Dieses Mal muss ich gewinnen! Du wirst mich nicht überholen… Nicht beim Ü80-Rollator-Marathon!
Ich erinnere mich an unsere erste Begegnung, vor etwa fünf Jahren. Du hattest mir geholfen, mit meinem Rollator in den Zug zu steigen. Ich dachte: “Was für ein süsser Gentleman!” Deine grauen, feinen Haare und deine silber-blaue Krawatte liessen meine Gedanken 60 Jahre jünger werden, und meine Emotionen standen in Flammen! Du hattest nach meiner Nummer gefragt, und der Rest… war Geschichte.
Ich erinnere mich an unser erstes Date. Hattest du damals wirklich einen Rollator, oder hast du nur so getan, damit wir uns auf Augenhöhe begegnen? Wie oft bekommt eine Frau über 80 noch eine Rose? Wir sprachen über unser langes Leben, während wir einen unglaublich langsamen Spaziergang machten. Ich liebe es, wie albern du sein kannst, wie du mir zuzwinkerst. In deinen Augenfalten sehe ich Welten, tausend Geschichten, die sich dort erzählen. Ü80 bist du, aber mit Ü800 Leben, und Ü8000 Liebe.
Nein! Jetzt bist du schon hinter mir im Rennen! Ich bin mir nicht ganz sicher… Hast du dich etwa gedopt?! Schieeeedsrichterrrr! Mein Mann ist ein Doperrrrr!
Du streckst mir die Zunge raus, als du mich überholst. Am Ende waren wir beide auf den letzten beiden Plätzen — die grössten Loser. Während Gebrselassie seine zweite Rollator-Marathon-Goldmedaille holt, feierst du deinen „Erfolg“. Deine Illusionen kennen fast kein Ende. Aber komm, lass uns zusammen feiern.
Herr Doper, hast du für heute Nacht eine blaue Pille?
Curiosity was the force That drew us closer, In your darkened room. A ray of light sneaked through the window, To land on half of your face. I thanked God For allowing me to see your lowered gaze, I could see the cracks of your dry lips, That I was about to moisture.
Our breaths touched before we did, Like messengers.. I don’t see that ray of light now, But I feel you, Your lips For the very first time.
I am not myself anymore, And neither are you, you. The two people who have just kissed, as they were, Are gone. Now, there is me plus your kiss, And you plus mine. I 2.0 and You 2.0. A new encounter. A new mission.
And it was not curiosity that brought us to the second kiss. I was on an expansion mission. You sought confirmation. You tilted your head slightly This one was longer. More energy was exchanged, second law of thermodynamics. or an action and a reaction: Newton’s third law … of intimacy.
We are now closer than ever. Not quite the same lovers, two kisses ago. I liked this new “You” a bit more, And I hoped you felt the same.
Perhaps the “Me” from the last kiss Would align even better with you. You silenced my thoughts with your initiative: The third encounter. This time, you were driven by passion. I surrendered, to receive. New roles in our evolving dialogue: You, the hunter. Me, the gazelle.
I didn’t know this Me. Neither did you. A spark in your eye gave your secret away, And I stored it gently In a drawer within my hippocampus.
The fourth kiss was mutual, Like sharing an afternoon cake in a Parisian bakery. A decrescendo of tempo, Silence, Review of the balance.
Excuse me, dear reader— Our imaginary observer. I must draw the curtains now, Lay down my pen.
For the next five kisses Took place in heaven. where the angels have lined at the doors of Eden, You said they seemed familiar; I feared they might claim you back.
I felt an urgent need— To seal this chapter, To mark the moment, one last kiss, A full stop. a cherry on the top, a pinch of salt by Nusret.
Who are we now, my darling? Ten kisses later, And a hundred possible “Us”
Kintsugi (Japanese: 金継ぎ, lit. ‘golden joinery’), is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with urushi lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum.
