Guide to apartment hunting in Paris

Why apartment hunting, might you ask? It is not a fox, or a rabbit and one does not walk around with a fusil searching for a man with a suitable apartment advertisement. And yet, metaphors aside, the process is frighteningly close. The target is constantly moving, the circumstances with it, more than one hunter is necessary to get any result, and of course, the last successful ingredient for having a successful apartment hunt is unlimited patience.

Mostly, it is for the real estate agents who never call back and when they call back exceed any quota a reasonable person might allocate for the usually unsatisfactory french customer service. The real estate agents have the cruelty of hunters and are to be allocated to a whole separate category of human relations. Here, stress balls might be useful but entirely not sufficient, I am afraid to report.

One particular problem with real estate agents is that they are not available at any other time other than when normal salary-earning people are working. Visit on Saturday? Of course not, what are you imagining, Madam?! After a few of these exchanges, I figured their joint objective is either to make sure that by the time you found the apartment of your dreams, you are unemployed, or to only rent to prostitues or bartenders, because with their hours, they are the only ones available during the day.

A second serious issue with french real estate agents are the ever flattering descriptions that they dish out for apartments which in other cities might be considered good enough as cellars or some sort of storage space. All in all, what you expect to be a rabbit turns out to be just a fat mouse. It is one deceiving hunt. So, out of compassion for fellow apartment seekers and out of pure frustration (probably more of the latter), I decided to help decrypt the apartment announcements, which bear as much resemblance to their flattering but entirely inconsistent with reality decriptions like rabbit bears to a mouse.

So, here it goes, the tried and tested list of phrases used to lure unsuspicious apartment hunters in a hunt in which they have absolutely no interest:

immeuble recent - shoebox with ceilings where you have to bend down to enter (no, not sexy kind of bending down)

charmant appartement, not be confused with "appartement de charme" - wood ceilings and a creaking staircase, which seems like it might just fall apart at the next step

vue magnifique - last floor, in the former maid's closet with slanted ceilings

salle de bain - standup shower student style

appartement calme - dead area, your grandmother would die there quicker if you moved her there

quartier animé - living on top of a british pub. well, on the plus side, at least the beer is not far.

proche des commerces - living on top of a chinese takeout

duplex - a place consisting of two floors where the stairs are so narrow that the only way you'll ever exit the apartment is in an ambulance

appartement refait à neuf - the son of a friend of the agent's cousin has repainted the wall last summer
appartement en bon état - take your mask, H1N1 gel tube, gloves and hold your breath when you enter the premises

appartement en travaux - feel like being in a remake of WWII ? call the agent and don't forget your helmet

maison: ah! good one...you thought you would rent a house in Paris?!

That's the abbreviated version for the naive apartment hunter, the extended version would take much more space and angry energy. Maybe after my next visit, I will have just what it takes. Until then ladies and gentlemen, happy new year!

Worlds apart on the Arabian peninsula...

Episode two. Return to Dubai three weeks later. The comfort is still comfortable, yet the glamour ceases to impress. The fountains are still dancing, the weather is at its perfect equilibrium, the airport is as spotless as ever, the service as rapid and slave-like as in episode one, and yet something is missing. That something can be summarised in one world: soul. There is simply none of it to be found here - no feeling in human interaction and no means really to facilitate it - no theatre, no museums, nothing at all to get attached to, despite the flurry of activity in this desert land. In terms of entertainment, there are essentially can be divided in two categories: eating and shopping. The result of the former, as the expats joke is "Dubai stomach" and the result of the latter is the nickname DoBuy that the place has earnestly earned itself.

Of course, to impress the tourists, Dubai now features everything that any other tourist destination can offer: immaculate golfing, magnificent beaches, safaris into the wild. This great all in all, except for one thing these all have in common - they are all artificial - from the new cities being developed by the government to the skiing slopes which did not spring up naturally in Dubai which has neither the mountains nor the snow. Not until it was brought in, that is. Beyond that artificialness, there is an ultimate irony in the nature of the climate and its interaction with the surroundings. Since for most of the year, the weather does not incite anyone to wonder outside beyond the inevitable run to the car parked in the closest possible proximity, no one walks in Dubai and indeed there are no pedestrian areas to be seen anywhere. Even strolling on the beach is impossible, as I was explained by the patient hotel staff at my instance to go walk around, "it is only villas and private beaches, madam". Strolling in the city is likely impossible - indeed except for the Indian construction workers, no one ever goes outside and even they don't do it out of any desire to be outside. In Dubai, a place known for its incredible dynamism, there are no dogs, no cats, no ants, no butterflies, and actually no life whatsoever outside.

