saw in a Kuwaiti house.
I had to say goodbye to Nizar of course, and that wasn’t easy. But it wasn’t difficult either as we had drifted apart a few weeks before my departure. When we left for the airport his car was packed full of all of the things I bought while in Kuwait: teapot, colander, cups, omelet pan, plastic wash basin and on and on…
At the airport I found I’d lost my visa and I had to go through a procedure in a small military office. It made me anxious because I thought I might never be able to leave the country. But it was okay. I had too much luggage. The clerk at check-in suggested I take as much as I could as hand luggage. So I marched to the waiting area with three heavy bags, one of which I was relieved of on the ramp. Voila! My baggage got checked without paying overweight charges.
Waiting in line to board there were four American soldiers bound for Germany. They casually traded war stories. It was enough to shred my nerves. One of the unexpected benefits of this fellowship is that I came to appreciate the men and women in the armed forces. They are fighting for us, even if the war(s) make no sense.
When I disembarked in Bahrain the first thing I saw was an exhibition of watercolors in a hallway leading to the shopping area. I stared at the pictures for twenty minutes, it was the first art I had seen since I visited Lebanon.
The flight to Paris was uneventful, thank goodness. I was surprised at the luggage claim that my big bag was broken in three places and my stuff oozing out of the new openings.
No one from my flight offered to help me. Outside I met three Frenchmen who mistook me for a Haitian (don’t know how they got that.) In what I’ve come to regard as typical French fashion, they commiserated, condemned and then ridiculed my situation.
D'Artagnan got a bright idea. He ran off and returned with a large roll of duct tape. One guy laughed the whole time while the three of us bound up my wrenched luggage until it looked like a brown striped black larva. I thanked each Musketeer with a kiss and got into the van that would take me to my brother’s apartment.
If you’ve never come into Charles De Gaulle Airport and taken the train or a car into Paris during daylight hours in the spring or summer then you might not know that there are a lot of trees and bushes that line this route. The first sight of green was an onslaught. That is the only way I can describe it. The green hit my senses like nothing I have ever experienced. I started to cry. As there was a lot of vegetation, I cried most of the way to Paris. When we got into the city, the driver pointed out a particularly fine example of Haussmann era architecture, I cried again, not having seen fine architecture for quite some time.
So here I was in Paris with all my stuff, but where was my mind? I’m still asking myself this question. I spent the first afternoon in a café solving crossword puzzles I had from Kuwait. I watched the people do exactly as they pleased, dressed however they liked inwardly shaking my head and tsk-tsking. Who was I to judge?
To this delicate state of mind add the French language, a western, Latin culture and whoa! I have a healthy dose of culture shock. I want to write but I’m all stopped up.
I had to say goodbye to Nizar of course, and that wasn’t easy. But it wasn’t difficult either as we had drifted apart a few weeks before my departure. When we left for the airport his car was packed full of all of the things I bought while in Kuwait: teapot, colander, cups, omelet pan, plastic wash basin and on and on…
At the airport I found I’d lost my visa and I had to go through a procedure in a small military office. It made me anxious because I thought I might never be able to leave the country. But it was okay. I had too much luggage. The clerk at check-in suggested I take as much as I could as hand luggage. So I marched to the waiting area with three heavy bags, one of which I was relieved of on the ramp. Voila! My baggage got checked without paying overweight charges.
Waiting in line to board there were four American soldiers bound for Germany. They casually traded war stories. It was enough to shred my nerves. One of the unexpected benefits of this fellowship is that I came to appreciate the men and women in the armed forces. They are fighting for us, even if the war(s) make no sense.
When I disembarked in Bahrain the first thing I saw was an exhibition of watercolors in a hallway leading to the shopping area. I stared at the pictures for twenty minutes, it was the first art I had seen since I visited Lebanon.
The flight to Paris was uneventful, thank goodness. I was surprised at the luggage claim that my big bag was broken in three places and my stuff oozing out of the new openings.
No one from my flight offered to help me. Outside I met three Frenchmen who mistook me for a Haitian (don’t know how they got that.) In what I’ve come to regard as typical French fashion, they commiserated, condemned and then ridiculed my situation.
D'Artagnan got a bright idea. He ran off and returned with a large roll of duct tape. One guy laughed the whole time while the three of us bound up my wrenched luggage until it looked like a brown striped black larva. I thanked each Musketeer with a kiss and got into the van that would take me to my brother’s apartment.
If you’ve never come into Charles De Gaulle Airport and taken the train or a car into Paris during daylight hours in the spring or summer then you might not know that there are a lot of trees and bushes that line this route. The first sight of green was an onslaught. That is the only way I can describe it. The green hit my senses like nothing I have ever experienced. I started to cry. As there was a lot of vegetation, I cried most of the way to Paris. When we got into the city, the driver pointed out a particularly fine example of Haussmann era architecture, I cried again, not having seen fine architecture for quite some time.
So here I was in Paris with all my stuff, but where was my mind? I’m still asking myself this question. I spent the first afternoon in a café solving crossword puzzles I had from Kuwait. I watched the people do exactly as they pleased, dressed however they liked inwardly shaking my head and tsk-tsking. Who was I to judge?
To this delicate state of mind add the French language, a western, Latin culture and whoa! I have a healthy dose of culture shock. I want to write but I’m all stopped up.
posted by Roja at 12:04 AM
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