Wikipedia
My thoughts were scattered, Among the remains of my heart.
They said it was shattered, When our paths drifted apart.
They asked me: “what happened?”
I sang your name, I praised your manners.
I tried, but in vain, to clarify these matters.
Then I told them what happened:
The fire in my heart, That you came and lit,
Was put off at once With no ashes left.
I was by myself, In my darkest of moments.
Your shoulder was missing, When I cried and wept.
So no, my friends. I have no regret. It wasn’t her words Nor that what she did.
It was what was not.
This curse is much older, She was just one bit. I am now getting wiser I, now, can admit.
I gathered my pieces And welded with gold.
My cracks are my stories, And eager to be told.
Your cracks are your secrets, That call me to unfold.
It may once more be shattered I may once more weld I may never surrender More cracks is more gold!
It drizzled on that French-speaking city, You sipped the wine and called me unlucky, Curiosity crowned your head like a halo, And empathy sneaked into your eyes.
How do I feel? I spoke of new days, And of my plan to build a lighthouse, You dismissed my altruism, Proposed I embrace the ego, And I said yes. You promised to remember me.
Oppressed by my ideas, Almost freed by your promise, I left you and rushed into the night, With the moon, full, witnessing.
Between both lands, My heart does sway. A conscious mind, Yet I yearn to play. Rooted in heaven, But the soul breaks away.
Let’s not long ponder Over disparities of the facade. Leave the magic within, Colorful in the shade.
It was dusk by the lake. We sat on an unremarkable bench, shaded by trees, hiding us from some jealous stars. The Alps on the horizon, covered with stracciatella snow, and the quicksilver surface of the lake, reflecting the fancy lights of this elegant city.
His green eyes gazed at the horizon. His frown-wrinkles seemed to dissolve in the evening, and I saw him place his heart on the bench beside him. He handed me a Cuban cigar and a matchbox from Manuel’s. A couple of hours of co-solitude, in the center of the city, or the universe, but very far from all. He unleashed his mind with a hurricane of passion, for creating footsteps, for changing things, and for glory.
I lent him my attention, thankful for all the butterflies that had led to this effect. I felt richer and wiser, and far from the center. Thankful for the clarity of the moment, and the purity of the bond.
After exchanging gratitude, we embraced a comfortable silence. The noise of streetcars, mixed with nearby salsa tunes. We promised more than just words. “See you on Wednesday,” he said softly, Our journey was just beginning.
What if there were no tomorrow, And our eyes would never lock, And I never got to hug you, No more flights left to book, Have I not known this before? Have I not almost lost? All the promises that we give Excuses not to live Then we sail far away. Chasing ports we cannot dock. All we do is stall the call But we can’t stop the clock
Sometimes I consider myself the luckiest person on earth. But if you follow my blog, you also know that my life is full of “events”. A few hours ago, I found myself in another situation that made me think, “That might be it.”
I am now in Bogotá, Colombia. I have been traveling this beautiful for exactly 5 weeks now. During this time, I heard about various tourists being robbed and one being stabbed on a street where I spent a lot of time. So, there’s some context to the story.
Today at 3:00 am, after a nice party, I wanted to head home. My friends from the party have successfully booked a taxi after a long waiting time. Out on the street when I walked them to their taxi, the streets were packed with taxis and other cars. Just a regular busy Saturday night. I found a vacant taxi and jumped in after he offered a reasonable price.
He drove off, I followed the trip on Google Maps to make sure that the path was right. He took small side streets, so I felt a bit dubious. Soon enough, he slowed down on a ramp, where I thought the car might be a bit too weak, suddenly two young thugs jumped into the car, sandwiching me in the back seat, waving knives, and shouting at me in Spanish, including the driver. It was clear, I was being mugged.
