on the streets of Paris, with spices from Kashgar...

Yashimiseus, Paris!  Finally back to this familiar city in its familiar state, after the rain.

I feel like I ate meat for an entire century and French just seems to be such an easy language now that compared to what I had to live through in Kashgar. But I somehow managed to learn it, especially fluent in situations of bargaining and drinking.  Anla blesses me.

A real excuse, this site cannot be accessed from China, my stories are all in my photos, being sent to you by email.  

How many cameras do you need to have to call yourself a photographer?

This morning within one hour and half, I bought three cameras on a Sunday antique market,

The first one is one of those original Polaroid land cameras, which uses 600 series peel off films. There is a flash that comes with it and it is orange color.

The second one, a Rollei B35, probably the smallest single reflex camera you can have that is completely manual control, it uses normal135mm film.

Number three, a Russian stereo photo camera. For those who don’t know what stereo is, it is a technique which allow you to be view the image in 3 dimension but through a certain viewing device, kind of like those 3D colored glasses we used to wear. This particular camera has two lenses and two separated camera dark rooms, each lens takes an image, the two images are taken with a distance apart, which equals the distance between two eyes. It uses regular 120 medium format films. I would not be able to give you the name of this camera, because it is in Russian alphabet and I love it.

As I bring these cameras home and put them next to all my other cameras, I couldn’t help wondering - how many cameras does one need to call him/herself a photographer?

I did the count, 19 cameras, no, 21 cameras including the small digital one and the one on my cell phone. I have 21 cameras all together. I think I can safely call myself a photographer now. Since money I ever got from selling my prints or any type of photography work would only mounts to about 0.00000000001% of all the money I ever spent on cameras, films, papers, dark room equipments, chemistry, lab work and etc, I can even call myself a fine art photographer, meaning a real artist, not like those who work in advertising.

When painters and sculptors change models or lovers to seek for inspiration, we, photographers have the right to acquire new cameras. 21 is, however, a number that largely exceeds the number of boys I ever dated in my life, maybe that is the reason why I am a better photographer than I am a girlfriend. I am also better at keeping my cameras than keeping my boys; they somehow fit nicely in my closets.

Being the owner of 21 cameras, the real frustration comes when I have to choose which one to bring when I go out for a little stroll; and even worse, when I go on vacation -Which ones to bring? I begin to understand why Chinese Emperors in the ancient times always had 5 or 6 wives and a huge crew following him wherever he traveled to.

While suffering from the frustration of choices, I keep thinking about those other cameras I looked at today but did not buy. I somehow have an pretty good idea of the next camera I will need to get.

My friend, am I a real photographer or what!!!!???

Life of an extra

I don’t know how I got into this, but I spent the past 2 days being an extra in an experimental film. The film is 40 minutes long and without any actors really, so technically speaking extras are sort of stars in this film. The days started very early and ended rather late, but most of the time I just discussed football match with the sound engineer or teach yoga to other extras. Another essential activity was to choose which plate for lunch, which usually took at least half an hour. I honestly don’t know why they would need all those equipments and cables and that huge van, but at any given time, there was always someone running around because there was one piece of equipment missing. I consider my debut as an extra a great success, because a) I managed not to trip over those rails built for movement of the camera while crossing over to the other side of the room; b) none of my scenes exceeded a 3rd take; c) I found a way to force my phone number to the cute sound engineer without the awareness of rest of the crew.

Now the only thing left for me to do: wait for that phone call and become famous!

Welcome to the life of an extra.

untitled

Peter Sellers - my primary doctor

My choice of doctor is simple, he/she should be close by, always available to see me at all times, and willing to lie to my employer if I don’t feel like going to work.. With the new medical insurance reform in France, we now have to choose our primary doctor. Dr. R is on top of my list, because he satisfies fully to the above criteria and with an additional quality – very entertaining.

Recommended by the pharmacist in the neighborhood, I came to know Dr. R a couple of years ago. His clinic is 200 meters from my apartment, next to my usual newspaper vender and before the butchery where I get good quality meat.

