Traditions... traditions

The words remind me of the song from 'Fiddler on the Roof'; a musical made in 1971, set in Tsarist pre-revolutionary Russia, of a poor milkman trying to marry off his three strong-willed older daughters.
What got me here? It was the ritual of Yalda, a small family and friends gathering in Iran on the longest night of the year, 21 December, celebrating by eating exotic fruit and reciting old Persian poetry.
Saadi, a 13th-century poet says... 'The true morning will not come until the Yalda night is gone'.

Christmas is not celebrated in Iran. The Persian calendar goes according to the horoscope and New Year is on the 21 March which is the first day of spring and the beginning of the sign Aries.
We were invited by another warm and hospitable couple to spend a few days in their country home, two and a half hours drive West of Tehran.
"We go there as a retreat," Goli told me at the Yalda gathering, "You are welcome to come and stay as long as you like."
This kind and generous offer could not be refused. Although there were many local sites to visit. Isfahan, the old capital of Persia in the 16th century, is known for its Islamic architecture, palaces, mosques and bridges having retained much of its past glory to Shiraz with tombs of two Persian poets Hafez and Saadi, leading to the ruins of Persepolis, situated outside the city. I chose to spend a few days away from it all. To enrich my soul as opposed to my sight.

Our dear friend Mary, with whom many hours were spent discussing miracles and the power of faith in our lives, drove Hala and me through the dark cloud of pollution into the blue sky that accompanied us. We passed through the new motorway to the west of the country towards Saveh, well-known for its pomegranates and melons.
We had planned to spend two nights in a 'Deh'; a village, nearby.

What gets to me most in my visits to different destinations is the feel of the place. We encountered generosity and kindness wherever we went. Every time, we were lost on the roads Mary would stop, whether at the side of a motorway or on a dirt road and hailed a car for help or direction, someone would stop their car immediately and get out to show us the way. Incredible! 

I must admit that such a sign of chivalry was next to none anywhere in the world. Sure, every time it was a man who stopped and we are not unattractive ladies which I am sure helped but there was kindness at every turn. We finally got to our destination with the help of mobile phones, in pitch darkness.

Our hosts, Goli and Tutu had only arrived that same morning and managed to warm up their country home with the help of old oil-filled large heaters and a fireplace. They had heated up the place further with their warm welcome and dinner prepared.

Breakfast on the first morning consisted of two varieties of Persian bread, homemade jams, feta cheese and butter with brewed black tea and fresh sweet lemon, orange and pomegranate juice made by our hostess. This nation oozes with hospitality and warmth. The sky was a dark blue with the sun shining through the icy mist being melted on the vast land surrounding us. Acres of cultivated land, empty due to the winter season were at each side of the non-asphalt road with branches of leafless trees almost touching at the top, to open up an empty space below for a pleasurable walk. Tutu accompanied by their golden retriever; Lady, took charge of walking us around this magical 'Deh'.

Amid the open space, there were a few old-style houses, made of clay, brick and stone, some surrounded by walls and others, hidden by nature. A path that could only be discovered by following our host. Tutu and Goli knew the residents of the village and took us around in the afternoon to introduce us to the few that lived there most of the year. Every time, we were greeted kindly with a persistence of going into their home and being offered a cup of brewed tea.

In the evening, we warmed up in front of the fireplace and all helped in getting the dinner on the table.  After dinner, Mary set herself in front of the TV to watch her favourite program. There is no reality TV here as in the UK with the likes of Big Brother, which incidentally I am no fan of, but the nation seems fascinated by a TV series dubbed into Farsi from Mexico and Korea! There were other series made here in Iran which had their attention.
We were taught card games to play, another Persian favourite pastime.

I had such vivid dreams in the Deh. It has been ages since I remember my dreams and they were so vivid at this time of my life. The first night, I dreamt of myself shopping for clothes. Oh! Oh! Even in a village so far away, my habit followed me like a ghost. If not in reality, in my dreams! I kept going back to the shop for more dresses and returned with another white rectangular box to be opened to bring out another three! Yes, three dresses of similar look and colour. I noticed the price tag of one saying three thousand and four hundred and something pounds. I panicked in my dream, thinking this one has to be taken back. 'Haldita, how could you do this again when you clearly don't need that in any way?' Were the words going through my mind?  In the panic of taking it back and not being able to, I woke up to my nightmare.  Consumption... consumption! And thank goodness there is no song to accompany those words.  There is obviously no question of need here. So, what is this obsession with possession about?  In the spiritual world, I must learn to free myself in every way. Free of gossip, free of wanting to own more than what I could possibly need. And I remembered my father's words when he came to a certain wisdom, after enduring imprisonment in a cruel dictatorship. 'Enough is enough'.

We prolonged our stay due to our hosts' persistence to take us to a picnic in the surrounding mountains.
"Isn't it too cold for a picnic?" I asked Goli.
"We can dress warm Haldita and with the sun, you won't feel it. Promise." Goli answered. "I'd love you to see this place."
"Sure." Who was I to argue.

Tutu got behind the old Land Rover he had recently purchased, with Goli in the front and us three girls singing in the seat behind. We drove through an old, derelict part of the village before hitting the ups and downs of the rocky road. Twenty minutes into the drive, Tutu's skilful hands at the wheel got us through a running river and up we went into the mountains.
"Stop Tutu," Goli was persistent, "Let me get out and take a photo of you as the ranger in the Land Rover next to the rocks to send to our children abroad. I'd like them to see their dad in action."
The idea did not seem to appeal to Tutu but he did as he was told and stopped.
"Is it far from where we are going?" I asked as I could not wait to take a walk in the wilderness.
"No, no. You can walk there. It's only round the corner." Tutu said as he drove off and took his loving wife and left us to follow on foot. He had felt our adventurous nature.

"I'll join you in a minute," I said to Hala and Mary. "Just wanna take some photos, no worries."
As I walked gently up the mountain, taking in all the spirits surrounding me, I looked up at the blue sky and the scorching sun on that brisk, cold day. I reached a point where in the 360 degrees around, I noticed mountains surrounding me in the distance. A feeling of awe filled my every vein, no one in sight. I let go of every emotion and I stood there weeping my heart out. Something had got to me. The tears flowed, and no thoughts went through my mind but to let go and feel the oneness with the nature that had taken over me. I was speechless. I did not want to think but absorb nature around me.  

How can there be no creator to this magical scene? God was all around me. 'Dear Lord, I thought I had this feeling in the mountains of Machu Pichu in Peru perhaps... But here, in an unknown area of Iran?' That was a surprise?' That was all that came to mind. I kept turning around and watching the view over and over again as the feeling inside was like a picture we sometimes capture in our mind but no pen on paper can reflect. A miracle in time. Pure magic.

I decided to join everyone before they began to worry and search for me so I went up a hill, to walk down the other side, to another stunning view of a few naked trees next to a half-frozen small lake, where the picnic was being laid and Goli, in her red Indian poncho was making a fire to heat our cold hands.
Tutu pointed at the village at a distance across the mountain which he explained had been left derelict for years. Mary took notice of the two trees standing amid empty land and said: "There's a double for everything in nature."
I found a rock in the midst of where I sat to meditate. An experience to be cherished.