When I insisted to the hotel boy that I had two hours and no desire to spend them in another air conditioned perfectly spotless building, he came up with various suggestions which inevitably revolved around going to the mall. Souk Al Medinat, which is supposedly one of the more "local" placed in Dubai is nothing than a mall with oriental decorations. And then, of course, there is the originally titled Dubai and Emirates Malls, which are where most locals, whether single or with families, male or female, looking to buy a plastic cup or a million dollar diamond necklace, spend their evenings and days. And in the absence of competition from any cultural activity, the malls in Dubai are indeed as impressive as everything else. There are ten meter high aquariums with sharks, skating rinks and musical performances and all those activities which in any other place have as much to do with a mall, as a plastic cup with that diamond necklace.

The final destination that met as closely as possible my desire to walk outside was the Dubai Mall, which is conveniently located near the tallest building in the world, constructed in the pointless competition among the Gulf states for the biggest, the most expensive, and quite bluntly, the glitziest. It meets the criteria of being the tallest building, in all its cold highness, pointless and shining, but once again, with not an ounce of the soul of its much shorter and much less imperfect neighbour - the Eiffel Tower, which tingles the heart with its lights on cold winter evenings or warm summer nights. It seems that in the absence of any historical remnants, the local approach has been to create - as fast, as high, as big, as impressive as possible.

Rumour has it that one UAE Minister once told their Egyptian counterpart that if the UAE had the history of Egypt, they would have already toppled the tourism figures of Egypt. And they might have already, substituting malls for pharaons, hotels for Ottoman-era mosques, and orientally styled malls for real souks, the likes of Cairo's Khan al Khalili. This supremacy of Dubai as a hot Middle East destination is all the more surprising given the existence of other hidden jewels of the Gulf like the Musandam peninsula of Oman. Musandam, only two hour's drive from Dubai, is a world apart from it's consumerism, its architecture, its luxurious restaurants and artificial ski slopes and is completely unexposed relative to its glitzy neighbour. Perched between the UAE and Iran, it does not need to offer anything beyond what its nature has endowed it with - the emerald coloured transparent waters, dolphins swimming alongside old boats navigating between its magnificent mountains, and its people, descendants of Iranian, Arabic, Indian, and Baluchistani tribes.

Just a short drive from Dubai, through Sharjah and Ras Al Khaimah, the Deihra checkpoint separating the UAE and Oman is a window to the soul of the Gulf - the Musandam peninsula - with the old fisherman towns the likes of of Khasab, the tiny villages perched between the majestic mountains, and a history of traditions and cultural melting pot that has survived despite the Sunni-Shia rift, the tensions between Iran and the rest of the world, and the lack of tourism and modernity that boasts its neighbour. In Musandam, life tick-tocks according to its own rhythm, without grand ambitions and glitzy malls, but with a sort of bizarre tribal multiculturalism that gives it a soul - something that oil money has not yet succeeded in reproducing.

The American dream in the Arabian sands

It is commonly said that one's eyes are a window to one's soul. If this statement can be slighltly twisted, I would say Dubai's international airport is a window to the rest of the emirate, the largest in the federation of several comprising the Gulf sheikhdom. With its immense Greek style columns, effervenescent lights illuminating its every square millimeter, and scores of airport employees ready to serve, it is an accurate preview of what is to come. It is of course a widely known story that under the rule of Sheikh Mohammed of Dubai, the place has grown from a pimple in the middle of the desert to a hot tourist destination, a financial center and a hotbed...no, not for international terrorists, but for international architects.

Even for the most avid traveller, Dubai, with its magnificent skyline dotted with intringuingly mishaped and ostentatiously lit up buildings does what it intends to do - awe and amaze. It is not just the famous Burj Dubai but virtually every building decorating its exquisite skyline that is fascinating. Driving around the city's traffic-packed streets, one gets the impression that the ruler of Dubai, who, in the best of Middle Eastern traditions is posted on every corner, gazing at a pool with pink flamingos, had a vision for developing this place that does not just include some rare birds.