Dr. R is in his 40s, reliable looking honest man with black framed glasses. He has the most beautiful plants of all the doctors I ever visited ever in my life. The first visit I made to his clinic, he spent 30 minutes explaining to me all the plants he had on his balcony, their names and where they came from. This was also the time when I saw a very cool black and white picture of Peter Sellers on his shelf, Dr. R looked exactly like Peter in that picture. One other time, I asked if he was a brother or cousin of Peter Sellers, his answer was no, but then in his voice I sensed joy.

In a world where doctors and lawyers are rushing to serve you, get your check and push you out of the door. Dr. R is really one of a kind.

Every time I called him and he was always available and ready to see me, I don’t even have boyfriends who are this available to me. After some 30 minutes entertaining discussions, I explain my health problem. He would always look at me behind his glasses with an ample pause of at least 2 minutes, and then he would stand up and go his book shelf and pick out his gigantic medical dictionaries, sometimes several of them and lay them out on his table. He then would try to find the exact name of the illness and read the symptoms aloud to me. When these symptoms did not match too well to my problems, we would then go to another illness until we find the problem and also the solutions in those huge dictionaries. A very collective and interactive process indeed. If Peter Sellers plays in a new movie called ‘The Pink Panther Strikes Back in the Doctors Office’ or ‘The Party II – at the doctors office’, I could play the patient. This dream gave me strength and hope in life, and faith in my doctor.

I never doubted the medical competence of Mr. Peter Sellers, but by the time I had the prescription in hand and walked into the pharmacy, I somehow remembered to double and triple check with the pharmacist.

It has been 2 years and 3 months since I have become patient of Dr. R and I am still alive, he dealt all my little health problems with patience, grace and most importantly entertainment. Therefore, he is elected to be my primary doctor. Dr. R- Peter Sellers incarnated indeed.

Crackberries and their managers - London II

A guy friend once described all the cities he lived in with the nature of women he knew - If Paris was a woman, she would be this untouchable beauty that everyone wants to have, you do too, but you do not really want to live with. Barcelona, would be a great lover, fun and exciting, yet you also know that you don't have to be faithful to her and it is okay. Madrid would be a good friend, nice to talk to, and she is always ready to go out drinking with you. And London? London is a whore, you just need to pay wherever you go and whatever you do!

So London, the city where a one way subway ride is 3 pounds which equals 4.5 euros or 6 US Dollars or 45 Chinese Yuan; to pray at Westminster Abby costs 10 pounds which equals 15 euros or 20 us dollars or 150 Chinese Yuan, most people here exist for the existence of money.

I watched more financial news over the weekend than the past 5 years combined.

At diner tables, I am surrounded by investment bankers, stock brokers, fund managers and fund of fund managers.

Today the real symbol of being in the business is not the three piece suite nor the Rolex watch nor the convertible Porsche, it is a little handheld device called BLUEBERRY. As everyone sat down the table, everyone set down his or her blueberry on the table and it is considered acceptable to check the market during dinner or conversation. So as not to feel being left out, I also set down a little box of Kleenex which I bought on a recent trip to China, the little box is very nifty and high tech but very pink. To make it convincing, I keep turning it over looking at it and then turning it back and putting it back on the table next to my elegant forks and knives. Finally, an Indian looking fund manager asked what I was looking at.

Ana: This is a new device called STRAWBERRY. It is especially designed for women who do not understand numbers. You can send unlimited messages but never receive any messages at all. Microsoft put them out on the test market with limited editions just this month.

Indian Fund Manager: Brilliant! Let me see it!

Ana silently: Swell! He believes me…

I later learned that he manages an Asian fund which is worth at least a couple of billion euros. I really hope that he is not the kind that also has a Pilipino house cleaner with whom he sleeps at night.

Eurostar - London I

The best thing about being unemployed is the ultimate freedom to manage one’s own time. So I just picked up my bags and went to London for the weekend, two hours and thirty minutes from central Paris to central London, thanks to this great thing called Eurostar.

So convenient that I almost forgot that it was actually international travel and custom’s check was required. Luckily I had all the papers with me, stepping through French border control, 3 meters behind, there was the British border control.

Officer: What are you going to do in the UK?
Ana: Visiting friends
Officer: How long will you stay?
Ana: three days
Officer: Where are you staying?
Ana: With a friend
Officer: Where exactly?
Ana: ah….where !?(I hadn’t got the faintest idea, I just got one text msg from my girl friend in the morning saying it was okay to stay with her)

Ana: Well somewhere between Chelsea, South Kensington and Notting Hill. Somewhere there is tons of shopping, restaurants and very close to the city center.

