A few weeks ago I had the unprecedented pleasure of spending a spontaneous weekend in Paris. Here is the second in a series of three (very) loosely chronological reflections.
Why the second and not the first, you ask? Well, the first one isn’t ready yet, because I actually wrote it second. Never mind. Just read.
I went to one of the most famous art galleries in the world today. I saw one of the most famous paintings in the world. It moved me not.
It was terribly exciting to get off the metro and follow the signs to the Louvre. It was exciting to walk past the gallery bookstore and approach the gallery information desk. It was exciting to buy my ticket, and stand under the famous pyramid, and plan my route to the Mona Lisa.
It’s not every day that your doctor hands you your fibroid in a jar.
And if that’s too much information for you, then you’d better stop reading right now.
My fibroid and I have just ended a long and pretty-much-pointless relationship. She (shall we call her Effie?) has been living and growing inside me for years, or so I’m told, but for some reason chose the moment of my arrival in Morocco to manifest herself. She then proceeded to wreak havoc with my body in all sorts of ways that I will not get into. Continue reading
As if I promised my mom I’d quit blogging in airports.
Forget that. I am in an airport with two big, empty hours between me and my flight, and I have thoughts in my head. Blog I will.
What sorts of thoughts, you ask? Travelling thoughts, of course. I am thinking about the first time I entered this airport in Casablanca, six months (years? decades?) ago. Ah, the idealism of youth: the naïve vision of a sparkling future ahead, with dreams wide open, waiting to be absorbed into ever brighter, ever-evolving realities…
Well, okay. It was half a year ago, and not entirely sparkly. I stepped off the plane onto the melting tarmac (Tarmac? Seriously? No portable space-age tunnels to beam me from one climate-controlled existence to the next? And what? I have to walk?). I entered a shabby building stuffed with jostling, djellaba-ed strangers. The signs on the walls were incomprehensible. I had no idea where to go. Which “line” do I join? This mob, or that one? Hey, how did all those people get in front of me? It’s hot. I’m dirty. I’m sweaty. Everyone is. Welcome to the new reality.