It’s good to be in Paris in the summer. The season has been mild, and my flat, despite being under the roof, was not hot this afternoon. My building is a tall, irregular structure built in the 18th century. It lacks environmental shielding and has no air conditioning. I had worked in my room all day and was ready to go out. I looked out my window across the rooftops of Paris toward the Eiffel Tower to the west.
The thing I like most about the summer here is that most Parisiens leave the city and take extended vacations. The city is relatively empty and quiet. Despite the fact that I prefer to be a hermit in the quiet desert, sometimes I like to go to parties. There haven’t been many parties during the summer, so I was happy that my friend Maiz, with whom I have become very close, had invited me to a party this evening at her flat.
She lives in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, one of the most chic and somewhat bobo quarters of Paris. It is located on the Quai de Conti and faces the Louvre on the opposite bank of the Seine. I had to dress up so I put on a shirt and jacket that fit. I wanted to wear sandals, but since Maiz has been threatening to take me shopping for new clothes, I worried that she would carry out the threat if I showed up in sandals. I don’t like shopping, not even if it is for myself and somebody else pays for it. I wore motorcycle boots since I don’t have shoes.
Photo of mouffetard
I usually ride my bike, but some days, I like to walk and take in the scenery. I don’t take the Metro because I don’t know why anybody would when they have a choice. it is crowded and full of germs.
I walked along that wonderful narrow market street, rue Mouffetard, up the big hill in the Latin Quarter. At Place Contrescarpe, a warm breeze gently rustled the leaves of the plain trees. A fountain splashed in the center of the square. Nearby, a street musician played an accordion. Rue Cardinal Lemoine, where the writer Ernest Hemingway onced lived leads down the hill, then across a non-descript flat area, and ends at the river. I needed to walk, and once I got to the river, I continued to walk downriver on the quais to Maiz’s flat. I was overheated and had been carrying my jacket since I passed Notre Dame Cathedral.
Her building is on the quai de Conti. Maiz greeted me at the door. Some 50 guests mingled. It was nothing like an American keg party. A bartender made drinks. Somebody else handled finger foods. There was a four piece orchestra playing in the front of the salon.
Maiz gave me a tour. The flat was huge and occupied the top two floors of an ancient but modernized building. There was a big fireplace. It was decorated with Empire period furniture and art including a Van Gogh and a Matisse painting. She shares it with her husband, a high-ranking diplomat with the Albanian (I changed the name of the country.) Embassy.
A friend of Maiz, Fatima with whom I had eaten dinner several times when I was out with Maiz was there. We talked for a while.
Fatima teaches French Literature at one of the Universities. I asked her if this was the Prince de Guermantes’ house from Proust. Proust’s novel le Côté de Guermantes was set in a similar dwelling at the same location. It’s been ten years since I read it, but maybe the Prince owned the entire building whereas Maiz only rented the top floors. Maiz was from only a minor but old noble family. Like Maiz’s husband, the Prince’s wife, Madame Verdurin, was Nouveau Riche/ Bourgeoisie (rednecks with money - a class of rich people famous for their poor taste, ignorance of culture, impulsiveness, and overall stupidity). Anyway, the similarities were striking. Prince Guermantes and his wife Madame Verdurin kept a salon where they entertained guests and surrounded themselves with artists, writers, musicians, and posers. Tonight there were some real artists and published authors mingling among the guests. I felt like one of the poseurs Proust was mocking. When I met Maiz, I was carrying around a sketchbook at the Proust Salon, a special tea room at the Ritz.
Maiz and I mingled with other people separately for an hour, but the whole time, Maiz kept looking at me and going out of her way to talk to me.
“What do you think of Fatima?” Maiz asked me.”I think she likes you. Maybe I can get you two together.”
“She’s beautiful,” I said. I didn’t believe what she said was possible.
Fatima is descended from a French family who settled in Algeria and mixed with the local population when it was a colony.
The hostess Maiz had made some of the food herself. Her helper was handing out things made from chickpeas, couscous, meat, fish, and some vegetables and an array of French cheeses.
Maiz’s husband Ras Kabir, the diplomat, greeted me. He was cheerful and courtly. His clothing and watch were flashy and obviously cost a lot of money. We talked for a few minutes. His public image is vastly different from the things Maiz says about him. Maiz had revealed to me weeks ago that her marriage was over. He beats her. He is openly having affairs with girls and boys. He makes frequent trips to central Asia where she is convinced that he is indulging a fetish for Bacha Bazi (boy play). Bacha Bazi are also known as Dancing Boys of Afghanistan. Bacha Bazi is a form of pederasty commonly but discreetly practiced in Afghanistan and the Peshawar region of Pakistan. It consists of sexual abuse and human trafficking of prepubescent boys. Young boys are sold by their own parents to wealthy or powerful men for entertainment or sexual activities. And I thought my own parents would do anything for some fast and easy money.
Her husband has encouraged her to take a lover. He is not interested in her anymore and wants her to have somebody else to occupy her time. She has his blessing as long as she is discreet. Her husband seemed to like me.