The officer looked at me with great suspicion.

Ana: Well it would have to be SW –one digit…

Officer: I mean the address! (He stared me again)
Ana: Yes of course…but you see my friend hasn’t told me… Would you like me to call her? But she will not respond because she is busy, she is always busy and never responds to her phone like everybody else in London

I pulled out my phone, it says “LOW BATTERY”… and I just realized I did not bring the phone charger either.

Officer: What do you do in France?
Ana: (Nothing and collecting unemployment!!! Could I actually say the truth?) I work for XXX- huge French company, specialized cosmetics…

Five minutes later, I found my seat on Eurostar sipping on a Cappuccino and reading The Economist trying to understand the world. By that time, I already sent two emergency text messages to my friend “No Battery! Tell me where to go Please!” Of course there was no response at all!

If only working people could understand the stress of non-working people!

EXT, Coney Island, NYC, Day - New York City III

I saw a picture in the New York Times of a parachute jump thing out in Coney Island, so I took the D train out there for the day. This most legendary place is also famous for its more than hundred years old wooden roller coaster, nathan's hot dogs and very strange people on the beach.

It did not take me long to figure out that the red eiffeil tower structure has not spit a parachute for more than 30 years, the picture I saw was merely an ad of the Coney Island museum. The wooden roller coaster still works but yet closed for the day. Ample hot dogs at Nathan's, yet i missed the world hog dog eating contest in June, where a skinny japanese guy wins every time, his technique was to eat the dog and the bun separately and dipped in water, even the bun.

Sun was out, with a ocean breeze from the atlantic, on the beach, i was in high spirit.

A muscular man on a mountain bike stopped in front of me, who later introduced himself to be Michael, the electrician, next best thing to a plumber. It had to be a very seductive scene right out of a Martin Scorsese film. He insisted to take a picture of me with my own camera, because I was beautiful as he said and I believed him so. I now have a picture of me with the Conely Island city housing projects in the background.

Cut to, Nathan's hot dog stand at board walk. Sweet Michael bought me a original beef hotdog and started telling me the history of the island with the thickest brooklyn accent that you can imagine. I hate hotdogs, but had to let the story continue, I took the hot dog with no toppings no sauces as I insisted and he thought i was strange girl.

I wonder if Martin Scorses will arrange to have the two character fall in love right then. I put on a very sweet smile while wiping away the grise of the hog dog on my mouth, yet, love, did not happen. I then said that I would go further west on the beach to see some fishermen. Michael said with authority, 'if you really want to go, i will not stop you, but Just be careful and don't talk to any black guys'

There i said goodbye to the reasonably good looking and warm hearted white guy and ventured into the part of the Coney Island beach filled with negros and danger...

I saw the president -New York City II

After visiting the new apple store on 59th street, I saw myself slowing making my way down Fifth Avenue, guiltily, towards SAKS Fifth Avenue. Very original indeed! Staying at MOMA for a very cultural afternoon, or Metropolitan museum for some real art, I chose SAKS. As I was about to cross 49th street, I got blocked, security, police, FBI everywhere. It turned out that Bush was about to go through to attend some UN meeting. I could even smell various perfumes coming out of the first floor cosmetic department. I was dying to try them yet I was blocked right there. New Yorkers were even less patient than me, screaming on their cell phones, F-word in every sentence, “who voted for him anyways!” “he just creates so much peace in this world”…

Two minutes later, a bunch of black cars and police cars went through and there is a rolls Royce, he was sitting right there on the left side, waving at the crowd as he was passing through. I saw him very clearly with a figure smaller than I imagined him to be. The way he waved his hands felt as if he believed the people really gathered there to see him, but in fact they just had no other way of going up or down town, and half of them were just making fun of him or complaining how he cut their shopping time.

He really should avoid appearances in places like New York City, Florida or Texas might be safer places to be.