Upon return, I asked to be let out of the car, to walk through the old part of the 'Deh' and take more photos. One can find the most unexpected fulfilment in the most simple things and places in life. 

A nation... Lost in translation

It is Friday morning here in Tehran, a public day off, like a Sunday in most of the Western world. Here weekends here begin on Thursday and Friday is the day of rest. It has been a fascinating experience meeting the real people of this land, where the news does not reach. All we hear from outside the country is of a city in turmoil with a concentration on nuclear power. How many have actually tried successfully to reach its people and understand what has been going on here since the revolution which took place in 1979. 

On a winter's day, with an autumn sun shining through the fog of a modern age-polluted city, we visited the Sa'ad Abad Palace in the North of Tehran. Looking through the gates of this complex, the majestic scenery of the mountains ahead made me stop and take a deep second glance. Amazing if there is a soul in nature, I can surely feel it here. Or is it the mix of the soul of the people's past added to the history it has gone through that makes it all so much more special?

Hala and I, joined by our French young friend, Alain who happened to be our host on this visit, walked around the grounds of the 18 mansions and houses built in 110 hectares of gardens The Qajar kings first used this as their summer residence. Boy, did these Qajars know how to live well!  The mansions were expanded to the number they are now at the time of Reza Shah. It is well-kept and somewhat resembled a Swiss mini-village, where aged cypresses and aspens had grown with all the years gone. Ten of the mansions are now open for the public to visit as museums. I took some great photos of the grounds and buildings to be downloaded at a later date due to the censoring at present.

For the young people abroad, Iran is one of the oldest civilisations on earth; a deep and sophisticated culture. Despite the censoring, Iranian cinema has proved a success in the Western world, winning awards in many film festivals. Almost 32 years have passed since the revolution and the country has gone through a drastic change ever since. From openly wearing Western clothes, even mini skirts in the early seventies to being forced into the coverage of 'hijab'; the scarf and coat. From having the latest style clubs and cabarets to restricting gatherings at home. With all the boundaries, a new wave in art has been born, be it cinema, music or arts.

As to the confusion of Iranians calling themselves Persians, the late Shah's father Reza Shah changed the name of the country Persia into Iran in 1935. In the process of modernising his country, he encouraged women to let down their 'chador' at home and work alongside their male countrymen. 1979 when Khomeini came to power, women were forced to cover themselves. I can only imagine all this 'take it off' and 'put it on' made the ladies feel somewhat vulnerable yet it had the opposite effect. Through time, they got stronger, more assertive and further educated.

 As a result, so many ladies have toughened up to a degree of standing up against what they feel is unjust. they have had to prove themselves as the equal sex. The make-up, style of clothing and the hairdos even apparent through the hijab coverage, represent more a sign of outrage as a consequence. Yet meeting the stunning younger ladies here, with the flirtatious look through those Aryan eyes, I cannot help but wonder how they would have behaved in an open society.
"I want to talk about sex," exclaimed a young choreographer at a party, "What's wrong with that?" She continued. "It's a natural act."

"Hear Hear!" I replied with a grin. 

What is interesting is that even in an open, democratic world, the subject of sex is not as freely portrayed as most would like to believe! And yet, tell me, how did each one of us get conceived?

The birds and the bees, would you say! 

First site visit in Tehran - Golestan Palace

Wow... Now being a gourmet or a 'gourmande' (food lover in French), I must say, the Persian hospitality and the food here are next to none. We visited a restaurant where mostly rice and kebab in different forms are served. The way rice is cooked at home, it comes out as a 'rice cake' and is mainly served with stew dishes made with lamb, not spicy as Indian food but boy, it is tasteful.

"Haldita, let's go visit The Golestan Palace, in downtown Tehran," Hala suggested.

"Brilliant Sis," I was all for it, "I saw some amazing photos of the palace on the internet.  However, it must look somewhat different to the grand images it once was when used for formal royal receptions and ceremonies in the Pahlavi era."

"It's gone through 400 years of renovations!" Hala added.

We took a taxi 'dar bast' on Vali Asr Street, running from Tajrish, the bazaar in the North of the city right to downtown where the train station is. The word 'dar bast' implies that no other passengers would be picked up along the way and the price is obviously higher, but so little once converted into any foreign currency.

Driving in Tehran is like being in a go-kart race, except they skilfully miss each other by a question of centimetres or inches if you must! Most highways are endless, in some parts, walled by paintings newly done by student artists. We tried to miss the morning rush hour and got there in good time.

On the way, we passed the gates which once used to be the entrance to the city.

On entering the garden of the palace after paying a small fee, the ceramic works on the walls surrounding the grounds were breathtaking. This was the main building facing us.

We walked around the garden, admiring one of the finest of Iranian architecture.
From the time of Agha Mohamed Khan Qajar (1742-1797) who chose Tehran as his capital and the palace as his official residence, to the Pahlavi era (1925-1979), used for formal ceremonies.  And now, as a prominent site to visit.

Such a shame... I have tried but most of my photos are not downloading here! 

*You could find them on my Instagram page 'Haldita'.

The old palaces are adorned by tile works, stucco, mirrors, wood carving and lattice windows.  You will be able to see great photos on the Internet. Simply google 'Golestan Palace' Tehran, it gives a general idea of its appropriate grandeur during the times it was used. Inside the buildings, most of the chandeliers and paintings were missing. Nonetheless, definitely worth a visit.

With all the hoo-ha in the news... There is trouble everywhere.
So much culture and history lie behind this forbidden country. Everyone I have met here has been welcoming, they offer their help despite their busy daily routines and most of them mean it. There is also the word 'ta-arof' which Iranians are experts at. It is a form of customary back-and-forth of polite gestures and cultural pleasantries. It's like saying a prolonged pleaaaaase. 

As women, we cover our hair with a simple scarf, I noticed the Chanel and Hermes ones worn elegantly by ladies uptown and more of a simple scarf in dark tones as we headed to the south of the city and more visibility of the black 'chador' worn to cover ladies head to toe. In most areas, ladies have made it a fashion of their own, wearing fancy coats, well above the knee, and some in rather tight jackets. A very good-looking race indeed. As for men... No change of attire to any other city in the world! Perhaps no shorts. 

So much to do and so little time to write! Not sure this early beauty sleep thing works for me as I just don't follow rules.

'Good Morning... Teheran'

If any of you get a chance to watch a movie, get 'Good Morning... Vietnam' with Robin Williams. The man cracks me up. Despite the scenes of war and killing which is truly tragic, the actor's powerful performance as a radio broadcaster, reading strictly censored news, mixed with irreverent humour, adding rock and roll music, much to his superiors' horror, leaves one questioning the reality of war. He began every episode with an uplifting tone: 

'Goooood Morning Vietnam!'

It was made in 1987 and I recall clearly seeing it in a London cinema with my mum, Hala and my aunt Joanne, visiting London. 

'Goooood Morning Teheran!'

