Spy vs. Spy Part I
Okay, this is going to be a total letdown. I made a cloying reference to an encounter with a spy last week, then blew off blogging about it for a week. He's not really a spy. Well, I can't say that--he might be a spy, and I suspect he might be, but I have no proof. Anyway, here goes. The stor-ay [drumroll: ratatatatatatatat] of the SPY!
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My friend Abdul, who is studying international politics in London, visited last week. Abdul's mother is a Russian Jew, and his father is Sierra Leonean. Abdul grew up in Sierra Leone and came to the States at 15. He speaks several languages.
You might ask why I'm racially profiling my friend. It's important to the story. You'll see. Ultimately, as far as I'm concerned, none of that information matters. He's one of the most down-to-earth people you'll ever meet, and he knows a ton about what's really happening in the world. This means that he is the rare breed who is totally pissed off about the state of the world, yet knows how to have a good time. Not a Debbie Downer, more of an Umberto Upper.
Abdul and I spent a Saturday aimlessly strolling arond Paris. He had a paper to work on, and I had some work to do, so we decided we'd find a seat at the Jardin du Luxembourg. We stopped at a cafe across the street from the park for lunch.
When we were about halfway into our sandwiches, a young man stopped and asked us for a cigarette. (It's more acceptable in Paris for strangers to ask for cigarettes than it is in the states. I've even done it a couple times when I've run out and the tabacs are closed.) We gave this guy a smoke, and he asked Abdul about his dreads. "I've got zee same hair as you!" They began chatting about growing dreadlocks, so we invited him to sit down.
His name was Mourad. He had grown up in Morocco, he said, and came to France when he was fifteen. His family was part Moroccan, part Spanish. He was now 23 and studying at university in Paris. I could tell you a lot more about Mourad, because he told us his entire life story. Everyone knows someone like this guy--manic, whip-smart, gregarious, freeloading, and self-destructive. Completely magnetic. He took over our table--we couldn't help but share our sandwiches with him, offer him more cigarettes, share our beers. Abdul or I would start to say something, and Mourad would launch into another manic soliloquy. We just let him keep going.
Really beautiful guy, too. Not beautiful enough to score points with all the women he flirted with, however. He was a total drageur. There is one pick up line in France, and all the guys use it. "Vous avez de beaux yeux": you have beautiful eyes. I thought a country with such a rich tradition of literature and amour could do better, but no. The real art is in the way women shoot the men down. Equal parts flirt and wit. Good stuff.
When he wasn't flirting with women walking by, he was telling us of his conquests. "I talk to 15, 2o girls a night at zee club. White, black, Asian, Arabic, everything. I've been with all kinds of girls." He leans in: "I LOVE the women! You know??!"
The guy likes to party. He claims to get a week's worth of sleep over two or three nights so he can stay out in the clubs till all hours of the night.
"When I want to do something, I do it! If I want something"--he smacks his hand on the table for emphasis--"I take it! I am young. You can't do this when you are thirty. When you are thirty, you have to have a family by then, you know?" Abdul and I--both thirty--raised our eyebrows at each other, then let Mourad continue.
Continue he did. We were at that table for at least two hours. Finally, I said, "Well, I have to do some work."
"Okay, here, here's my number. You want to go out, you call me. See that bar right there? My friend runs it. We get lots of drinks. We'll go to a club and talk to lots of girls. You want to go out tonight, you call me."
I didn't call.
I don't think Mourad would have been so enthusiastic to sit down and chat with me if Abdul hadn't been there. He seemed to be totally taken with Abdul because of his mixed background. The first five minutes alone was coiffure chatter. "I have hair just like you, see? How do you grow it? Is it natural?" I tried to connect with him. By coincidence, I had a book in my bag called Life Full of Holes. It's the story of another remarkable young Moroccan kid, whose personality seemed to be similar to Mourad's. I tried to show it to him, but he was already on to his next thing.
As we got ready to go, Mourad wrote his number down for Abdul. It was taking him a while, so I looked down to see what he was writing. It was a super-complicated mathematical formula! It was about five lines long, and he signed it with a flourish at the end. Unbelievable guy. I may ultimately call him.