Upper East Side - New York City I

3rd day in the city, I am already eating my fifth bagel. Served by some Joshua with one of those little black hats, this sesame seeds bagel must be the most authentic one. It has been almost four years since I last came to New York City, this time I am staying with friends on the upper east side, not exactly the Woody Allen Park Ave upper east side, but 84th street and 2nd avenue upper east side. The upper east side where you find a manicure and spa place on every single block, which makes you thinking that women in NYC must have beautiful nails, check it out next time you are in NYC. This is the upper east side which is dominated by Jewish people, all meat you can find is koshered and all bread you can find is hollow. Taxis stop as soon as you raise your hand, people talk very loudly on their cell phones and you never have to worry that pastas are overcooked. I tend to believe that those Italians stay in Brooklyn or Bronx, but they made sure that people on the upper east side learned cook pasta correctly, how responsible people they are! Africains, either security guys at shoe stores or shop keeper in grocery places just love me, because I speak French to them. I tried to enjoy the sunny afternoons at central park and eventually cross over to the upper west side, supposedly the more happening part of up-down, however after a few twists and turns, I came out of the park, still on the east side, just 10 blocks towards downtown.

I might just have to stay on the upper east side all week!

auto école

4 months ago, I lost my driver’s license, not due to speeding, nor one thousand accumulated parking tickets, only because I lived in France for too long.

The French authority allows certain foreign driver’s license holders to exchange their driver’s license the first year when they move to France and only the first year. If you decide to do it one year later, too bad, you have to pass the exam. So Feb 20th 2006, I became officially license-less.

In order to get a new license, I will have to be enrolled in a driving school and study for the traffic rules, pass the written test and do 20 hours of practice on the road and then the road test: turn left, turn right, stop and pull into the alley ... What an insult to a veteran driver with excellent record, 10 years of driving history, never in a accident, no speeding ticket, not even a parking ticket (not in my name anyway).

This afternoon, I called every driving school in Paris, basically tried to bribe them to avoid the 20 hour driving lessons. No one agreed to it. At 16H55, I was on my bike heading towards my only hope in the 13th district, there I saw a small office marked in big letters “auto ecole” next to Notre Dame. I walked in, I explained my problem and five minutes later I got a deal. I will subscribe to the normal class, pay a bit less and he will just mark the 20 hours I am supposed to do with a black pen and I then will pass the exam.

I hate the French authority but I have to love the French people for their imagination and flexibility.

l'estate violenta (violent summer)

After Valerio Zurlini’s l’estate violenta (1961), I walked out of cinema Quartier Latin, slowly making my way home to the other side of the river, without forgetting to stop at Amorino’s for a gelato (bacio, café and yogurt), yum. I couldn’t stop thinking about the love story in the movie and how the war (1945) separated them eventually, so bitter sweet.

As soon as I walked into my apartment, I see this on my table – a plastic bag from duty free shopping in the airport of Beirut. A friend of mine brought me a gift a few weeks ago from Lebanon, since then the airport is bombed and the whole country is being bombed. This friend could not help but sitting in front of the TV every evening watching news, only bad ones. I manage to cut myself from news and continue live my Parisian life - cinema, Gelati, firemen’s parties, picnics on Ponts des arts, Champagne on my roof top, BBQs in the countryside and motorcycle rides on the river banks … Yet this little plastic bag sitting on my living room table reminds me that it is summer and a violent one indeed!

Few weeks ago, I still thought Beirut would be the destination for my summer vacation this year together with Syrie and Jordan. I am not really afraid of going today, but I just don’t know how to explain to my aging parents about my vacation plans in a war zone.

I think about my friends in Tel Aviv, I wanted to call or write them an email to see how they are and what they think, but I did not. I did not even call my Lebanese friend these past few days, because I don’t know what to say.

When there is no easy solution to long lasting problems like this, and comprehension is totally beyond my capacity, I want to say: Hey, Israeliens, Palestinians, all Jews and Arabs, just come live with the Chinese and we eat roasted ducks together, there is oil in those things. In this country, we have lots of lands, uncultivated lands, choose which ever piece you would like. Take Tibet, it is a very peaceful place; the Himalaya will be high enough to separate your problems. Take Taiwan, the most romantic island with lots of bananas; it is far enough from your home and close enough to the Americans. Take every stone you want and need from the great wall which protected the Chinese for thousands of years and that should help you build your own great wall and protect your family.