My trip this time was to the city of Tehran, in one of the most talked-about countries in the news... 'Iran' of course. The flight on Iran-air was smooth, and the stewardesses were most attentive. However, I was informed that we would stop in Hamburg for re-fueling, due to the sanctions put upon the country by most Western countries, the direct flight from London to Tehran is now disrupted. 

Surely all this refuelling business only adds more carbon dioxide into the air. But do they care?

Anyhow, once in Tehran's Emam Khomeini airport, the passports were checked without any hassle and as soon as I arrived at this six-year-old airport, some 64 km outside the city, I saw my suitcases on the conveyor belt... Well, one and a half suitcases really but who's counting. Cases on a trolley, I made my way out to meet my pickup.

I got to the apartment with two suitcases, two large carrier bags of duty-free and a 'big-ish' handbag at 5 am to be greeted by Hala and her glance of 'no surprise there', looking at what surrounded me. We went on chatting until sunrise and could barely sleep even at 9 am from all the excitement of plans for the days to follow.

On the first afternoon, we walked around the neighbourhood. A spring-like day in sunny Tehran and a mourning holiday due to Imam Hossein, a third Imam, who was martyred with his family over a thousand years ago. For a couple of days every year, he is mourned by well-to-do families preparing rice and special stew dishes in their homes, or in mosques, distributed in take-away boxes to anyone queueing at their door, in two separate rows of men and women.

"Com' on Hala," I said as we passed the bystanders at the mosque, "Let's queue up, I'd like to experience this."
"But Haldita..." Hala did not seem convinced but eventually agreed.
We waited in the queue and finally decided: "Hey sis, I think they've run out of food here! See, maybe I'm just not meant to get anything for free in this life!" I said smiling. "The food is meant for people who need it most, let's leave."
As we walked away, I looked back to see the door open and food being handed out. Oh well, some things are simply not meant to be.

As we got home, the young couple who lived in the apartment across the corridor came to visit. Carl and Minu walked in with a handful of goodies; Persian delicacies and flowers. It is accustomed as a welcoming gesture for family and friends to pay a visit to newcomers, bringing gifts. They had returned from a short trip to Orumieh in the very North West of Iran. Carl told us of his visits to the area as a child, where they camped on the island in the middle of a turquoise lake, covered by flamingos. 

"Flamingos?" I questioned. "And are they still there? A few perhaps?"
"No," said Carl with a sad expression on his face. "There are priceless minerals in this area."
Minu, his beautiful wife continued: "I brought back some special soil from Orumieh to cure Carl's grandma's troubled knees. This soil has been known to cure different pain in the body."

We visited another couple I met in London through Hala, at their high-rise apartment with a view of the mountains running across the North of the city. How hospitable and loving they were with their greeting, constantly offering us food and their warm smiles. Essy and Niloo had lived abroad and came back to live in their home town many years ago.
We watched a concert on their big screen, performed in a hall downtown Tehran called The Vahdat Tallar, by some traditional musicians, playing instruments of heavenly sounds, with lyrics of Rumi, the Sufi poet. Very moving.

Tehran, with its sunny days, and the warmth of hospitable friends I am meeting, is surely growing on me faster than mushrooms grow in a forest. No Facebook yet and no Blackberry... Rest is good.

Pictures of Tehran on my instagram account 'Haldita'

@halditanotes 

V&A visit... to the 'Eyes Wide Shut' party!

Gosh! Did this week really pass by that fast?!
it's Sunday again, only two days left for my next trip. Where you may ask. I would like to keep it a surprise for now as it is not the most popular destination, yet enriched with history and sites to visit.

It was another week to be remembered. The traffic in London has been chaotic due to major road works all around the centre of town and of course, the forever Christmas shoppers.
Thank goodness, the art class on Monday evening, my first since I was in boarding school, was located close to home.
A good friend informed me of the class her artist brother had organised one evening a week, not to be missed. I did a sketch with charcoal of the slender model with legs stretching to the end of the couch she was lying on, against a pile of large cushions.
And NO... She was not nude, in an art studio on a wintery night... I don't think so!

When I spontaneously make a decision to add a new hobby to my 'bucket' list, often someone asks me: "And what made you decide to do... Fencing? Or take up Art? Travel to Odesa in Ukraine by train? And so on..."
It's the love of adventure, the fun of discovery, and meeting people; however briefly, of different interests. The joy of feeling alive and kicking. Passion and Faith. As the Nike ad says: "DO IT."

On one cold, early evening last week, I attended a lecture by Professor Dick Davis; a formidably eloquent speaker, at the V&A (Victoria and Albert) Museum on Ferdowsi, the Persian poet's 'Shahnameh'; Book of Kings completed in 1010, exactly one thousand years ago.

'It is not the characters, but the ideas that Ferdowsi writes about.'
'Ethical and practical'
'How to be a good person'
'How one emerges triumphant'
'How one makes peace with his conscience'

"Ferdowsi thrives for clarity, while his rivals opt for richness.''

'He is much more visual than his rivals, you can see the scenes as you read them.'

Of Prince Siavash fighting a war, taking prisoners... only to let them go. As a cause, he leaves Iran and in so doing loses his life before his son was born.
Kai Khosrow, Son of Siavash, a legendary king of the Kayanian Dynasty, was known as the righteous king. He has been described in a similar way to King Cyrus II of Persia; his respect for other religions and peoples, his civility and his dedication to the restoration of temples.
Kai Khosrow walked away from the throne when they explained how mean he would have to become in the role of a king.
With every choice, there is a good... and a bad side.

In Ferdowsi's 'Shahnameh', Rustam is the champion of champions. He defeats a ferocious beast as a very young man, invincible in combat, he slays his son and is murdered by treachery while killing his murderer on the last breath. Similar to the great hero, Cu Chulainn, in medieval Irish literature. It interests me to find comparisons of characters between various cultures at different times in history.

Prof Davis concluded the lecture with the following words.
'If there is no knowledge, there is no life.'
'There's sweetness and delicacy in Persian poetry'.
I left the grand museum with a good sense of achievement in learning something new and in the hope of digesting the evening in a passion fruit martini with the charming Sebastian.

The weekend was... Party, party again! Hurray.
It began with a dinner party at home with only fifteen of the twenty-five guests turning up while the others got stuck at work or were feeling under the weather and covered by a duvet.
'Put an onion in the room as it absorbs the viruses. But make sure you keep changing it, this is what I read in a forwarded email.  In desperation to not catch an ongoing cold, I have been practising the method and... So far, so good. Try it!

Now as for 'The Party of Parties', the preparation for the theme 'Eyes Wide Shut' had kept me occupied during the week. And it seemed, most of the prominent guests.
Aisha's Special birthday was organised by her talented, youthful partner Pedro, who had gone to lengths to make the evening as memorable as could possibly be. The guestlist, lighting, flowers. The sit-down dinner where the ladies were placed in nominated seats as the gentlemen picked a number upon entrance to match the numbers set on tables in the lavish dining area lit up mainly by candles all around.
The costumes and masks were magnificent. Long, black velvet capes with red silk lining to the hood were worn in enough numbers to give the air of dark mysticism and yet not over-crowd the high-ceiling living room.