Architects were flown in and seem to have been told to go at it, construction companies were mobilised to support their dreams, and in the end, out of the empty and vast desert emerged glass skyscrapers of all shapes, colours and hights, like pieces of lego carelessly thrown around in a half-finished plan. The financial crisis has definitely clipped the wings of the ambitions of the fearless sheikh, as companies, some private, others owned by the said sheikh and his vast royal family have stopped littering the skyline of Dubai with construction cranes. Today, Dubai is on the brink of bankruptcy and is borrowing from its oil-rich neighbour, Abu Dhabi, which pits the royal relations uncomfortably under the spotlight, and -one would imagine - under strain.

Whether this is the end of the sheikh's dream is questionable. Construction cranes might have slowed down or disappeared altogether, but the sheikh and his clan command most of the local economy, consistent with the strange breed of state-driven capitalism common to this part of the world. It is in fact the exact opposite of communism or good old industrial capitalism - here, the states is the industry, the state is the government and the state is the dreamer behind Dubai. The same face overlooking the pond with pink flamingos is behind it all.

It is easy, and in fact not incorect to dismiss this place is a theocracy, where in the mirror image of the 80-20 rule, 20 % of local emiratis (almost all with some linkages to one royal clan or another) control this place, and where the other 80% slave to make the dreams of the 20% come true. The 80% are the indians, philipinnos, chinese, and egyptians who come to Dubai to escape their homeland, and as some argue, to find a different kind of misery. Many come here alone to work and send most of their earnings to their families which they have the good luck to visit at best once a year. The human rights abuses, accidents at the construction cites and the sometimes deplorable conditions of live of these expatriate workers have been widely criticised.

I don't mean to take an argument with that. I just wonder if anyone has stopped to think and realise that in a weird, twisted and unfair way, this place is the American dream for these indians, egyptians and chinese, who are of course a clear underclass here, but an employed underclass, no longer living in the slums of Cairo, Mumbai or Islamabad. In Dubai, they are everywhere: in restaurants, in hotels, in every business or residential building. But, they are also part of a perhaps small but somewhat growing upper class of shopkeepers and cafe owners, which of course does not place them anywhere near the minority locals, but has given them an opportunity to be a part of this project - this dream, which is maybe not their dream, but maybe their children's. After all, the first generation immigrants that have and continue to settle America are also the ones mostly cleaning, repairing and selling as opposed to wearing branded suits and making decisions on Capitol Hill.

Ironically, I doubt if anyone thinks of Dubai as the American dream, particularly that the bitter aftertaste of the foreign policies of the Bush administration has not entirely vanished in this part of the world. And indeed, Dubai would not be an American dream for those educated and trained Egyptian, Chinese and Indian middle classes who are looking to find their dreams in that vast country, but I think it is a sort of a dream for those looking for to find it here. Like all dreams, it is just a fairy table, which evaporates when faced with reality. These people can be told to leave the country at any moment in time, which makes the service here so unparalleled and those receiving the services feel almost guilty. And I was writing this post, the door bell of my spectacular Jumeirah Emirates Towers room rang several times with various "dreamers" offering to clean my room, bring me chocolates or offer anything else my heart desires. It is not my dream, and it is certainly not the limits of theirs, but as it turns out - everything in life, including dreaming, is relative.

Some thoughts from the land of permanent contrast...

The confusion starts already in Canada, in the terminal of the Toronto Pearson International Airport, where the signs announce in no confusing terms "welcome to the Unites States of America". And just as if to allay the suspicions of any patriot Canadians who may be saying, and not so unreasonably, "wait a minute, I am still in Canada", the Statute of Liberty posted nearby proudly holds its torch. This is not a mistake, and the confrontation with a United States "border patrol" officer Whelmy definitively suspends any illusions. His name makes me want to giggle like a five year old, but then he authoritatively commands as if I was a Guantanamo prisoner "Right four fingers, right thumb, left four fingers, left thumb" and now his name is even more hilarious. He is supposed to "well me" or "mean well" or whatever his parents dreamed up as a name when smoking ganja in the rebellious seventies. He is no such thing. Maybe he'd served in Guantanamo before, but now that they are trying to dismantle it, he got reallocated. Old habits die hard.