L’estate violenta, and I, hate!!!

fireworks, firemen, i am on fire

July 14th is Bastille day and national day of France, this year like any other year, they shoot up fireworks next to the Eiffel Tower, the only difference is that I really got to see it up close and personal this time. On the balcony of a friend who moved into a new apartment with a grand view of the Eiffel Tower, we opened numerous bottles of champagne and watched the whole set of fireworks with Mozart in the background. It was so close that ashes and residuals from fireworks, got into our hair, eyes, mouths, clothes and champagne glasses. Smoke from the fireworks blocked our view of Eiffel Tower, the entire thing just disappeared in front of us, until it was lit and glittering in the dark again.

My face was almost black by the end, but maybe that set the tone of the second half of the evening – firemen’s party. It is a French tradition that on Bastille day, in every neighbourhood, all cities in the country, firemen’s hold parties in their lodgement. There I am, surrounded by some very good looking and fit men in uniform, continue to drink champagne and celebrate the official entry to summer. I saw a girl in the arms of a good looking fireman, I said to myself, “did they knew each other before or I got to the party too late?”

In the firemen’s station, surrounded by dozens of fire trucks and, all sorts of fire fighting equipments and an army of fire fighters, my lighter just decided to shut itself off completely, I think it is due to his own psychological fear. The entire evening I had all excuses to have handsome firemen lighting cigarettes for me, I kept wandering weather they were there to put off fires or to light fires.

4h00 in the morning, I decided to call it a night, in order to avoid asking homeless people for light, I had to light a new cigarette before the old one went out. Here is my new method of measuring distance between two places – the firemen’s station is exactly 8 “chain smoking” cigarettes away from my apartment: so far away yet so close!!!

Do I feel the sense of security that someone near will always come by to put out the fire? Or, am I more afraid to be set on fire and burn ?

end of the world cup

The world cup finally ended. Before the final, I told myself that I would be equally happy either the French or the Italians won, yet I can not really describe my emotion to be joy. Was it because I, after all, favour the French more than the Italians? Was it because now at the beginning of the summer, me like the rest of 60 million French could not find a good reason to drink champagne and party all night long? Well, that, I believe the French will find a solution very quickly.

My real disappointment is that the final game was not so spectacular and what football has become today. I quote lines from a fellow blogger:

“People who don’t understand anything about football think the World Cup final is about 1 billion people watching 22 Frenchmen and Italians kicking a ball around. They’re wrong. It’s really about 1 billion people watching 22 Frenchmen and Italians, falling all over, getting penalties for non-existent fouls, grabbing their calves and performing spectacular dives which drama students worldwide could do well to study.”

· So is it more of a game of tactics of simulation of fouls and corners? Or is it a game of emotional harassment and psychological control?

· These past few days, all explanations people are trying to give to justify Zidane’s behaviour were just pathetic.

· The Italians deserve the champion, not for their performance in the final game, but the outstanding game they played against the Germans, with two goals within the final 5 minutes of over time.

· The Italians deserve the champion because they are good players and they just got rid of Berlusconi for all Europeans.

· So what about the French who played well against the Spanish and Brazilians?

· A pity that Argentina lost to the Germans, but in regard to that game, my friend who came to the bar with me that day is to be blamed. As a supporter for Argentina, he somehow changed positions in the middle of the game, because of a pretty blonde German girl sat next to him. Ever since he started flirting with the blonde German girl, Argentina started losing. This very person, who used to be my partner for tango lesson every Thursday night is officially fired!

· One player I really like is Cissé, but his injury was directly caused by a friendly match with the Chinese. And the Chinese, my country men will not make it to qualification even in another 20 years.

So here are all my regrets and shall we wait for the next world cup to resolve all of today’s regrets?

Vik, the happy purple bee

camp the tent

After some mass text messages to friends the day before taking off to Iceland asking to borrow a tent, I realised that none of my friends is outdoor type, because the answer is uniform. “No, no tent!!!” and “What do you need that for?”

Camping is not something I fantasize only, I have done so in my life and several times. Although that does not correspond to the usual urban cosmopolitan Ana image, camping is truly something I enjoy.

Despite the only encouraging response of one person who offered to make me a tent with his body, I decided that it would have been too heavy to carry, I packed my sleeping bag first and with much determination, I walked into Go Sport to look for a tent.