Entertainment was at large with belly dancing in the most stylish way on the wooden coffee table with Aisha joining. Aisha looked like her usual Diva, in a different attire of a figure-hugging black silk dress and a gold mask. The sensual performance that followed was of two ladies in corsets and stockings... most enticing. And then... the fabulous DJ continued to keep everyone on the vast dance floor till early morning hours. The joy of seeing good friends and meeting new ones. Of sharing special times in the most elegant way.

As for yours truly... Well, I couldn't quite go in a gold string, black cape and mask with the heels of course. Could I now? It was freeeeezing! Good excuse.
I went to meet Shiba for an early dinner last week. As we were walking to the gastro pub in Barnes, the lingerie shop diverted our attention, as I was telling her the theme to the party.
"Haldita look," Shiba pointed at the red, silk bra in the window with delicate cream embroidery, "Wear that with the ringmaster jacket you got for the New Year Circus party, last year."
We almost got run over by a fast-approaching car, trying to cross the road.
"The black mask I got," I was getting the general idea from my good friend, "fishnets, black sea-through top, short black skirt, mmm..."

The Eyes Wide Shut party was definitely a highlight in memory to be remembered. Thank you Dear Hosts.

From festivities... to Picasso's new found 271 pieces

I was meeting Florentine in the Blue Bar at the week's end for a pre-dinner drink.
When I got there, spot on time... Fine, it's a big deal for me, practising at getting better timing... I managed to get to a 'party' friend's wedding which had begun at 2 pm on a Sat, at 6 am the following morning! Their house and garden carried an aftermath effect but they were up with a handful of people dying and moving around the place.  So I got there full of energy and the party re-started.  Mind you, his wife put a stop to our friendship shortly after!  And I liked her.  She's alright and I totally understand. What? I don't know. Pas de probléme. No problema.

Oh yes... Back to Blue Bar.
I walked in and saw a tall, blonde lady in trousers and a white shirt, sitting at the bar opposite the entrance smiling at me. We had only met once when I paid her a visit to her offices. And no...  She was not my divorce lawyer, now that is another funny story!
"Haldita," she stood to greet me with a warm hug back, "thank you for the invite."
"Florentine Dear, my absolute pleasure, I liked you from the only time we met and your proficiency in dealing with the case, could only make me want to be friends with you. Glad to hear you feel the same way." I expressed my true feelings, as always.
"I also appreciated that you said to meet after the case was over." Were Florentine's professional words.
We had a great girlie night out and met some interesting people we chatted with, after dinner.

Sunday looked sunny and I was to meet Novia, for brunch at 2 pm.
So we texted:
Me: 'Why don't you come to me for lunch at 2.30pm?'
Novia: 'Great. See you then.'

Lola messaged: 'Any plans?'
Me: 'Sure. Come over to me for lunch at 2.30.'

Connor texted: 'Que passa chica? Lunch?'
Me: 'Yap. Come over to me at 2.30.'

Hence brunch began with the conversation of some adventures, we had shared on various travels. Lola began by talking about our trip to a music festival abroad. I had touched on the subject earlier but have kept the naughtiest parts aside for later. If sex is on your mind... well, no sex. We were four girls and called ourselves 'Pigs on tour' and at some stage, I was so excited to be a groupie!  Amazing.
Let me be frank here, (as though!) I was with some great company of girls much younger in age, not sure about my attitude as I behaved like a teenager when I look back... Mind you no... definitely no teenager! A liberated woman ...

Barely ten minutes after landing on the beach, I left the girls for a stroll. Didn't get further than a little along the beach, to come back carrying the largest cookie I have ever seen wrapped in a serviette!
"There you are," Sharon made eye contact with a naughty look, "Now, I wonder what you've been up to?  Look girls, Haldita's got some goodies for us!"
"You only left for ten minutes, Haldita." Lola gave her cheeky smile.
"What are you like? Brilliant." Hanna's infectious laugh is wholehearted.

We partied for seven days and nights. As Lola pointed out:
"It was the maddest week of my life and I wish I hadn't gone back last year. It was fun of course but not the same."
She continued on: "I must say as mad as it was, no act of sex was involved. We were girls bonding and having fun."
"Yes," I took up, "Having fun with each other and everyone we met."
"Except for your lap dance Haldita," Lola had to mention that of course. Haha 
Ayayaya... It's so tempting to go on... But I don't want to be insensitive to anyone's privacy.

Connor had to meet friends, I asked if they would like to join... and they did.
Lola's friend, Owen rang the bell and arrived for a short visit. "Party Mamma," he said as he gave me a big hug, "it's so good to see you again."
"Visa versa my darling Owen." I hugged him back.
"The night you took me and my friend out, we were jumping up and down at our table." He remembered well.
"Yes," I said with a puff, "It was all that red bull, I don't drink that stuff normally."

After dinner, at the table, Laurent whom I had met briefly before and had come to join Connor here, erupted with this interesting news on the French media...
This is my interpretation after I read about it.
An act of good intention is now becoming a nightmare for a French couple; Pierre, a retired electrician of 71 years and his wife Danielle le Guennec.
Monsieur Le Guennec has been firm in saying: "This was a gift. We aren't thieves and yet we're accused of theft."
As unbelievable as it may seem, the 271 lithographs, portraits, and sketches... done at the peak of Picasso's creativity, between 1900 and 1930 are now estimated at £50m.
The electrician had stored them in his garage and brought them out almost forty years after Picasso died in 1973. He brought them to the offices in a lockless case, having taken the train.

As Laurent clearly pointed out: "After 30 years if no claim has been made on any antique pieces, by French law... Well, he can keep it."
"And as you put it, Laurent," I said, "no one has claimed for them, nor have they reported them lost or stolen!"
"No," Laurent continued, "No one knew they existed."

So... the moral of my story would be...
What was truly going on in Picasso's mind, when he gifted his 271 pieces to his caring electrician? He did spend most of his time painting at home. Could it be he found a friend in this man?
However, with the law suites against him by Claude, Picasso's son and the administration lawyer, monsieur Neuer, and the current consequences, Did Picasso really do him a favour?"

What is the value of our peace and sanity?

RAC Club... In a snowy London morning!

Last week, I got invited by... Was gonna write 'my dear friend' again, then thought how many dear friends could a woman have? Plenty I tell you... loads, anyway back to my story... Sue met me at another KCWC, ladies' gathering, this time at the RAC in Pall Mall; it stands for Royal Automobile Club, which began over 100 years ago. The X and I used to be members and I spent most cold Tuesdays, the only day at the time, the hot rooms and sauna were allowed to be used by ladies; mostly wives of members, with a magnificent, endless swimming pool, surrounded by tall columns. We usually went with Hala and enjoyed the day's pampering.

I was back after all those years to hear Charles Spencer, the 9th Earl Spencer, brother to the late Princess Diana, talk of his ancestral home; Althorp in Northamptonshire and family.
"Ladies," he looked around the room of some 200 ladies seating and continued: "And ladies!"