I can't help but see the contrast between the country of civil liberties enshrined in the constitution, and where individual negative rights are safeguarded more vigorously that the Mona Lisa, and the fact that, right there, at the very entry to this country with such great civil liberties, a human being is like a feather in the wind. One day you exist, the next day you have been blown away, "sorry about that, Ma'am". Or maybe not even sorry. According to the small text in the entry forms we vigilantly complete, we have forfeited all the rights and that silly Whelmy over there can decide whether I get or not into the country, whether he detains me, and by the way, as the form kindly notifies me, I have hereto thereby therefore altogether forfeited a fundamentally protected right to legal counsel. Back to Guantanamo.

After I deal with Whelmy and he's content and satisfied - not that he would give it away in any way - I am proudly marching on to that dreaded Continental flight to New York where I am expecting to relieve the wonders great American civilisation: get lost in its gigantic museums, hit a jazz club like they don't exist elsewhere, take a stroll in the midst of those great towers and churches and synagogues and columns built by immigrants, media magnates, and just ordinary Joe-the-Construction-Guy types who would sacrifice any museum or jazz club for a medium burger, fries on the side pleeease. And on the corner of 78th and Maddison, where out taxi drops us off, and were we start our adventure at a place called Lady M Cake Boutique (if you don't believe that "cake" and "boutique" can be combined in a single name, here is the evidence http://www.ladymconfections.com), I feel almost proud that Whelmy has admitted me to a place so chic, where I almost feel like an imposture with all the immaculately pedicured toes and powdered noses around.

With my Alice in Wonderland t-shirt, I am really in Wonderland, though Wonderland makes me realise of the urgency of getting to a nearby spa or risk looking like a peasant in the company of Lady M ladies. I am salivating in the expectation of the great pedicured New York with perfect Lady M ladies running around in Central Park, sipping champaigne in jazz clubs and shopping at Barney's side by side with me.

My dreams lives on while I stroll around the upper east side, then crashes and dies as soon as I step outside of the well defined perimeter. And here, I start to understand why the New Yorkers prefer their peculiar street numbering system: to delineate the haves and the have nots, those with the polished guardians standing at the building entrances and those climbing the fifth floor without the elevator, those Lady M ladies whose pedicure wanted to make my toes curl up in total embarrassment and other ladies for whom the word pedicure is simply not part of the vocabulary. That in itself may be banal, for every big city, including our little "socialist Paris" and the almost equally "socialist Toronto", as they appear to most Americans, has its privileged.

What is different here is the enormity of the contrast, the brutalness of it all. After all, many of those people living outside of the "perimeter of happiness" are still without social security and healthcare, while the debate ranges on. Hilary's prior losses on the same front are not encouraging, neither are the ongoing debates. In the "socialist France" for example, a doctor does not have right to refuse a patient on financial grounds. But that's clearly not the argument to bring up in the United States of America. Unless you are Michael Moore.

Contrasts surround me wherever I look in the United States of America, I mean after the Canadian border. The universities with the most recognised scholars in the world and the state of surprising illiteracy. This is not just a loud statement. The latest OECD study of education systems showed that despite above average spending, America has some of the industrial world's worst rates of infant mortality, teenage pregnancy and general poverty. No wonder education performance is stagnating. No wonder that in my daily interactions with the "general public", I get the impression sometimes I am not speaking English. "What's that honey?" is a question that I hear on several occasions. I doubt they have read anything beyond Cosmopolitan or something of the like, and perhaps it's not their fault. Working without vacation, commuting, and having to pay dearly for everything over high school is not a recipe for well read, well informed population. Not that they could ever be informed with Fox news all around.

I could go on about the Land of Contrasts, otherwise known as the USA. And I suppose that some contrast, some non-conformity, some bumps along the otherwise boring road can be distracting, mesmerising, exciting, diverse, and even creative. The contrast between the walkway of the meatpacking district and the not-yet-reconstructed warehouses surrounding it. The contrast between the artistic world of MOMA amidst the center of the commercial district. The contrast between the chatter of the Greenwich village, the hum of Brooklyn, the silence of Jersey, the dignified calm of the Upper East side. Others are clearly less flattering. Securitised yet least secure. Educated yet clueless about anything non-American. Rich, yet so disadvantaged. Financial center, yet financially ruined. Global superpower, yet globally disliked.