After more than one hour of consultation, I picked up this light weight, dark blue tent for two people, and an important detail, it was water proof for 3 days. We were going for the midnight sun, yet rain is not uncommon this time of the year. Did you notice the “light weight” part? For me camping is not to set up the tent next to the car, but carrying all the stuff in a back pack, hiking for at least 2-3 kilometres, climbing over a few hills, crossing a few creeks and finding the perfect spot in a valley… so “light weight” is after all important.

Yet the idea of sleeping in the nature, breathing the same air as wild animals and chasing after hurdles of sheep were not exactly shared by my travel partner. Day 3, the sun was warm and bright all day long, I started my marketing champagne over “camping out under the sun”(there is not evening anyways). “It will just be like taking a nap in the afternoon” … “we don’t even need camp fire, it is bright out look!”

Out of sympathy or maybe even “love”, she eventually said “Yes”, and I was ready to show her the best part of life she had missed all these years. We had this nice spot where we could see the glacier on one side and the ocean on the other side, 22H00, the sun is still high up. We had our fancy picnic of smoked salmon, smoked lamb, cucumbers, tomatoes, wheat bread and a bottle of chilled rosé. (On the land of Ice, everything is chilled at all times, the temperature is usually between 0 – 8 degrees centigrade.)

At 23H00, I curled up in my new tent, well covered by a sheet, sleeping bag and a thick warm hat. I sent a bunch of text messages to my city friends just to show off, and then I put on one of those eye masks from Air France just to trick my biological self, so that my body would recognise that it was evening, and put me to sleep.

I was fast asleep smelling the fresh grass underneath me and thinking maybe I could get up at 3 o’clock in the morning and taking some pictures under some amazing sunlight… somehow, I did not fail to wake up at 3 o’clock in the morning, but I only heard strong wind blowing outside and rain drops hitting the side of the tent.

Ananas: I don’t think this tent is water proof, not even for three hours,
certainly not three days!
Ana: Hmmm…. We are still dry right?
Ananas: I am not, my hair, face, all, all is wet.
Ana: Are you cold? I think I am okay, should we wait till the rain stops?
Ananas: ok, I am cold…
Ana: Drink some wine! where is the wine bottle?
Ananas: I am cold.
Ana: I need to go to the bathroom, I think…but maybe I can wait…so cold!
You are right it is cold.

As I unzip the sleeping bag, I realized both of my feet and the bottom half of the sleeping bag was basically soaked in water…

There is the first water proof test of my new tent, and I guess this is what I call “when nature shows its power”! At least I was able to show THAT to my friend – Things not to miss in life, when nature shows its power…

introducing vik anadottir - the purple bee

Iceland is a magical place where we feel like being on the moon at times, and the people there have names which are just from the moon! Everyone’s last name ends with something “Xdottir”, meaning the daughter of X; or “Yson” meaning the son of Y. The “X” or “Y” are usually the first name of the father, or sometimes the mother. There I adopted my first daughter, Vik Anadottir. She is a happy bee with purple stripes, who swings with the wind, loves the beach and kisses anyone who brings her sunshine.

According to Iceland tradition, my name could be something like Ana Gudmundsdottir (that would make me the sister of Björk, we could share the same father who goes by the first name of Gudmunds). And if I were to marry someone called Djüpak Smithson, our son will be called Lysühöll Djüpakson, imagining the four of us: Ana Gudmundsdottir, Djüpak Smithson, Vik Anadottir and Lysühöll Djüpakson with four different last names trying to check into the same hotel, people will never believe that we are actually related.

Despite all the confusion, brave Vik is proud of her nationality and named herself after Reykjavik, the capital and Vik a seaside town on the south side of this land of ice. Vik is also short for Vikings and Victoria. After her first adventure, she brought home some smoked salmon and she wants to invite you to a rooftop picnic, at the house of Anadottir’s… so what do you say?!

wednesday lo-fi

scanned from silver gelatin print, may 2006

Yesterday I found a piece of paper at the bottom of an old suitcase, it is from 8 years ago, it is my handwriting, but the words are somewhat shocking to me, as I cannot imagine those would be my words. Yet they go very well with the photo I took a couple of weeks ago.