I used my basic Spanish to tell them that I would give them everything. No time for bravery in a small taxi with three thugs in a dark street in Bogotá. They took my phone, watch, the cash I had, and my wallet. I had around 4 bank cards! I usually don’t carry all the cards with me, but today was my lucky day, I guess. They asked me which one had money, so I pointed at the one debit card that had the least amount (around 400 Euros). They somehow believed me and forced me to unlock my phone and open my banking app. They put a cap on my head and kept saying “close eyes” so that I don’t see them and I don’t see the road etc. I kept my head down.
While all of this was happening, the complicit driver was driving around. Then they pulled over where another car came and they exchanged one member of the gang. The one with my credit cards went in the other car, and a new thug came in to help watch me. Then we started driving the streets in what, I assume, was in circles until the other guy withdrew the cash from my card. They communicated back and forth discussing the amount that they would make and which ATM machine would have the least limit on cash withdrawal. They asked me many questions and sometimes with Google Translate when I didn’t understand.
I was there, with a dry mouth, thinking about all the possibilities. I had zero chance of overtaking the three in the taxi with their knives. They can have the money. I just hoped I wouldn’t be harmed. I was trying to prepare to fight if they attempted any physical violence. They drove to a quiet place, where someone started to wash the car. Here, a thousand other scenarios started playing in my head. Will they color the car? Was it a fake taxi? Just a yellow car that I didn’t notice? Is this escalating to a bigger crime? Will they kill me? Stab me? What are the possible lives I could be living? If any.
I kept myself together and stayed mostly calm. I cracked a few jokes, hoping that making them laugh would earn me a few credits of survival. I told them that I was an Egyptian dancer and that they could keep the watch because it was a gift from my Ex. They laughed and even put on one of my favorite songs. I was not sure if this was a good sign or if they were sarcastic. One comforting thing was that they insisted that I look down and don’t see their faces. I hoped it was because they would release me later. One of them told me, “Sleep if you’d like, we will release you in a bit”. They were waiting for the guy who had my debit card to squeeze all that was inside.
After a while, they drove to a dark road and told me that they would release me, and if I looked back, they would stab me. I told them that I understood and that I was not stupid enough to do this. Released in the random darkness of Bogotá, I ran away from that spot. I stopped another taxi (I had nothing more to lose), and went to my hostel, and immediately called the other banks to block the cards. Afterward, I went to the nearest small police station where they said that they couldn’t help me. I should make a report online.
It was a long night. I have lost some material things, but I am glad that I am unharmed. Now, don’t wonder if I am not reachable for the next couple of weeks. I still have access to my Instagram and WhatsApp, but I am not sure how long the WhatsApp on the computer will continue working. I wrote this to share with you my experience, partly because of emotions, but also so that you avoid making my mistake.
Later, while writing this post in the lobby of the hostel, an American girl came crying because she was robbed a couple of weeks ago and her only remaining credit card was blocked, and has no money for food or to go to the airport. She sat beside me and we exchanged stories, and later found solutions to our financial crises, thanks to great family and friends.
I still love Colombia 🙂
Teenage Boy Brandishing Knife And Wearing HoodieNote to inspector:Image shot before Sept 2009
With the other ten thousand children of the neighbourhood, We used to run about.
We’d tease Mr. Ali at his old shop, He’d pretend to chase us with a broom. We had no fear.
School was fun, with friends and games, Our teacher Fatima knew all our names.
Chalk, and dreams, of a world beyond conflict, beyond the suffering and screams.
Today, the sky was sunny, I was on the balcony admiring our olive tree. But in a flash, the sky roared.
I felt really scared.
I have already lost half of my friends. Maryam, Peter and Mahmoud. Under the rubbles of their homes.
Maryam, the little artist, with colors in her heart, Her canvas remains blank, torn apart.
Peter, was going to be the next priest, of our 800 years old church, now he lies under the altar.
Mahmoud, the future doctor, who promised to heal, now, is just remains.
Maryam is killed. Peter is killed. Mahmoud is killed, The olive tree is killed, and the church is shattered. It was all just too much.