The Earl explained how the Spencer family's wealth derived from their profitable sheep farming in the Tudor era. He demonstrated through a slide show, how a family room with a pink and gold theme was changed into a calm blue and cream colour scheme with stylish furniture around the room and paintings of ancestors hanging proportionately on the walls. The designer was his stepmother at the time; the Raine Countess of Dartmouth. She was the daughter of the late, colourful romance storyteller; Barbara Cartland who by the mid-1990s was named the top-selling author by the Guinness Book of Records, having sold over a billion books as she got titled 'The True Queen of Romance' by Vogue. 

Earl Spencer was tall, with salt and pepper hair and very much reminded me of a younger Bill Clinton. Somewhat charismatic and engaging, with a certain 'je ne sais quoi' aristocratic detached way about him.

It was impressive to hear him talk of his appreciation of the strong line of women in his family.

A few notes from the talk...
Sara, the anti-monarchist, falls out with Queen Ann due to her bad temper.
To Lady Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, a gambler; known to have a bible on the table and a pack of cards in her hands.
'I do understand as my grandmother loved playing cards and it is a great past-time for my mama and her friends too. Then again, there is gambling and there is gambling.' Oops, sorry I interrupted the Earl's talk...
To Charlotte, the Fairy Queen with elegance, charm and beauty who was one of the first feminists of her time. 'We like that.'
Sissy, Empress Elizabeth of Austria, unhappily married, had a captain lover in England. Sissy was a skilled rider and travelled with her gym, keeping fit at the time. She was killed on Lake Geneva by an anarchist for no particular reason but for being in the wrong place, at the wrong time. 'For someone who seemed cold-hearted, she wrote with so many feelings.' He added about this ancestor.
Throughout there was mention of many of the male ancestors being very much in love with their wives and showing their affection to them in public (One never knows what goes on behind closed doors though).

His grandmother Lady Cynthia Hamilton; 'a special lady', daughter of an Irish Duke, confidante to the late Queen Mother, looked after the sick and was involved in many charities.
And there was of course the painting of the late 'Princess Diana' by Nelson Shanks when separating from Prince Charles, there was such sadness in her eyes. I have, as it happens, written about this Special Lady previously in my blog.

'Good taste is authenticity... And authenticity is good taste', The Earl quoted and finished by saying: "My role is being the manager, curator of keeping the house going. I'm by essence a historian."

Cynthia, the lady in charge of organising these informative talks, stepped on the platform with a microphone to thank her friend, the Earl and direct the ladies to where his books were being sold at the back of the lavish room with grand chandeliers, followed by a signing in the front of the room where Earl Spencer would be seated at a desk.
'Perfect,' I thought and took my time to admire the magnificence of the architecture that surrounded me, went on to take some photos of the massive paintings on each side of the columned hallway.

Photography session over... I returned to the room, to purchase my copy of 'Althorp' and queued to watch the ladies ahead of me, very well-mannerly, approach the Earl, get their copies signed, take a photo standing at an appropriate distance and have their photos taken leaning somewhat towards their 'man of the hour'. Well, he was. I happen to be the last in the long queue of some hundred and fifty ladies. Of course, I had forgotten to write my name so I spelt it out to Earl Spencer.
"It's Haldita," I said, only slightly flirtatiously.
As he almost finished signing, I said: "I was going to ask if you would kindly put 'To My Darling Haldita'!" What the hell, I thought a little smile could perhaps brighten up his monotonous routine.
He looked at me at a second glance and asked: "Where are you from?"
The photo session was next, so I handed my camera to the first lady across the desk and crossed one hand around the arm of the Earl who was standing by now and we both smiled at the photo.

When I joined Sue who was smiling all along from across the room, she said: "Haldita, only you!"
Haha...
Sue kindly asked me to join her and her dear friend, Dr Marie-Claude Ergener, an admirable, knowledgeable therapist, to lunch at 'Fortnum & Mason' which has been the quintessential English store since 1707.

The three of us sat at lunch in this warm surround and got into deep conversation of most of all how blessed we are to be able to be at peace with ourselves, despite every situation of ups and downs we each have had to deal with.
The words that came out of this beautiful Dr MC were soothing to the soul, she said: "The feeling that comes with spirituality is faster healing."
They brought tears to my eyes.
She then continued on...

EACH MOMENT HOLDS A PROMISE. Each moment holds a promise.

Royal Academy 'Budapest' and National Theatre 'FELA!' in one day!

The week began with a ladies' dinner at a restaurant to celebrate a very dear, loving poet friend; Saba's 80th birthday. One of her close friends and dedicated fans, Mary had organised the gathering.

I, of course, got my timing mixed a bit and got there a little later than expected, but I got there for sure.
Now, Saba is another one of those true Ladies I have been blessed to know. There is so much grace in her manners; she is kind and gives love as she receives it without judgement.
When she called the following day to thank me... Thank me?! I would not miss such special moments for all the tea in China! I said in response:
"Darling Saba, thank YOU for being you. I keep learning in your presence.

 How to be generous and kind with so much love to give."
You are a priceless gem
The warmth of your soul melts any icy heart,
As it dampens dry soil.
God bless you for brightening our days,

For those beautiful loving smiles.
This is only a small token of my thanks to you with all my love.

The following morning, was time for my last of six fencing lessons, for which I arrived on time. It was a fun and sweaty session on a cold snowy day. What I noticed, although the men fought harder, it was easier to defeat them than the ladies. Why? Well, I am no therapist. 

Today was a day for culture. When I got up, there was no particular plan in mind, except the long list of forever chores. However, those errands are endless and can wait. Yann called to see if I cared to join him at the Royal Academy to see the exhibition of 'Treasures from Budapest".
"Mais bien sure, cher ami," of course I would dear friend.
It was a pleasant afternoon spent at the museum, practising French and adding to my knowledge of art and mysticism.

The art of 'Renaissance perspective' was first fully understood by Leonardo Da Vinci at the end of the fifteenth century, to be mastered at a later date by Rembrandt. To paint with the goal of greater realism.
Venus the Goddess of Love.
Apollo the Goddess of Art.
Artemisia Gentileschi born in 1593, daughter of a well-known Roman artist, Orazio, was one of the first women artists to achieve recognition in a male-dominated world of post-Renaissance art. The first woman to paint historical and religious scenarios.
As for the patron Saint of music, St Cecilia sang to God as she was martyred.
By Franz von Stuck 1863-1928 was 'The Kiss of the Sphinx'. Half woman, half lion; la femme fatale triumphing over men. A poem by Heinrich Heine describes the poet's simultaneous pleasure and torment as the kiss of the Sphinx drains away his lifeblood.
Ah!  And The Golden Age... A time of peace and prosperity... before humankind was corrupted by greed. Well, there is greed and there is greed!

The painting that got my attention before the exit was 'Skylark' 1882 by pal Szinyei Merse, the Hungarian painter and politician.
It was surprising as this painting of a naked woman on the long grass surrounding the open space; scattered with delicate flowers of white and red poppy, a bright blue sky covered partially by white, patchy cloud was actually painted by a politician!
The painting spoke to me as I felt the warmth of the breeze touching my being on the cold, snowy day... my thoughts got redirected to overhearing a lady talking to Yann.
"I can remember seeing the replica of this same painting hanging in my grandparents' living room every time I went to visit. It brings back so many good, childhood memories." She said with a sigh.
I turned to her and asked: "Where are you from?"
"Hungary," she replied.
I left her deep in thought as I got on the double-decker bus home, watching the snowflakes fall over Green Park in the early rising darkness surrounding the city, yet glittering with Christmas decorations hanging above some streets.

