Love and Hate in Europe

This post is being written in a sunny little house in Praha, a warm dark country home in Bohemia, in a tiny inlaw flat in Paris, in the ever more romantic getaways of my life.

The Czech Republic

Erotic City is on Skorepka Street in central Prague. It's a classier bit of Prague's vaunted sex industry, and I was there to replace my much loved rabbit vibrator that N broke in enthusiastic play in Barcelona (no one was hurt except for poor rabbit). While standing in front of all the Japanese made vibes picturing slutty bleached blonde pornystars, I wished I had gone to the amazing worker-owned Good Vibrations shop in San Francisco.

The first time I went to Good Vibrations, I remember being horribly mortified when one of their matter of fact staff approached me to ask me if I needed help. Of course, I needed help (I had never used a vibrator before, had no clue what to even ask). Of course, I said no (and had to leave the store within minutes). After 4 years in the Bay Area, I was a totally different sex shop customer. I could confidently approach an employee for advice on say, one prong versus two prong clitoral stimulators, or ask if they've restocked their super silky dental dams (I tell you, they're sexy, like you've never imagined dental dams, if you've ever imagined them, that is. Not that I even know how to use them properly. I just think they're fun).

Flash forward to the Czech lands, one bright cold day in November. The vibes here have positively trashy marketing. It appears the main use a woman might have for one is as a man-replacement, during those oh so few nights when she's not being banged by a Tarzan like partner. There is even a Tarzan brand, for God's sake, and in case you didn't get it, the box pictures both Tarzan and Jane writhing about (no vibe in sight) to show you just how jungle love this experience could be.

Hmm....

There are two employees up front chatting, and a handful of other customers. I kind of know what I want, but I'm not sure about brand, price, colour. I'm wondering if approaching them for help would embarrass us all, when the guy employee approaches me and asks me if I need help. He doesn't let on if my over enthusiastic yes! disturbs him, and instead willingly discusses the various pros and cons of different brands. When I can't decide among three, he says, let's take them up to the front, put in batteries, and you can see what you like better. Ha! Classic Good Vibrations, with a Czech accent.

He does exactly as he suggests, and not in any back room or side counter, but right at the register, while other customers mill about curiously. I suppose if I hadn't been trained in San Francisco, I would have wanted the earth to swallow me whole right then, but as it was, I was highly amused by the whole scene. And am now the happy owner of a brand new blue vibe (with two ears), and ready for my 8 months of chastity in Bangladesh, 3 more in India. That and literotica. What more could a girl want?

Despite all this, it's true that I think of lost love so much more now than the last few months. Is it the isolation of travelling that allows me the luxury (the torture) (the lazy sentimentalism)? At first I attributed it to being surrounded by the French. But I was only in Charles de Gaulle airport for what, three hours, in the godawful morning, on the way to Praha. Did I have to remember unrequitedness every redeye moment?

Anyway, there is so much more to tell that is far more interesting than that old story. First, I have a new upcoming publication in the lovely magazine, Swink! Yay! It's still in the editing phases, but it's the first story I wrote precisely for a magazine (they had a feature which inspired me), and they accepted it!

Second, I loved Prague. Of course, everyone said it was beautiful and old world and charming and all the rest. And of course, it is. Stunningly so. I bought red raspberries by the pound and ate them while I wandered around the magnificent St. Vitus Cathedral, the stepped Ledebour Gardens, the medieval Charles Bridge, the imposing National Museum, the shining River Vltava, the Dancing Building, the Astronomical Clock, the Jewish Cemetery, and so much more.

All this and I have the world's best host. My crazy funny geologist client picked me up from the airport on a mild Tuesday evening and has since given me a prime tour of his homeland. I've done precious little work (ok, none) and it doesn't seem to bother him in the least. In fact, he seems determined that I enjoy myself as thoroughly as any tourist might. Martin is great. And not just because we have the same canine tooth missing (I have a bridge, he an implant), have owned almost a dozen Nikons between the two of us, and know all the words to Madonna's "Hung up." He also has vastly provoking, belligerent, rational, paranoid, and thoughtful opinions, which makes for great conversation.