Now I am also gone.
Five thousand dreams, now whisper in the wind. In what world is this fine?
Why don’t they care about me? Peter was actually blond, They say his great-grandmother was French, with sky-blue eyes. Would it have helped, if we had shown the world Peter’s face, instead of mine?
I guess it is too late now. We are all playing in heaven.
Mom, it is so nice here. Serene, no cries. Nobody hates us for no reason, and nobody is discriminated. We are all loved and cared for. Equally.
Before coming to Morocco, I had more negative than positive experiences with Moroccans in Europe. This trip flipped my perception 180 degrees, turning me into a fan of the country and the countrymen (including countrywomen for our feminist readers among you). They were mostly kind and sincere people. Compared to Egypt, I found more quality services in Morocco. I always felt very welcomed, especially when people came to know that I am Egyptian. The two countries share a history rich in culture. I also noticed that the rate of obesity is not as high as in many other Arab countries (and definitely less than in Germany and England, for example). To my surprise, the local cuisine does not have a lot of carbohydrates. It is hard to find a dish that is served with rice, and the cuisine in general had lots of meat and vegetables.
I arrived in Rabat on a Saturday, just in time for the Liverpool vs. Tottenham football game. A local taxi driver guided me to a rooftop terrace crowning a fancy-looking hotel, where a simple espresso costs 5$. The other clients were mostly couples enjoying romantic dates. Joining me in a non-romantic way were Mirjam, a new local friend she had made, Sufian, and two fellow young travelers from Ireland and Colorado that she had met at the hostel. We exchanged travel impressions and suggestions, a great way to refine your trip-plan on the fly.
The Colorado traveler, Braeden, had taken the opposite route, starting in the north. He visited Chefchaouen, the famous blue mountain village known for its reputation in weed production. Surprisingly, he was disappointed by the quality of the weed in comparison to Colorado, where marijuana had been legalized around a decade ago. It seems they’ve likely perfected the art of growing weed using scientific methods, research, and development.
I left the crowd after the game and headed to my accommodation in a local riad in the old town. Moroccan riads are traditional, elegant residences with distinctive architecture, often centered around a courtyard or garden. They are renowned for their intricate tilework and Islamic decorations.
The riad in Rabat
***
Rabat showed me a different side of Morocco. Its clean, wide streets were lined with perfectly aligned palm trees and featured many beauiful architectural constructions. I went to meet Sarah, a Moroccan architect who had spent six years in the United States pursuing her MBA and managing some exciting projects in DC. We had a lengthy walk in the suburbs of Rabat, near the king’s palace and a golf course.
The highly intelligent and talkative Sarah shared valuable insights about Moroccan society, the economy, and politics. A significant portion of the economy is based on mining, particularly phosphate mining, with Morocco holding the world’s largest phosphate deposits, comprising 75% of global reserves. I was charmed by her liveliness and her fluency in four languages. She expressed her intention to leave Morocco after a few months to explore new life perspectives.
Following our walk, we enjoyed a cozy lunch with more conversations. Then, Sarah volunteered to drive me around Rabat in her white Fiat 500. We drove through the streets of Rabat as she pointed out different landmarks, including the new, under-construction Hassan VI’s tower and the soon-to-be-operational magnificent Grand Theatre of Rabat, designed by the late, great British-Iraqi power woman and renowned architect, Zaha Hadid. I made a promise to myself to come back to Rabat.
Hassan VI’s towerGrand theatre of Rabat
After saying goodbye to Sarah, I attended a local afternoon Latin party for some social dancing, where I was impressed by the excellent local salsa dancers, surpassing those in other cities. Soon after, I had to depart after nearly 24 hours in Rabat to catch my train to the historic town of Fes. At the train station, I discovered that the train was delayed by 2 hours. I hummed some thankful prayers for the taken-for-granted Swiss railways company, and spent my waiting-time reading.
