I want to write my blog. That is what I was saying in my last three posts in a perfect Serbian. Go figure it!? Often my inner language turns out to be Serbian. Maybe it is some nostalgia for a language that is mine, a language that I heard a lot when I was a child and that for many years I haven’t spoke and I rarely hear.

I want to write… but. But, writing and living prove not to be very compatible. If I think now how much I usually write, the lack of the living part appears so huge that it scares me. Still, the life without writing scares me even more. How can you live if you don’t write is a radical thought I feel as my truth in good and in bad, in sickness and health.

So, I will be back.

e veceras cu boami stavrno da pisem

ne ne veceras cu majkemi da pisem.. znam sve: ideje, teme, slike

veceras cu majke mi da pisem novi blog

DAY TWENTY FOUR, FIVE and SIX of MySexLifeInParis

After twenty five days in a big city that thought actually half empty is completely crowded from the point of view of BiH citizen, one starts to dream of untamed wilderness. And logically what one does is to stay in a tiny apartment because it is the closest you can get to ‘people free’ when car free. Naturally, trapped inside four walls, guilty of not going out.. I was in great danger, practically only one step from eating a whole sausage if it was not for my flat mate Francois that introduced me to the Paris bicycles.

They have these stands with rental bicycles that you take at one point and leave on the other, take a metro and than maybe again another bicycle somewhere else, and all this for one euro per day.

Since the day twenty four I have already went couple of times by metro to the Bois de Boulogne and enjoyed the peacefulness and beauty of cultivated nature.

For a modest price of 6 euros (plus another 50 that I lost when paying a bill!!) you have a view on Eiffel tower from this exclusive terrace. The exclusive and bourgeois are somehow terms that I hear and use often since my arrival to Paris. Big cities do this to you. In Mostar you can be a billionaire and yet the best restaurant you can go to will charge you at most 50 euros, if you come with two friends. Here it is no problem at all to find a restaurant that will charge you a dinner 300 euros. And it is a big problem to find a place for 30 euros.

I don’t know exactly how to explain it, I just have often a feeling that the size of your wallet is extremely important. And that a lot of people are estimating it all the time. Even when I went to the cinema to see a movie that was advertised as a French family saga from the eighties to nowadays it was all about who bought what to whom, what job, how many holidays and where… and in this ‘posh’ cafés and parts of the city you see it clearly – the urgency of underlying that you are different from the rest. As far as I can see this is the most desired difference one can claim here.

I know that in Mostar the car you drive or the brand of the cigarettes you chose to kill yourself with are also very important.. but on the whole, ‘chez nous’ the social hierarchy stress is still much less omnipresent.

Bosnia and Herzegovina: war traumatized, corrupted and poor, and yet it feels more equal and easy going. Bravo!

And as if he could of felt my latent homesickness my Saturday date, a French, thought Greek by father, took me to dance in the center of Paris, to the Seine embankment. I was very excited and I’ve put tip top make up, mini skirt, mini.. everything mini. Because I was going to dance on Saturday night in Paris.

We entered.

I throw out my vest.

I was ready.

The music was ready.

‘Gas, gas..

Ovo je ritam..

Ovo je seksi ritam…

Gas, gas…’

For those of you that read and don’t die of laughter or tears, let me explain: ‘gas, gas… this is the rhythm.. this is the sexy rhythm…’ was one of a WHOLE night serial of imbecile sort of gypsy disco folk songs in our language. I cried, I laughed.. but I did not dance. A black guy next to me asked me where I was from. I answered. He said he never heard of it while he was listening to the worst music of a country he never heard of. The whole place was dancing, completely oblivious of .. well anything… letting it go, enjoying the so stupid to be super cool less than three notes music.

Tour of France: three hours of wandering on Champs Elysees to see this. It is another of those things that I would normally never do, that I don’t like etc., but because I am a tourist I had to do it.

A protest of some Sri Lankans against the terrorist organization LTTE (Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam). It was moving to see how much energy these people were putting in their cause. And it was especially moving to understand that the cause they fight for is just basic human rights.

DAY TWENTY ONE, TWO and THREE of MySexLifeInParis

Butch, I miss you.

Since you left all I see are asses and so much potential, but nobody with whom to share all this wealth of information.

I am left without choice: I had to turn serious so I called my new friend Baptiste, stand up comedian and we spoke serious. It does sound a little bit a nonsense – a comedian that speaks serious, but in my humble experience lot of comedians are dead serious when not on a stage, actually most don’t laugh on a stage as well.