And yet what's puzzling is that they are proud of it all, proud to be Americans, to have an opportunity to climb from one side of the spectrum to the other, just like Britney crossing the stage. They are proud of their shared values and surprisingly, these values are somewhat shared whether you are in New York, Oklahoma, Houston or Los Angeles. Welcome in the melting pot, as long as you are polite and smile at regular three second intervals you can share the same values. Just be proud, just do it. Don't ask of what, no time to think about it today, or tomorrow, or the day after. And yet, walking up and down streets of American cities, I could not help but wonder who exactly is melting in this pot? It seems that whatever is cooking in this pot is certainly not a soup of common values, but a melange of different ingredients which don't necessarily compliment each other, but are already stuck in the pot, and just like a rat, caught in a mousetrap, pray for the days of unlimited cheese, otherwise known as the American dream.

Who wants to be a millionaire?

I never thought...but I am am a proud to be Canadian!

The day after Canada Day it dawned on me that I am proud to be Canadian. I never imagined I would think of myself as a proud maple-syrop eating; beer and bear loving Canadian, let alone say it. You might be tempted to think that my newfound pride is just a reflection of my generally under-vacationed state and therefore the longing for some hard earned statutory holidays. Since I am no longer living in the land of the Maple Leaf, I can with in all honesty say - you are wrong! In fact, it has been a while now I have cut ties with anything really Canadian except for an occasional reception at the Canadian Embassy in Paris and even that, I have abandoned last year since the celebration consisted of one euro beer and the kind of music you hear playing at Wal Mart on an average Monday. All in all, my natural patriotic tendencies are low not to say non-existent when left to their own devices. On the contrary, I am proud - even if a little exhausted - of hopping on and off planes, trains and automobiles and like to consider myself a citizen of the world.

And yet, over the past years, my patriotism or perhaps, more precisely, the identification with Canadian values, has grown tremendously, without me even realising it. The irony of the situation is that it has happened over the same years that I have been living on another continent, where procuring maple syrop is about as exotic as procuring hairless kiwis and seeing snow - the real thick and relentlessly unmelting one - is about as frequent as the return of the Messiah. Not that I particularly miss either. Not the Messaih that is.

What I miss is all the other aspects of Canada and its people that while I was living there, I did not identify as distinctly Canadian. The Canadian friendliness which I have realised is almost the quintessence of the Canadian being, appeared just normal and ordinary when I strolled down the isles of Indigo while sipping the very unCanadian Starbucks coffee. The multiculturalism without racism, the American dream accessible without giving up healthcare, the access to education without being indebted "for better or for worse" - these were not concepts I gave much thought to. They were as much "givens" for me, as the availability, and indeed the necessity, of bananas to an average chimpanzee. Instead, I what I noticed more were the reasons I did not "fit in" into the perfect picture of Canadian lifestyle - I couldn't find decent shoes, I couldn't (and still cannot) stand beer, I couldn't (and still cannot) deal with screaming hockey or baseball fans, I loathed the absence of any culture.

And then I moved to the UK and then to France and the picture reversed. Perhaps they are right when they say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I daresay it's more than that. It is not that I particularly miss Canada, but from hundreds of miles away, I have learned to appreciate the its merits and its values. And yes, I do regret, sometimes quite terribly, that these values are so evident by their absence in Europe, including in the over-romanticised but still incredible country called France.

This is not to speak of customer service which is so appalling that I have now completely switched all the visa-charging activity to the internet. The net can malfunction, it can steal my credit card information, but it cannot ignore me, insult me or worst of all, ask me until when I am staying in France. Here, I suppose I should explain that since my accent gives away my non-French origins, all salespeople think that I am here in the passing and therefore will never come back their store - reasoning that I can be simply ignored.