A quick bite and got in my car to join Lola, Albert and co; that is their entourage of bubbly friends at The National Theatre. The drive by the Thames was glorious, especially crossing the bridge by Westminster Abbey and Big Ben through the twinkling flakes falling on the river. Tourists travel miles to see this site and here I am blessed to view it as and when I please. The traffic was... well, shit to be precise but irrelevant.

I saw Lola waving at the entrance of The Olivier Theatre, to see... 'FELA!'
Best described in the Sunday Express as 'TRIUMPHANT. A musical of rare choreographic splendour and political bite. It reveals Kuti's controversial life as an artist and political activist.'
An extravagant, decadent and rebellious world of Afrobeat.
The most amusing scene, of course in my view, was Kevin Mambo, the talented Zimbabwean-Canadian lead actor, taking out a big fat spliff, being lit by one of the incredible ass-wiggling ladies on stage!
We shared the same view as he talked of the hypocrisy which surrounds smoking an 'organic' grass that is part of some cultures. He seemed to enjoy his smoke and I can vouch that it made no difference to his superb performance. The voice of each man and woman singing on that stage was dynamic. I could not recommend it highly enough.

It was a 'school night' and we all parted, fulfilled with the joy of sharing those special moments.  Darling Lola, what a night to cherish. Thank you.

Social Network...

Have had my thinking brain on since we left the cinema with Sinalda.
The very talked about movie on Facebook has been the topic of many conversations recently.

Monsieur Mark Zuckerberg has created a site where people can connect from all over the world without a charge and find their long-lost friends or even further in my experience, keep in contact with people I may have met at a dark smoking area in a club or through the kind invite of friends sharing good times. All for it. It is a choice whether you wish to expose it or not. However, analyzing the character of the founder, in the most thoughtful way... Sure, a genius in his own right but has all this success brought him a state of happiness that I thought most of us search and long for? Then again... does everyone wish for joy?  Could it be that some are fulfilled by money and power alone? And that happiness becomes irrelevant?

"Now," asked Sinalda, "Would you close your Facebook page after seeing how mean the guy was? I shan't for one."
"Oh neither will I," I responded. "It has kept me in touch with so many friends, from childhood to now.  It made us think for sure."
"I guess you've to be shrewd to get that wealthy!" Sinalda noted.
"That may imply to most but there are always exceptions," I prompted.

What made me like him at the beginning was the fact that this project began with a brilliant idea and Mark was against advertising on his site as this was 'priceless' in his words.  But they say money talks!  It is most people's dream to be financially secure... Though at what cost?  So, you did well Mr Zuckerberg... On the money side. And good luck ta ya for the rest. Do people change? Just call me a 'forever hopeful', the guy is still young with many lessons to learn still.

Last night was spent at another magical wedding of two beautiful friends.  I was accompanied by my dear friend Dylan, through whom I originally met Rory, the groom. His beautiful bride Rosarita became an addition to my list of fabulous friends as soon as we met.
 
We were meeting at the grand church; The Brompton Oratory built in four years ending 1884, where I had been twice before to light candles. The first time was thirteen years ago; I remember the date so vividly as two weeks prior, on the Sunday Princess Diana, had passed away and the following Sunday was the news of Mother Theresa having left us in physical presence then the Sunday next, I heard the news of my... I am lost for words to describe her gentle soul... Grandma was gone.
It was less than a year ago that I re-visited to say farewell to my dear papa.
And now, I was there again, in this magnificent surround to shed a few tears of joy at the wedding vows on their special day. The priest was small in physique but so grand in his words of wisdom.  He talked of Love and more love... The importance of Joy and Happiness in our lives...  so close to my heart. More tears fled away. 'Haldita, get a hold of yourself girl', I kept telling myself when I realised there was the supply of only one tissue in my small clutch bag.

When we turned up at the glamorous hotel where the reception was held, every corner was a familiar face. So many of the friends I had made through the years of partying, were present and it was a case of big hugs and kisses at the joy of seeing them all and meeting more fun-loving friends of Rory and Rosarita. What a memorable evening. The tempting offer of the good-looking Federico to join the party-lovers to go clubbing after the wedding did capture my mind but I decided to head home.

The weather in London has turned from pleasant autumn to freezing degrees of bitter coldness in no time.  The best way to deal with that is to wear appropriate clothes!
One matter that comes to mind is the question of fur coats. As for foxes, I happen to constantly see foxes scattered over the city of London, especially in the late hours of the night. There have been times, I have parked my car in a parallel street to where I live and walking home, I would notice a pair of glowing eyes staring at me from across the road. With no one around, the best way to deal with the situation under the shimmering street lights was to smile... Even at a fox...  And pretend, it was a tamed pet, brought my hand up and waved at him: "Hello foxy!" while crossing the road calmly on my way home.
The foxes ARE tamed. They simply move on when they feel no threat.

My childhood friend, Sophie told me of an incident some years ago when she went to a supermarket before heading home on a bitter cold evening. She went on:
Before heading home, I realised we were missing some groceries so I went to the Sainsbury's with my mink jacket on. As I gathered the necessary products in my basket, this young, rough-looking man walked aggressively towards me and started shouting abuse at the cruelty of the fact that I was wearing a fur jacket. I looked at his shopping basket and calmly said:
"At least I'll be wearing this for years to come, how about you, who's gonna be cooking and eating the poor chicken in your basket in one go?!" That shut him up.

As for the banning of ivory, endangered species such as leopards, jaguars and chinchillas, whales, I totally agree, but wearing fur clothing in cold weather as protection goes back to the stone age.  In the latter half of the 20th century, producers and wearers of fur have been criticized by animal rights activists because of the perceived cruelty involved in animal trapping.  Most of the world's farmed fur is produced by European farmers; some 6,000 fur farms are in the EU. The ban on fur farming began in Austria and Croatia in 2007 followed by The United Kingdom and Switzerland and yet since the turn of the millennium, sales worldwide have soared to record highs with the sharp rise in disposable income in China and Russia. I like to question the psychology behind the behaviour patterns.

Years ago, we took a holiday in Seychelles and went on a fishing course one morning on a power boat. I was horrified when the 'not so large' marlin caught by the X, was dragged by the instructors from the sea onto the boat, to be beaten harshly with a stick on the head several times then dropped on the wooden floorboard to die. And please observe the number of sushi restaurants and the consumption of fish by humankind! Then, there are cows, sheep etc...

So what gives anyone the right to insult or as I have heard done, throw paint on fur coats of people wearing them, be it mink or fox?

Buenos Aires... Tango!

Taking my thoughts through the past, there are so many stories still to tell, some I still need time to get my courage together, to write.

Let's go back to South America... Rio was amazing in terms of beauty in nature. It was incredible how Brazilians looked hot in their swimwear and so ordinary in civilian clothes! Quite contrary to what one would imagine, looking at the likes of Gisele, the supermodel.  They were not skinny by any means, yet, when Hala and I visited the five-story store, selling primarily beachwear and gym wear in the Copacabana area, the bikinis were sold in size S mainly! Do you know how one gets offended by the offer of trying a larger size from the moody salesperson? It was fine in Rio... There was no Large size in that particular store, barely any Mediums!

