To Catch a Fish

Although I don’t always blend that well, somehow I’ve enjoyed the benefit of ambiguous national identity; people might know I’m not one of theirs, but they don’t know my tribe.  Italian, Spanish, Israeli, Colombian, French, Greek. . . I’ve been cast as all of these.  I suppose globalization has made it harder than it once was to identify people, even while engaging a keen eye for subtleties of body language, affect and styles of dress; maybe people don’t project their nationalities quite so obviously.  Considering the attitude toward U.S. Americans in many parts of the world, and especially in light of recent events in the Middle East, I value my generic ‘passing’ status as a Citizen of the Universe; I think I’d choose that status even if being American didn’t come with so many complicated associations; I don’t want to be defined by the land that bore me.

All that said -- while to bewilder can be useful, to connect is divine.

multi-generation stone-throwing. . . never gets old

Ryan and Doug

Ryan -- bringer of bread, thrower of stones

Before we left our house by the sea and set out for Sidi Bou Said, -- a cliff-top village about an hour north that beckoned artists and philosophers such as Paul Klee, August Macke and Michel Foucault – a member of the extended family of our hosts offered to tattoo me with a mixture of plant dyes she had made.  Of course I accepted, and sat cross-legged on the living room carpet with Nadia – a woman about my age who had cared for us all week – and her mother, the tattoo artist.  Neither of them had ever left the village of about 2,000 people – and as women, rarely spent time outside of houses.  Nadia asked me lots of questions (in French) -- including when Doug and I planned to get married.  I told her we were just friends and decided against explaining our ‘tribal’ differences.  Nadia took my hand and told me she was going to miss me -- which was sweet, and it made me realize that she probably wondered about us just as much as we wondered what life was like for her and her husband Salah and their son, Ryan.  I guess it’s important to accept that people make up their own stories about who you are -- it can’t be helped.   Never let the truth get in the way, as they say – except, of course, a relationship that is filled with projection is limited by nature.  How to relate in a way that goes beyond someone else’s story about who you are or to somehow get your stories aligned is difficult even when we’re from the same culture and speak the same language.  Still, I think it’s possible -- when we choose it -- to discover each other and reveal ourselves in an honest and non-bullshitty way.

Bizerte

Bizerte

Bizerte

After visiting Bizerte -- the Venice of Africa with its network of canals and crumbling opulence -- Doug spent just one day in Sidi Bou Said and set off for New York, leaving me to experience life in a Muslim culture without a man in attendance.  I entertained myself with stories about the other guests in the hotel -- a beautiful tiled villa whose period of greatest vigor seemed to have been about 30 years ago -- and assumed they might have done the same about me.  There was an English woman and her daughter, both always impeccably dressed, smoking and drinking sunset cocktails and appearing to be having very important conversations; I imagined them returning to their estate in the English countryside, riding horses and living a life of mannered privilege.  I decided to become a regular at the old school French-Tunisian restaurant across the street and enjoyed flirting (subtly, of course) with the more polite of the extremely formal waiters.  I took the a long winding and unfortunately trash-strewn path down to the bottom of the hill, walked around the marina and the beach and wandered around the town, read by the pool and enjoyed the turquoise doors and jasmine-scented evenings. . .but found myself looking forward to returning to an environment where I wouldn’t be quite so conspicuous.

The Hotel Dar Said

the gardener brought me these lemon-scented leaves

I met up with my friend Sibylle in Paris and, thanks partly to her mastery of French, we merged into the up-and-coming arty neighborhood around the Canal St. Martin.  My friend Nupu also joined us from London for one day and one night.  We spent the week talking in cafes and riding the winding rues and wide boulevards on city bikes, with the assistance of some friendly French gentlemen.  We ate delicious crusty bread and escargot and cheese and foie gras, drank wine, heard an amazing multi-generational band from Chile, made wishes at Notre Dame, ogled beauty products in French pharmacies, sampled perfumes, performed yoga poses in front of statues and enjoyed the first days of autumn within Paris’ endless enchantments.

Sibylle

Nupu, Hilary and Sib 

Los Bipolares at New Morning, 10th Arr.

It was interesting to spend time in two such different cultures. . . or rather, two cultures in such different moments of development – one arguably quite entrenched in its ways and while it can be admired, it's hard to truly access. . . sort of a Ryan Gosling of a city; and the other more fascinating for its chaos and squalor, in the midst of one in long and varied history of dramatic transitions.  It made me think about countries, cultures, systems and individuals in evolution -- how we destroy and rebuild ourselves again and again, how to divest ourselves of ways of being that are no longer relevant and prevent us from moving forward; how to reconcile with the past, walk toward the future, and exist in the sparkling glimmering present -- as it slips heartily and assuredly through our hands.

boy with fish