"his extraordinary gift for hope vs. his shrewd perception of actuality
his almost renaissance love of fame vs. his awareness of the confused reality of success
his understanding of love vs. his conscienceness of the grubby actuality of mere sex
his ecastatic delight in the fresh responsiveness of youth vs. his sharp sense of the fading emotional energy with the passing of time..."

hope I wasn't writing about my boyfriend at that time, it doesn't seem romantic to me or if it is from a book or film, maybe someone will tell me where from.

masse à la mer (sunday mass)

Grew up in a Buddhist Communist Atheist Catholic family, the choice of my religion was not that easy. Baptised Catholic in a church not recognised by the Vatican (in fact no Catholic church in China is recognised by the Vatican), I was never forced to go to church, my childhood memories of bible studies were sitting in the lap of my grandmother, leaning on her round and warm shoulders, her sweet voices telling me bible stories, the touch of her silk Chinese dress (Qi Pao), the mixed odour of her perfume, powder and cigarettes. Her favourite brand was Mu Dan, gigantic flowers on a bright red packaging, she actually allowed me to have a puff or two from time to time.

When Grandmother passed away, I almost forgot that I was Catholic except when I was exempt from all communist political studies in teenage years. I once thought it was romantic and very “Thorn Birds” like to be a Catholic and that I would certainly grow up to fall in love with a priest one day and finish my life fighting between belief and desire.

Years later, I ended up in a protestant school in America, a Methodist one; instead of converting to Methodist, I actually tried to compensate my 3 hour weekly religious study of John Wesleyan’s teachings by Sunday church in a local Catholic Cathedral where I prayed, sang, balanced my check books and wrote love letters; but most importantly I thought about my grandmother and I missed her immensely. I often went to church in a Chinese dress thinking she would probably have liked it.

Ever since I came to France, my guilt of not going to church reduced to zero, because this is the largest Catholic country in the world where least people go to church. From time to time, I would walk into a wedding or funeral service in Paris, or hear the choir singing as I am passing in front a church. The little moment of peace brought me joy and memories of my grandmother. I believe she has been watching over me all those years, one of the proofs being that I still cannot quit smoking, as that is one of the habits she gave me at my early child days.

This Sunday on the coast of Normandy, after two naps and a few strokes along the beach, I lit a cigarette, the favourite brand of my grand mother – Mu Dan. That was my Sunday mass in memories of my dear grandmother in her silk Chinese dress...

Ana's Crystal Ball

Would you like to know what kind of car you have? And where your parking spot is? Come consult with world renowned psychic - ANA and find out what the future holds for you!

Specialised in
-Mediumship
-Clairvoyance
-Tarot
-Angel's
-Crystal
-Palms

Conveniently located on Rue Saint Honoré, Ana’s psychic allows you to do Shopping and Psychic Reading all at once.

How do you like the ad for my new business? Actually I don’t know how to do any of the above: mediumship? What is that? Tarot, I have seen those cards, a bit bigger than normal poker cars. Palms, I have, just don’t know how to read them. Crystal balls are cool, let me try that.

A trader friend once explained to me how they, at Morgan Stanley, build trading models based on historical data of the stock market, and then use them to predict future performance of a particular stock. That must work since Morgan Stanley seems to make lots of money and hire lots of people in suits and ties. In order to beat the market of psychic sisters, I shall employ some modern day science.

If we take the first name and last name of all women/men you have dated in your life time; and let’s suppose that these letters are statistically non-correlated; we can then run a linear regression on that, and build a model to predict the name of the future “Love of Your Life”. This will be the secret to my crystal ball.

Before opening ceremony of my new business, I decided to test my crystal ball on myself. I successfully plugged in all letters came from first names, last names, middle names and nick names of my past and current loves. I got a model, very linear indeed. I have two top letters:
P & G. hmmmm… that is some kind of shampoo, I believe. I decided to include the third letter which was “I”. With all the creative juice I have on a Friday morning, I can only come up with one word – PIG!

With these words, I shall spend the whole weekend sleeping which corresponds to the habits of my future ….. just give me a crepe from time to time… and dear friends hope you come visit my store soon on rue saint honoré!

Good weekend to you all! And all my sincere excuses to those who contributed to those three letters.