Maiz whispered to meet her outside on the bridge Pont Neuf in 10 minutes. I found my coat and got ready to leave.
Fatima saw me getting my coat and ran up to me. "When will I see you again?” she said.
I wasn’t sure if I heard her. At North American parties, the women usually say, “Don’t come back @sshole.”
I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was single. Anyway, when we kissed goodbye, her hair smelled like cigarette smoke. Most people would have a problem dating a heroin addict. I enjoy opiates, but I don’t take them every day. I spent my childhood sick from the second hand smoke of my chain_smoking father. (I missed more school days than the kid who died of cystic fibrosis).
I said, "We’ll see each other in parties… "
“It was nice talking to you.” As she said this, she had “the look of love.” I was almost in disbelief owing to the “look of loathing” that America Women wear when they find themselves trapped speaking to me.
I went out to meet Maiz at the bridge. In front of me was the long tip of the island with the park (Square du Vert Galant) on it. Across the river was the Louvre. I gazed upstream at notre Dame. I waited. It has been thirty minutes, and I started to wonder if she meant the other bridge, Pont des Arts. A police patrol boat sped under the bridge. She arrived.
We talked. Her face caught the light of a street light. Now she had The Look, and I felt the same for her. We spontaneously kissed, both of us moving forward into each other at the same time. We whispered and embraced for a half hour on the bridge. She had to got back to the party. I was to wait another 10 minutes and return so nobody would figure out what happened.
She had never been with anyone besides her husband, and she had been nothing more than an item for display at events at the embassy for the last 6 years. Maiz is from an Islamic country. Women are to serve the husband. She has been raised to suppress her own needs and put the needs and even whims of the husband before her own happiness. Marriages are arranged to give political and financial advantages to the parents. Hers was an arranged marriage. The divorce rate in the middle east is very low, but I suspect that does not mean all couples are in happy marriages.
I couldn’t believe my luck. I had become very close to Maiz over the past few months. I was starting to have feelings for her but didn’t know what to do about it. She’s the only person I’ve trusted enough to tell many of my deepest darkest secrets like the things I put in my blog. We’ve talked about our childhood. I told her the worst of what I’ve been through, and she’s done the same about her marriage.
Gold Diggers are whores who make a business transaction in which they exchange their beauty for money in the form of marriage. They read instructional books and websites about how to attract and keep rich men. They choreograph their daily activities and dress according to instructions designed to put themselves in contact with rich men and catch their eye. The intent is to give the impression of class and refinement and make people believe there is more to these women than their appearance. The goal is to fool a rich man long to get him to marry her. I mentioned that Maiz is from an old, noble family and she has a title in her country but I cannot give details.
The thing I like most about the summer here is that most Parisiens leave the city and take extended vacations. The city is relatively empty and quiet. Despite the fact that I prefer to be a hermit in the quiet desert, sometimes I like to go to parties. There haven’t been many parties during the summer, so I was happy that my friend Maiz, with whom I have become very close, had invited me to a party this evening at her flat.
She lives in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, one of the most chic and somewhat bobo quarters of Paris. It is located on the Quai de Conti and faces the Louvre on the opposite bank of the Seine. I had to dress up so I put on a shirt and jacket that fit. I wanted to wear sandals, but since Maiz has been threatening to take me shopping for new clothes, I worried that she would carry out the threat if I showed up in sandals. I don’t like shopping, not even if it is for myself and somebody else pays for it. I wore motorcycle boots since I don’t have shoes.
Photo of mouffetard
I usually ride my bike, but some days, I like to walk and take in the scenery. I don’t take the Metro because I don’t know why anybody would when they have a choice. it is crowded and full of germs.
I walked along that wonderful narrow market street, rue Mouffetard, up the big hill in the Latin Quarter. At Place Contrescarpe, a warm breeze gently rustled the leaves of the plain trees. A fountain splashed in the center of the square. Nearby, a street musician played an accordion. Rue Cardinal Lemoine, where the writer Ernest Hemingway onced lived leads down the hill, then across a non-descript flat area, and ends at the river. I needed to walk, and once I got to the river, I continued to walk downriver on the quais to Maiz’s flat. I was overheated and had been carrying my jacket since I passed Notre Dame Cathedral.
Her building is on the quai de Conti. Maiz greeted me at the door. Some 50 guests mingled. It was nothing like an American keg party. A bartender made drinks. Somebody else handled finger foods. There was a four piece orchestra playing in the front of the salon.
Maiz gave me a tour. The flat was huge and occupied the top two floors of an ancient but modernized building. There was a big fireplace. It was decorated with Empire period furniture and art including a Van Gogh and a Matisse painting. She shares it with her husband, a high-ranking diplomat with the Albanian (I changed the name of the country.) Embassy.
A friend of Maiz, Fatima with whom I had eaten dinner several times when I was out with Maiz was there. We talked for a while.
