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Wednesday, January 12, 2011

To Madame Sarah Bernhardt

"Madame, l'auteur était bien jeune lorsqu'il a écrit ce livre; il le met à vos pieds, Madame, en vous demandant beaucoup, beaucoup d'indulgence" thus begins the author whose footsteps I, without being aware, wound up following across continents. It's the sort of nudge on the rib that upon realization makes you wonder: how many intricate paths in our lives do we heedlessly enter, exit, re-enter, cross over and under without ever having the slightest clue of where we've stepped into or out from?
It's dinner time and the entrée, smoked trout with dill sauce and cherry tomatoes, is looking dandy. My friend Suglum and her husband have been very kind to have me over for a meal at their flat in Grünerløkka. At the risk of being perceived as bulimic, I've been chopping the fish to particles to avoid her getting up and bring the next dish. All I want is to have her go on about her time in the South Pacific and the anthropological research she carried out there. "You've probably read 'The way to paradise', haven't you?" It takes me by surprise that my passive role has been interrupted and I manage to nod while almost fumbling my glass of white wine onto Genk, who seems more amused than worried at my clumsiness. "Besides the references to Gaugin in Tahiti", I blurt out, "Vargas Llosa mentions a book called Rarahu".  I haven't yet finished saying this when it hits me that three years before Rarahu, Pierre Loti wrote Aziyadé while being in Istanbul, which I happen to be visiting in just a few hours time. Perhaps a chance to have a coffee where he used to sit and reflect, looking over the golden horn?
Having had a charming one night stop-over (see Letter from home), I set out to my main destination in the West corner of Africa landing in Dakar at the heat of Senegalese mid day. A day trip to Lac Rose serves me as a warm up -literally- and soon after my friend Hanna and I are ready to head off north to the jewel of the Senegal River: la ville de Saint Louis. On the second day of exploring the town I almost trip over a line of wooden statuettes for being distracted by a street sign (see below). The kid selling the pieces is giggling and asks me if I could please do the pirouette again yet I barely listen. I'm too focused frantically going over the pages of my guide until I find the sought out confirmation : Pierre Loti wrote "Le Roman d'un Spahi" while being stationed in Saint Louis in 1881.
A cute coincidence? If anything, a blip, a desafinado note de um coração que bate calado? I decide to ponder over it while I steal some of the joy from Miss Bernhardt.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Letter from home

It's only 19:00 and, to my pleasant surprise, this place is packed. The street is filled with people tangled in heated debates, cigarettes swinging in the air and joyful crystal clinking; not to mention the ascent of volatile oxidized lipids from the shiny fish on the stands behind me.  I try to play incognito despite my frizzy hair and gurgling stomach but wouldn't vouch on even limited success. Where am I exactly? As I attempt to get my bearings I see by chance, a digital 21 showing how warm it is and wonder, is it really Christmas day today? It is difficult to believe that just last night I was briskly cycling over a few centimeters of snow in Oslo - ok, I did fall but with handsome dignity and moderate style - and now, I'm a thousand miles away searching for dinner in one of the many amiable cities of the Levant.
"Table for one?" someone greets me at the entrance and leads me to a table next to the food counter where two thick eyebrow-ed chefs are busily dispatching dishes left and right. I'm still absorbing the scene when a waiter comes by, hands me a piece of paper with the day's menu and I can't help but noticing the name tag on his spotless Grey-Poupon colored shirt. As he takes note of my choices of wheat berry soup and Sikma Kofte - deliberately ordered in extra slow gear to give an almost imprudent look at his deep brown eyes, prominent vomer bone and wide forehead - I tell myself that he shares more than a name with The one honored in Letter to Elia
While I wait, I feel like reading a bit, fully diving into holiday-mood and thus take out two books from my back pack. The first one is Runaway by Alice Munro, which I already started on the plane and found marvelous; yet I decide to pick the second, a collection of twelve historical recounts by Stefan Zweig, including a tailored tour to welcome anyone to this splendid city: The fall of Constantinople.
The meal is spartan but exceedingly exquisite - wouldn't be here without Elif Batuman and her letters from Istanbul, many thanks.
I catch the 22:00 ferry back to Karaköy while I admire the skyline, plug in my earphones and open the last letter of the evening, one that has always made me long for home.