We said goodbye to our wonderful hostess Alicia and Rena who had tears in her eyes as we parted and took the plane to Buenos Aires.

Upon arrival, we checked into our trendy boutique hotel in the Palermo, residential area of the city. We unpacked and got ready for a kind invitation for a Thanksgiving dinner at our dear friends' holiday apartment, whom we had met previously in London and Miami. Tommy from Miami and his partner Tobi introduced us to their Argentinian neighbours who invited us to the theatre the following evening. A gay musical!

Another night, dinner was at the Faena Hotel with Tommy and Tobi; which was a repurposed grain warehouse, now, lavishly designed by Philippe Starck. We developed a taste for the Argentinian red wine, Malbec produced in the Mendoza region and those deliciously tender steaks. Due to this reason, with the best of intentions to visit the night spots, we hardly made it out after the late dinners.

We visited Malba, the Museum of Latin American Art, where paintings of Frida Kahlo; one of my heroines and others from modern masters such as Jorge de La Vega partially covered the high walls. Here is a picture taken of the outside as there was no photography allowed inside.

 

We changed hotels after four days and moved to the Recoleta area.  Our hotel room faced the Cementerio de la Recoleta; where many Argentinian presidents are entombed but most visitors go to see the resting place of Maria Eva Duarte de Peron, aka Evita. We were almost desperate to find a local, non-touristic tango cafe downtown but were told by the locals that such a place no longer exists.

The most memorable day in Buenos Aires was spent at the San Telmo Sunday market; filled with bohemian charm. Artisans, musicians, and street performers gathered to share their treasures and talents with the public on the pedestrianised cobblestone streets.

We managed to find two seats at an outdoor restaurant, under the warm sunshine and watched the colourful passers-by from all corners of the world as so many different languages were spoken.
As the afternoon fast approached, we heard a hoo-ha and clapping from the small main square. We approached the crowd gathered around a couple dancing tango. The male dancer explained the movements of tango in Spanish and they danced passionately into a sweat of heat.

As we had arrived late, it was difficult to see the performance in full, so my attention got diverted to the two couples sitting in the opposite direction to where we were standing. My eyes sparkled at the site of the very good-looking man in the middle. I told Hala: "Com' on sis. Let's move to the other side."
"Now what Haldita?" This was my sister's well-observed comment as she was deeply taken by the performance.
"Look at that gorgeous guy sitting opposite," I continued, "I just wanna have a closer look at him."
"Do you ever stop? And then what?" Hala puffed in the air and followed.
"I just like observing beauty; be it in a painting, a scenery or a person!" I replied innocently. "Then nothing."
As we pushed our way through the crowd, I noticed a familiar face sitting next to the attractive man.
"Hey Hala, isn't that guy some famous American actor?" I observed.
"Oh! Yes. We've seen him in so many movies." Hala noticed.
"That's right. Shame we can't remember names!" I said as I got right behind the seated couples.  I must admit that my eyes hardly left the profile of the bearded man sitting in the front with his 'babe' of a girlfriend all over him.

When the act finished, the male tango dancer announced that a famous Italian actor was in the audience and his arm stretched towards the man I was staring at and called him to the stage! As I definitely had no idea who he was, I approached the 'other' famous American actor and asked to take a photo with him. He was charming and agreed as I asked Hala to join us. I also chit-chatted with him briefly! It was only the following evening at dinner with our friends that it was revealed that Willem Dafoe, the famous American actor was in Buenos Aires filming.

"Wait a minute," I interrupted Tommy. "We saw him. In fact, I have a photo to prove it." And hence brought out my camera.

From left to right: Glada Colagrande (Willem's wife), the tango master, Willem Dafoe with another famous facial expression and the gorgeous Italian actor! It's good I am not a photographer for Hello!

Our travels took us further to Punta del Este in Uruguay. And who did we meet there? Aha...

Beirut... Fantasyland!

When I get asked which is my favourite destination out of all the places I've been, I answer:
"It's hard to have a 'favourite' city, island, food etc for me.  Every experience, especially in travel, has its own 'flavour' and beauty, so to name one place... I'd say one of my most memorable trips was to Beirut.
The people were friendly and welcoming, the food was delicious, the sites were... visual history and the city has been rebuilt with charm. There were still a few older buildings amid the new sites left derelict with bullet holes as a reminder of the hardship the citizens went through over the years of war and destruction.

There was certainly no sign of war in this city when I visited.
It all began when my dear friend Aisha suggested we all go on a holiday to this magical land.  Through many years of hearing my mother speak of the 'Old Lebanon' when she and my father visited... At the time it was called 'The Jewel or Paris' of the Middle East, based on what a fabulous city this was. The site-seeing, shopping... In fact, I recall the twin pink/burgundy, velvet dress with the white lace collar my mother brought me and Hala all those years ago when we were so young.

Now, was a chance to finally visit a city I had literally dreamt about some years before.
Once Hala and I arrived in Beirut, we checked into our hotel where all the 'shi-shi' Lebanese would spend their afternoon by the pool, manoeuvring their latest bodies in the most fashionable bikinis and swimsuits; men and women alike and eye-up one another to see what the latest gossip was. Fascinating.

However, I must add, Aisha had left to book her ticket too late and could only find a seat to arrive a few days after us. She had kindly put us in touch with her adorable sister, Aida, who knew the city well, to meet us on our first night of arrival and direct us to the hottest spots to visit.

The first choice was the Sky Bar, placed at the time, on the rooftop of a tall hotel. I believe the venue has changed place since but is still as hot.  So we thanked Aida after meeting us 'downtown', which was all newly built in an elegant old style, at an 'Entrecote' restaurant which served the very special sauce imported from Paris. Aida was loving and went through the whole list she had prepared before we met the latest places to visit.

Our first choice that evening was to take a taxi to the Sky Bar as recommended.
At the entrance to the outdoor bar, stood a man with a 'guestlist' in hand. He began speaking Arabic to us and as we stopped him in explaining we are tourists, he spoke in English and welcomed us into the bar.  We looked around at all the dressed up, made up and fun-loving crowd, hearing sounds of laughter; the place was buzzing.
Placing ourselves at the bar, we ordered our cocktails from the friendly bartender who said that place is reserved for us on every night of our stay! The Lebanese charm was already getting under our skin.

Looking at the swimming pool, I noticed a young man in his early thirties, dark in complexion and small-built, in a t-shirt and jeans, wearing a flap cap hiding most of his face, making his way in and sitting on a stool close by.  He was sheepishly looking around when our glances met from under his cap. He smiled and I smiled... There was no choice! I approached him and began speaking in English. His name was Mahdi. He told us of his routine visits to Beirut on holiday on weekends and was... what I call... a cool dude.
He most politely invited us to his suite and told us about his life in the US while Hala and I entertained him with our stories of travels. He generously ordered two trays of food from room service which showed further hospitality and we left him packing for his flight back in the early hours of the morning.