Fatima teaches French Literature at one of the Universities. I asked her if this was the Prince de Guermantes’ house from Proust. Proust’s novel le Côté de Guermantes was set in a similar dwelling at the same location. It’s been ten years since I read it, but maybe the Prince owned the entire building whereas Maiz only rented the top floors. Maiz was from only a minor but old noble family. Like Maiz’s husband, the Prince’s wife, Madame Verdurin, was Nouveau Riche/ Bourgeoisie (rednecks with money - a class of rich people famous for their poor taste, ignorance of culture, impulsiveness, and overall stupidity). Anyway, the similarities were striking. Prince Guermantes and his wife Madame Verdurin kept a salon where they entertained guests and surrounded themselves with artists, writers, musicians, and posers. Tonight there were some real artists and published authors mingling among the guests. I felt like one of the poseurs Proust was mocking. When I met Maiz, I was carrying around a sketchbook at the Proust Salon, a special tea room at the Ritz.
Maiz and I mingled with other people separately for an hour, but the whole time, Maiz kept looking at me and going out of her way to talk to me.
“What do you think of Fatima?” Maiz asked me.”I think she likes you. Maybe I can get you two together.”
“She’s beautiful,” I said. I didn’t believe what she said was possible.
Fatima is descended from a French family who settled in Algeria and mixed with the local population when it was a colony.
The hostess Maiz had made some of the food herself. Her helper was handing out things made from chickpeas, couscous, meat, fish, and some vegetables and an array of French cheeses.
Maiz’s husband Ras Kabir, the diplomat, greeted me. He was cheerful and courtly. His clothing and watch were flashy and obviously cost a lot of money. We talked for a few minutes. His public image is vastly different from the things Maiz says about him. Maiz had revealed to me weeks ago that her marriage was over. He beats her. He is openly having affairs with girls and boys. He makes frequent trips to central Asia where she is convinced that he is indulging a fetish for Bacha Bazi (boy play). Bacha Bazi are also known as Dancing Boys of Afghanistan. Bacha Bazi is a form of pederasty commonly but discreetly practiced in Afghanistan and the Peshawar region of Pakistan. It consists of sexual abuse and human trafficking of prepubescent boys. Young boys are sold by their own parents to wealthy or powerful men for entertainment or sexual activities. And I thought my own parents would do anything for some fast and easy money.
Her husband has encouraged her to take a lover. He is not interested in her anymore and wants her to have somebody else to occupy her time. She has his blessing as long as she is discreet. Her husband seemed to like me.
Maiz whispered to meet her outside on the bridge Pont Neuf in 10 minutes. I found my coat and got ready to leave.
Fatima saw me getting my coat and ran up to me. "When will I see you again?” she said.
I wasn’t sure if I heard her. At North American parties, the women usually say, “Don’t come back @sshole.”
I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was single. Anyway, when we kissed goodbye, her hair smelled like cigarette smoke. Most people would have a problem dating a heroin addict. I enjoy opiates, but I don’t take them every day. I spent my childhood sick from the second hand smoke of my chain_smoking father. (I missed more school days than the kid who died of cystic fibrosis).
I said, "We’ll see each other in parties… "
“It was nice talking to you.” As she said this, she had “the look of love.” I was almost in disbelief owing to the “look of loathing” that America Women wear when they find themselves trapped speaking to me.
I went out to meet Maiz at the bridge. In front of me was the long tip of the island with the park (Square du Vert Galant) on it. Across the river was the Louvre. I gazed upstream at notre Dame. I waited. It has been thirty minutes, and I started to wonder if she meant the other bridge, Pont des Arts. A police patrol boat sped under the bridge. She arrived.
We talked. Her face caught the light of a street light. Now she had The Look, and I felt the same for her. We spontaneously kissed, both of us moving forward into each other at the same time. We whispered and embraced for a half hour on the bridge. She had to got back to the party. I was to wait another 10 minutes and return so nobody would figure out what happened.
She had never been with anyone besides her husband, and she had been nothing more than an item for display at events at the embassy for the last 6 years. Maiz is from an Islamic country. Women are to serve the husband. She has been raised to suppress her own needs and put the needs and even whims of the husband before her own happiness. Marriages are arranged to give political and financial advantages to the parents. Hers was an arranged marriage. The divorce rate in the middle east is very low, but I suspect that does not mean all couples are in happy marriages.
I couldn’t believe my luck. I had become very close to Maiz over the past few months. I was starting to have feelings for her but didn’t know what to do about it. She’s the only person I’ve trusted enough to tell many of my deepest darkest secrets like the things I put in my blog. We’ve talked about our childhood. I told her the worst of what I’ve been through, and she’s done the same about her marriage.
Gold Diggers are whores who make a business transaction in which they exchange their beauty for money in the form of marriage. They read instructional books and websites about how to attract and keep rich men. They choreograph their daily activities and dress according to instructions designed to put themselves in contact with rich men and catch their eye. The intent is to give the impression of class and refinement and make people believe there is more to these women than their appearance. The goal is to fool a rich man long to get him to marry her. I mentioned that Maiz is from an old, noble family and she has a title in her country but I cannot give details.