Old Beginnings

Another relationship ended another fresh start. How many fresh starts have I had so far??? Too many to get straight in my head.. I sighed thinking why I always felt compelled to leave an entire country whenever my relationships ended?!!! Not a city, not a state, a country!! In reality if I had my way, I would chose to erase that entire country off the map, nuclear holocaust, natural disaster, I smiled at the thought.. no, no, I stopped myself if that were the case the world would cease to exist.. oh well.. no harm just thinking about it. I woke up from my day dream to an old man staring at me, and I remembered that I was supposed to be pouring his coffee.. he gave me a strange look, I smiled and asked him if he’d like cream and sugar .. he shook his head, and looked happy to get away… I watched him leave, stuck out my tongue childishly and continued back with my thoughts.

I’ve been here for a month now, It was meant to be a two week vacation after a heartbreaking experience, but I dreaded the thought of going back home, back to all the memories, and so extended my ticket for two more months. I was running out of money so I took a job working at a cozy little coffee shop downtown, I was paid in cash, or underpaid in cash to be more exact, and I had a suspicion that the owner was trying to avoid taxes, but I never thought about it long enough to care. Anyway, I am horrible at my job; in fact I don’t think a worse waitress has ever existed. I’ve already broken a numerous number of plates and glasses, hiding the evidence deep in the trash before anyone can notice. I work from 4pm to 10pm everyday and get the weekends off, so I have plenty of time for myself, to work on my writing and obsess over my failures. Just a month ago I had a high paying job working for USAID, now here I was, a waitress at a coffee shop, in a country in which I don’t speak the language, being judged by an old man. Still, I was happy for the first time in months, I felt free, and wished that I can stay here forever, but I knew it was just a matter of time before I became restless and I would have to move on again.

In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve grown to love this city, the way you can only love something that provides you with an escape from reality. I walked its streets and gazed with delight at its rivers and bridges, enjoying the fact that I am a stranger, no one to recognize me, no one to remember me. I felt invisible, free, and capable of anything.

I’ve made only one friend since I’ve been here, a Lebanese man named Firas, he was married to a Russian and they both, although a bit older than I, have somewhat adopted me, and offered me their friendship. I first met Firas at a bookshop, and we got into talking about literature, and philosophy. I enjoyed his thoughts, and his company, I also jumped at the opportunity to speak Arabic with someone or even to speak at all.

He did manage to annoy me however, first by attempting to set me up with random men he meets, and second by constantly commenting on my clothing as only an Arab man can,“What is this? What is wrong with you?? Are you trying to look like a homeless person, really I can’t even be seen walking with you like this! Go back upstairs and change”. I pouted my lips and looked down at myself. I had gotten into the habit of wearing baggy sweats and an even baggier t-shirt, my hair was tied up, my face was without makeup and from the horrified look in my friends’ eyes, I was obviously not getting away with this look. “What?” I asked my face burning at the humiliation, “I am single, and on vacation, I can do what I want”. He shook his head at me, like my father used to do when I say something stupid, “exactly you are on vacation, in a beautiful city, you should be going out every night, instead you are hiding yourself in these hideous clothing”. I let out a sigh and deciding that he is not going to shut up about this all day, I run back into my apartment and change into jeans and a better fitting t-shirt. He was still unimpressed, but shook his shoulders, and waved me out the door. I try to get the conversation going, so I ask about his wife Katia, he gives me an annoyed look; “Katia is fine, she knows how to dress”. I slump my shoulders, wrap my arms around myself annoyed at myself for letting him get to me like this, what business is it of his anyway, damn Arab men always think they have the right to comment on your clothing, your hair, your makeup, they wouldn’t last a day in a women’s shoes. I smile then imagining Firas, his short frame, pot belly and balding head in women’s shoes, he looks up at me; suspicious and asks: “What? What is so funny”, “nothing” I shake my head, “I just remembered something that happened at work”, he grunts at me and I return to feeling stupid.

Eventually our little disagreement was forgotten as we sit in our favorite restaurant, drink our espresso’s and discuss…everything: history, philosophy, literature. I didn’t know half as much as he did of course, his mind was an encyclopedia and he loved to teach, but I was eager to learn, and took in every word he spoke. Our conversations were transcripted in my head as if sacred, and I can tell you every word, every movement, even the exact position of the sun as we sat there for hours. I treasured every second, I think those are some of my happiest memories, and I hold them close to my heart and pull them out often when I feel down, and need to be cheered up. I know they can never be repeated, and if I were to visit Katia and Firas again it wouldn’t be the same, because I wasn’t the same.

We would meet up once or twice a week for the next two months, sometimes at our restaurant, sometimes at his home when Katia was free. The rest of the time I spent either working or walking the streets alone, trying to analyze my life, and mistakes. I wish I could say I came up with something divine those three months I spent in exile from reality. But the truth is, you can learn very little living in an imaginary existence, that can actually be implemented in real life. They did however offer me a break from my problems something everyone can use, it wasn’t the last time I did it either, I’ve ran away many times since, always some place new, always with new people but usually for the same reasons. As a child I never had a box to keep my treasures or memories. In fact, I preferred to throw things away; I associated baggage with freedom, the less I had, the faster I can get away. I don’t have any pictures of my youth, or a favorite old doll, in fact I remember very little of the past, and when I do, I usually push it away; it is the present that I wanted to perfect. As an adult, I’ve kept the same habit. My memories are linked to my escapes, and I chose to remember mostly what makes me happy, I’ve forgotten many faces from my past, and allow very few faces into my present. It occurred to me then on my last day, as I admired the beauty of this city and the exuberance that came from mixing hundreds of years of the past with the present, old with the new, that perhaps that is my problem, I’ve been attempting to erase my past, pushing all I feared away into oblivion, instead of accepting my mistakes, my imperfections. I realized that although I can’t let the past dictate my future, I have to allow it to be a part of who I become, otherwise I would be nothing more than ruins, with nothing to show of my life and experience, but an empty shell, that may perhaps bring to mild sadness and nostalgia to the onlooker, but with no real worth.