Strange day. But it got even stranger when we encountered an even stranger stranger...
__
My friend Abdul, who is studying international politics in London, visited last week. Abdul's mother is a Russian Jew, and his father is Sierra Leonean. Abdul grew up in Sierra Leone and came to the States at 15. He speaks several languages.
You might ask why I'm racially profiling my friend. It's important to the story. You'll see. Ultimately, as far as I'm concerned, none of that information matters. He's one of the most down-to-earth people you'll ever meet, and he knows a ton about what's really happening in the world. This means that he is the rare breed who is totally pissed off about the state of the world, yet knows how to have a good time. Not a Debbie Downer, more of an Umberto Upper.
Abdul and I spent a Saturday aimlessly strolling arond Paris. He had a paper to work on, and I had some work to do, so we decided we'd find a seat at the Jardin du Luxembourg. We stopped at a cafe across the street from the park for lunch.
When we were about halfway into our sandwiches, a young man stopped and asked us for a cigarette. (It's more acceptable in Paris for strangers to ask for cigarettes than it is in the states. I've even done it a couple times when I've run out and the tabacs are closed.) We gave this guy a smoke, and he asked Abdul about his dreads. "I've got zee same hair as you!" They began chatting about growing dreadlocks, so we invited him to sit down.
His name was Mourad. He had grown up in Morocco, he said, and came to France when he was fifteen. His family was part Moroccan, part Spanish. He was now 23 and studying at university in Paris. I could tell you a lot more about Mourad, because he told us his entire life story. Everyone knows someone like this guy--manic, whip-smart, gregarious, freeloading, and self-destructive. Completely magnetic. He took over our table--we couldn't help but share our sandwiches with him, offer him more cigarettes, share our beers. Abdul or I would start to say something, and Mourad would launch into another manic soliloquy. We just let him keep going.
Really beautiful guy, too. Not beautiful enough to score points with all the women he flirted with, however. He was a total drageur. There is one pick up line in France, and all the guys use it. "Vous avez de beaux yeux": you have beautiful eyes. I thought a country with such a rich tradition of literature and amour could do better, but no. The real art is in the way women shoot the men down. Equal parts flirt and wit. Good stuff.
When he wasn't flirting with women walking by, he was telling us of his conquests. "I talk to 15, 2o girls a night at zee club. White, black, Asian, Arabic, everything. I've been with all kinds of girls." He leans in: "I LOVE the women! You know??!"
The guy likes to party. He claims to get a week's worth of sleep over two or three nights so he can stay out in the clubs till all hours of the night.
"When I want to do something, I do it! If I want something"--he smacks his hand on the table for emphasis--"I take it! I am young. You can't do this when you are thirty. When you are thirty, you have to have a family by then, you know?" Abdul and I--both thirty--raised our eyebrows at each other, then let Mourad continue.
Continue he did. We were at that table for at least two hours. Finally, I said, "Well, I have to do some work."
"Okay, here, here's my number. You want to go out, you call me. See that bar right there? My friend runs it. We get lots of drinks. We'll go to a club and talk to lots of girls. You want to go out tonight, you call me."
I didn't call.
I don't think Mourad would have been so enthusiastic to sit down and chat with me if Abdul hadn't been there. He seemed to be totally taken with Abdul because of his mixed background. The first five minutes alone was coiffure chatter. "I have hair just like you, see? How do you grow it? Is it natural?" I tried to connect with him. By coincidence, I had a book in my bag called Life Full of Holes. It's the story of another remarkable young Moroccan kid, whose personality seemed to be similar to Mourad's. I tried to show it to him, but he was already on to his next thing.
As we got ready to go, Mourad wrote his number down for Abdul. It was taking him a while, so I looked down to see what he was writing. It was a super-complicated mathematical formula! It was about five lines long, and he signed it with a flourish at the end. Unbelievable guy. I may ultimately call him.
Strange day. But it got even stranger when we encountered an even stranger stranger...
posted by disappearingink at 11:31 PM
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