Liner Notes

DSC #7: Beirut “Nantes”

View from the train to Avignon. March, 2009

God. The French have apparently not heard of escalators. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve dragged my luggage up and down stairs today. The flight was pretty uneventful; there was a 2hour delay and it made me so tired I slept most of the way through. It turned out to be a good thing though, the delay, since I have to wait *just* 3 hours for the train to Avignon.

It was worth it though. I love train rides. I love looking out the window and seeing everything roll pass in perfectly composed panels. I especially love the big ass power structures that seem to be resolutely holding up the colossal blue sky. It’s really hard to tear your eyes away from the different shades of green and that impossibly blue blue sky. The butterflies in my stomach settle down a little as the train rolls on and on and I remember thinking: a smoke would be perfect right about now.

The station is quiet. Not many alighted here in Avignon; most were heading to Marseille further south. There isn’t a soul in sight. He promised he’d pick me up from the station. He even called me a stupid bitch for worrying so much. I drag that deadweight of a luggage across to the other side. Sunlight pours into my eyes, blinding me for a second and when I focus my eyes again, I make out a figure stretched out on the seat on the phone. It has to be him; there’s no one else around. I walk towards the figure, he’s still on the phone. And when he finally looks up, he jumps up and envelops me in a big bear hug while still on the phone. “Work,” he mouthed.

And work is apparently all he does. Even after we dump the luggage at his place, he has to run errands for work. He wakes up every morning at 10 and heads in to work, comes back for a nap in the evenings, goes back in and only comes home to sleep at 3 in the morning. You’d probably have to give him credit for doing this for as long as he has, without dropping dead somewhere at work. It’s been a year since I last saw him in Paris but already so much of him has changed. He’s put on some weight from all the junk food he eats. His face, which once used to be so open and light, has taken on a web of fine worry lines and a slight case of eczema. He’s apologetic about the situation; he had wanted to take some time off to show me around but could only snatch some time from work to drive me to somewhere and then pick me up when I’m done.

I don’t really mind actually. Maybe it’s cos part of me still can’t believe that I’m actually here. In Avignon. In his house. With him. But then I never really care about tourist attractions. To me, a holiday is about getting up when you feel like it, climbing onto the mini balcony to have a cigarette while trying to decide if it’s going to be cold that day. It’s slowly walking along the streets maybe popping in to get some pastries from the boulangerie or the supermarket to get more substantial supplies. Maybe walking to the Centre for a couple of hours and on the way back, a kindly looking man says bonjour while you squint into the setting sun. It’s talking rubbish with him–the easy vibe that’s been with us from the beginning has thankfully not changed–eating microwave dinners and playing with his cat. It’s figuring out how things work. It’s doing everyday things in a different way. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life.