After a short sleep, we spent the day by the pool; observing and being entertained by Amro; the George Clooney type of looking boyfriend of a lady lying on a bed behind, so busy in gossip, that she barely glanced our way. Amro happened to have attended the same finishing school in Switzerland as we had,  with so many friends in common. He was particularly well-groomed for a man and recommended us his manicurist and wax lady who could come to our hotel room for her services!

On the second night of our visit, we went downtown again to a Latin bar. It was not very busy and we were told the place gets packed later on in the evening. It was about 11 pm and Hala was feeling tired.  We noticed a group of about six young men and women dancing to the salsa tunes, with two of the girls in the bar. They were jolly and one of the boys sat next to Hala and began talking.
"And who are you?"  Asked Hala.
"Oh!  Fadi.  I'm your typical Lebanese bastard,"  were his exact words. "I'm here with my friends." And he directed his look on the rest of the jolly dancers.
We had to leave.  There was an exchange of mobile numbers as we headed back to the hotel with a taxi driver who tried to charge us at least three times what we should have paid.

Upon arrival in our room, Hala went straight to bed. But the warmth of the city and its people kept me from sleeping.  So... I texted Fadi!  He called immediately and offered to pick me up by car at the hotel and take me clubbing.  Brilliant.
As I went down to meet him... I must explain that his words of being a 'typical bastard' sounded more like a front to hide his naughty but gentle soul... He sat in an average car (don't ask me what model, I haven't got a clue) in the passenger seat with his very good-looking, toned-up friend Hud in the driver's seat. I opened the back door and sat in the car when I looked up at their smiling faces eyeing me as two school boys in a candy shop!

"So, Haldita, nice to meet you," Hud began the conversation, "what would you like to do? What kind of music do you like?"
"But where are the girls?" I asked.
"They had to go home. They've curfew at midnight," answered Fadi.
I turned to Hud and smiled at that gorgeous 30-year-old face and replied: "Oh! I don't know.  Just show me the fun spots in your city. I'm a new tourist. Let's go dancing somewhere with Arabic music."
After discussing a few options between them, partly in English, and partly in Arabic, they came to a conclusion as to where to take me dancing. It was already about 2 am when our quest for clubbing in Beirut began.
They parked the car almost right outside the entrance of a hallway which took us to a high-ceiling club, the walls covered in dark, burgundy velvet curtains, with a large chandelier above, playing what I can best describe as Arabic House music, so much fun to dance to with my new buddies.

We went club-hopping to another spot and finally got in the car at about 4.30 am, the boys seemed a little agitated.  Hud said:  "Haldita, do you want to see the mountains outside Beirut?"
"No way... Really? I've heard so much about the mountains here." I exclaimed.
"Fadi has a family home in de mountains, we could pick up the keys and go there, but..." Hud, now sitting in the passenger seat, turned to face me, and began: "Haldita, Can I talk open viz you?"  Seemed no answer was needed so he continued: "I've an offer for you... You have a choice. You can have us both for sex! Or you can choose, me? Fadi? As you wish."
I simply could not stop myself from bursting out into laughter after a pause of disbelief.
"This is quite an offer, I must say. Can I be very frank with you too? I'm totally flattered and you know this has been a kind of fantasy of mine." I noticed their boyish look of anticipation, as to my reaction in the words that followed.
So I continued: "But sorry boys to disappoint you. I'm not gonna have sex with you. Not with both of you.  Not with either of you!" I was still laughing.
"But why?" Hud was on a mission to convince. "You see out of 160 girls, no one ever said no to me!"
"Well, I've news for you, I'm not gonna be no 161 tonight!  But why don't you pick up two girls at the next club and we all go to the mountains. Pleaaase. I'd love to see the mountains." Now I was on a mission.

As our conversation of bargaining progressed and Hud's already fit chest grew bigger with pride, I noticed two girls standing on the pavement of the wide street, downtown and a few, mostly white fancy cars standing by them in a queue chatting to them. It was clear that they were working girls, out to choose customers.

I turned towards Hud who seemed quite full of himself by now, ready for a challenge and said: "Com' on Hud, you said you can pick absolutely any girl up. Let's see you in action with the girls here. Show me your skills and pick those girls up.  No money."
"Really? Do you want me to pick them up? Have a look." Hud was on a roll.
He uttered a few words to the girls in Arabic. One, small built in a knee-long dress and high heels, her long black hair and fringe had hidden most of her face. The other was more butch-like, in jeans and a t-shirt and short curly hair.
The stronger girl answered something back as I saw them approach our car!
Fadi got out and offered me the front seat while he sat back with the girls. I must have had the biggest smile on my face as they all began talking in English. The small girl never uttered a word and almost fell asleep immediately on the shoulders of her friend; Adara did all the talking.
"I couldn't be bothered viz de assholes tonight." Adara began. "Good to meet you."
We introduced one another and the boys mentioned their plan of driving to their mountain house.
"Absolutely," said Adara, "let's go."

Hud drove and asked questions about Adara's life and what triggered her into prostitution.
"I had a step-father... he raped me as a child. So I ran away from home and followed a destiny which I didn't want. But that's life." Adara explained.

We drove through mountainous roads which were turning dry with patches of green plants scattered across the many high hills we crossed. The morning blue sky fast replaced the darkness of the night.

Hud parked the car, while Fadi got out to open the lock on the barbed gate. As we all stood outside the entrance, the boys struggled with the keys and realised they could not open the lock. So they pulled the partially barbed wire open and let us in, bending one by one, through the opening.
In the middle of a vast piece of land, quite dry in plantation, standing by a tall tree, was an old house on one floor.
The key worked this time and we entered a living room with almost torn damask curtains and a few pieces of furniture as in a Louis ran down sofa, an armchair and a coffee table in the middle.  A little dusty, run-down, fading paint, old style grey square tiles on the floor, worn with footsteps over the thirty-something years the family owned the country house.

The small girl headed straight into the first bedroom she came across and took refuge on the bed, falling asleep straight away.
The boys, Fadi laid himself across the antique sofa, while Hud sat on the armchair after Adara had chosen to kneel on the aged carpet, rolling a smoke on the scratched glass coffee table. It was all so surreal. I left them chatting in their native language, while I left the room, into the wilderness of the mountains ahead, the clear deep blue sky, the sun which was now rising from behind the hills in front of my eyes. I looked up at the sky and I prayed.

"I thank thee My Lord for your love. For the openness in spirit, you have granted me. For being open to the adventures life is throwing my way and for sending me the blessing of meeting these good souls who are helping me on my path of growth. How blessed am I?"
The tears of gratefulness covered my happy face.

I came back to the living room when Hud looked at his watch and stood up to say: "It's getting late, let's get back."
Adara left to wake her little friend up and they kindly dropped me at the hotel before going their way.
Never to be seen again.
But the memory of that eventful morning is a video, kept in my memory, for only my eyes to recall and for you to read and imagine.

This was only the second night in Beirut! Seems a whole book can be written of our adventures to follow in the next two and a half weeks to come.

One day... One day... I shall go back to Beirut. Here to follow on the stories still to tell.