And I went to see other two stand up shows. In Paris in this moment there are something between fifty and one hundred one man shows. They take place in small theaters called café theater that are actually exactly as a standard theater but a lot smaller and sort of informal. I’ve been on shows were there were only twenty to thirty people and the most these places can do is around fifty, maybe seventy people in the audience. The shows almost to the minute last one hour, so they are sort of short and they are not expensive – around 15 euros per ticket that can become only 11 if you buy it on the day of the show. The quality is not excellent but there is always something to laugh about.

In Paris a part from Seine there is another big water: St. Martin’s canal. People often go to the shores of this canal, take food with them and dine next to the water. It is interesting: a little bit alternative and hippie. I went there with some people I know; one of them is moving to Berlin so they talked about rents in Berlin and in Paris.. an eternal subject that seams to have its share in whatever conversation. They spoke about bicycles, technical aspects. So I said I hated Museum of the primitive people’s art and got my share of attention. But, than they continued about Dubai that one of the guys visited couple of times this year - its economy and ecological issues regarding its development as it is. (and not a word about shopping.. which is actually great in Dubai. Nobody to ask me what I think about Dubai and about rents and about bicycles. Really, however interesting the subject can be if you have to fight to say something it is not interesting at all.)

And I had my first real date. I rarely have dates with people I like. For I usually understand much before a date if I like or not somebody and I like somebody every five years. So, patience for another couple of years and I am ready for the next big encounter.

I am really the last person on the world that can give advise in dating, if nothing because I just have very little experience in the field.

The guy I had dinner with the other day is a real gentleman: charming, sincere, goodhearted, good-looking, polite and in every way an excellent company. I can hardly find any reason not to throw myself in his arms. But, I don’t. He has it all, but that thing that makes you throw yourself in his arms against every reason.

And that is exactly the part of the dating agencies that I don’t understand. The description I would give to my agent would be exactly what my gentleman date was. They would then mach me with alike and I would stay single.

Carry question: ‘Do we stay single because we don’t know who we like or because we lie to ourselves about the look likes of what we fall for??’

Carry question 2 that serves as an answer to Carry question 1: ‘It does not function because it is our reason that, for example, in a matchmaking agency puts down the description of the guy we look for? While all that counts is our inner self that is miles away from our reason.

Finally, isn’t usually our inner self that of a sick person that needs to be put down a dozen times per day by a sweet, childish and irresponsible never totally dedicated ideal guy?

I suppose... Thought the sense of security and validation that a gentleman can pass to you is very attractive and hard to resist indeed.

Discovered my new favorite food – snails.

DAY NINETEEN AND TWENTY of MySexLifeInParis

Day Two and Three With My Friend Butch

Because we are intellectuals we go to the museums: they have the best bars and restaurants - the food is eatable, and people fuckable.

As we come we install ourselves in the bar and for the following two hours you can hear us say things like:

- On your left, the most beautiful guy you’ve ever seen!!

- On your right, on your right.. (for those that still have to think what is right what is left) the most beautiful guy you’ve ever seen!

- On your left the most beautiful Ass you have ever seen.

And so it goes for the next couple of hours.

At some point the conscience speaks and the routine is interrupted by: ‘Should we go to see the museum?’ But the other has a ready answer: ‘No reason to hurry.’

After three hours of this joy I became melancholic because our fun number one is to look guys that don’t look at us.

And than, not because these guys don’t look at us but because we are intellectual after all and serious people of age, we take out the camera and pretend to shoot bits of scattered sculptures as we photograph pretty faces and asses. Because we are not some teen kids that just look, now we act – we photograph. And when my friend Butch decides to act, this is how serious he is: camera on a table, whistling and picturing – big nothing.

Basically we spend the whole day making fools of ourselves. And that is serious. Thought probably not as serious as the fact that being foolish is what we consider the basis of our friendship. Believe it or not he once even praised me to a guy I liked saying no girl is as big a fool as me. No wonder I am an eternal single.

In the mean time Butch reports that even from the point of view of the male toilette these men deserve..

Oh, friends – it is so easy to be stupid when you are in a group. At this point Carry Bradshaw, my indisputable idol, would ask herself: ‘Do we need friends to be stupid?’ Yes, Carry we do, but you and your friends.. something tells me you could cope very well even on your own. I am sorry people, but I still bare so much bitterness after the Sex – the move, two hours and half of my life ruined. And as you witness: I have better things to do!

Ratings:

The jury agreed to assign the Mr. Big prize to this guy.. (do I hear applause.. and some groans)

And the special prize for good intentions and obvious effort to our number One! (oh, isn't he as sweet as saccharine?)

Finally it was time to upgrade and we entered the museum to admire two hats and one hand. At least I admired them when I was not feeling like cutting of Butch's head for having taken me to yet another unnecessary museum… but than I came up with a fantastic idea: I took a mirror from my purse and at last found some sense and beauty.

As friends do, we finished our days together shopping - not any shopping but twin shopping. Something only best friends and fools know.