Of my nine days in the Czech Republic, three were spent in the Bohemian countryside, in a little village called Nove Hrad (New Castle). It has three pubs, 1500 inhabitants, and of course, a new castle. Martin's wife's family owns a lovely house here surrounded by a babbling brook, willowy trees, rolling meadows, and every other fairytale element you can think of. We drove in late, crashed, and woke up to find that it had snowed all night. Add sunlight and ta da: instant magic land.

I have yet another place to add to my growing list of places I want to live in, see, run around, write about.

La Belle France

It's been interesting following the US election news from Europe. I struggled through yesterday's Le Monde (my French is intolerably bad for having studied it to fluency, albeit 15 years ago) and one of the headlines roughly translated to Bush Beat Down. As a die-hard Californian and even more fervent strong-woman-lover, I love that Pelosi is speaker, but no one knows her outside the US. I wonder/hope if that will change.

I flew into Charles de Gaulle airport (again) last night, and this time, my lovely cousin, Ferdous Apa, and her husband picked me up. They've lived in the outskirts of Paris for almost 5 years now with their gorgeous little daughter I've been dying to see, Simran.

We were just about to pull out of a parking spot, when a huge black van pulled up blocking our path, and half a dozen black vested Frenchie police jumped out and surrounded the car. They immediately separated us and started asking questions. My US passport was soon extracted and examined (it has not always served me well in the past - in Tunis's Med port, they found the combination of my Nigerian birth, Arabic name, American passport, and Bangladeshi good looks to be wholly unbelievable and insisted I produce my "real" passport). This time, it appeared my blue jeans and blue hair was the right combination to dissuade further questioning.

However, poor Ferdous Apa, dressed in a lovely shalwar kamis unfortunately obscured by a puffy down coat, was so nerve wracked by the experience that she couldn't speak French properly. I was then pulled into her line of questioning to ostensibly translate their awkward English questions (about her visa, legitimacy, and papers) into my (shitty) Bangla.

We found out late into ze affaire that there is some illegal private taxicabbing going on, and we had parked inconveniently close to the taxi area. Once they determined that we were related and legal and so on, they let us go with a unsatisfying "desole" (which is probably more than the Americans would have done).

What's interesting is that the whole time I had disturbing thoughts of being hauled off and decitizenised and so on. And Ferdous Apa and Toaha Bhai, while upset and frazzled, were not afraid, at least not in that vein. Is America that fucked that I fear the worst? I guess it can't be, not with our newly elected Democratic leaders, and sharp silly sexy politically charged blogs like Sepia Mutiny.

After this rather harrowing event, we got lost for an hour (probably because Toaha Bhai was flustered), and then jammed in traffic for another hour and half, and so the normally half hour journey took almost three. I was hating France by the time we got home. But then Simran came running, with her adorable friend Waies, and their forthright Frangla questions and fragile hugs instantly made everything better.

Tonight, I meet up with my hottie girllove, Pamela, for a cabaret show and club hopping. I love going out with Pam. We're as interested in boys as we are in each other, which is guaranteed fun.

I'll post more Paris photos by Sunday before I leave Forashiland (more than a bit gladly) for Banguland...

November 12, 2006. Ok, so I didn't really think much would happen in my two days in Paris, but of course much did. I had the most spectacular meal the night before I left, courtesy of Bhabi who lives next to Ferdous Apa and Toaha Bhai. I went to a Berber cabaret, walked like 100 miles around northern Paris with Pam looking for a dance club, sat on multiple sidewalks, ate chocolate and drank Cote du Rhone, crashed an all Ivory Coast underground party, snuck into a massive dance club without paying the 25 euro cover (more because of our stealth than cuteness), got seriously groped by some Moroccan guy (I punched him in the balls (!) and almost got into a huge fight until he realised he was losing serious face by pushing a girl around and left), stayed out til 6am, went running around the Eiffel Tower, walked through the Luxembourg Gardens, had yummy crepes, saw crazy art in the Pantheon, and prayed for peace in St. Etienne's Church.

I'm back at the horrible Charles de Gaulle airport, minus a large silver carabiner (they are confiscating those now too, as potential weapons!), waiting for my flight to Dhaka. I have that faintly nauseous feeling you get when you haven't slept enough (and when you're about to start a brand new life).