But in fact, Canadian values touch on much more fundamental and much less superficial aspects of life. As a first generation immigrant to Canada, I can speak from first hand experiences of the difficulties of integration. However, there is nothing, and I mean nothing even remotely similar to the difficulties of immigrants here. In France, the immigrants generally come from the french-speaking Africa and settle in the non-french speaking French suburbs, where they are integrated among themselves but no one else. No one, including the French police, dares to pay a visit to these areas for the simple fear of being shot. That is incidentally where all the famous car burning take place which have by now become known worldwide.

Welcome to South Africa in France: there is them, and then, there is us, protected in a police state firmly installed by our hyperactive President. The new strategy is that the police does not travel to the the infamous suburbs to deal with the problem children, instead they install themselves every two meters in Paris to protect us from them. It may not be the Middle Ages, but we are still in fortress mentality. To be fair to our hard-core on security president, he inherited the problem from the years of socialist governments which failed so miserably to understand the concept of selective immigration which is the hallmark of the Canadian immigration policy. So now, instead of selective immigration, we have not so selective policing, extensive rioting and a clash of civilisations in one country. Hungtington would surely feel relieved.

And this brings me to explain why today, of all days, I feel so proud to be Canadian. Today, as I needed to send some money to relatives in Ukraine, I had an interesting conversation with North African teller at the bank, who in the good old French tradition, was asking me for every piece of official paper that had my name on it, allegedly to prove my identity. When I ran out of cards to show him, he finally ran out of patience and told me straight out that since I didn't understand what he wanted and that he didn't speak Ukrainian, I should just get lost. There I was, since I had an accent and a non-french last name, I had to be Ukrainian - some sort of an underclass to his North African dignity. I don't speak Ukrainian and I did leave, but I couldn't help thinking - what is it that makes the immigration in European countries such a combustive mixture of frustration and mutual dislike? Where are the smiles, even if fake, of the bank tellers and the courteous "what can I do for you, Ma'am?" And it is then, that I really had a craving for a cup of hazelnut so proudly Canadian Second Cup coffee served by a voluptuous African lady who would ask me if I'd like anything else with it.

Just a smile please, thank you.

Thoughts on upcoming european elections

Sunday are the elections for the european parliament. Since I am not voting, I didn't follow the whole debate, until today, when unsolicited and unnounced a letter fell into my mailbox, a letter containing the lists of different parties which were putting themselves up for grabs in the european parliamentary squable. I have to admit it is with great indifference that I was looking at these party lists until I came across something, that I am told, has already sparked quite a debate at home - a french anti-zionist party. If you think that I am lying, exaggerating or dreaming, I am afraid, this is the evidence: http://www.partiantisioniste.com. For those of you french speakers, the clips on their website are quite surreal. Depiste Frances rather ambiguous reputation towards the Jews throughout the history and to this day, I was always at its defence, pleading exaggeration of my opponents. Today, I have to say I am still puzzled, to say the least, why in France of all places there springs up an anti-zionist party. If you told me that happened in Saudi Arabia or in Lebanon, I could swallow it since the first has some hard core ideological issues and the second has had a few less than friendly encounters with the Israeli army.

But, what could be the objectives of an anti-zionist party in French elections for the european parliament? Do they hope that once they get in, they can force the European Union with its weak, if not non existent foreign policy, to force Israel to do something, whatever that something might be? In my humble opinion, even if they did make it to the European parliament, they couldn't stop Israelis from eating hummus, let alone doing something on the political front. Though, on a secondary thought, hummus is political, so perhaps not the best example.

For those of you french speakers, I suggest you go the source to hear the rumblings - perhaps you will succeed in capturing some meaning where I have not been able to find any, and where again, in my humble opinion, there is none. For those that have not yet found the courage to affront the conjugations, I don't blame you and will do my best in breaking down their key thesis, or what I was able to make of them.

First, zonism is the nervous system of society. So, now it appears, we are back to the global jewish conspiracy thesis. Here comes the Principles of the Elders of Zion, or I am sure they would have made their appearance in due time if I cared to watch their videos for long enough. But, just before my patience ran out and I pressed the stop button, I caught another interesting one. The other anti-zionists in France are not for real, they are fake guys with fake "institutions". And what institutions would that be? Would he be referring to the vender of the Principles of Zion someone in the Parisian banlieue (worse than Harlem before Bloomberg became mayor of New York, the French police are afraid to even enter).

So, maybe I misunderstand something from the party webiste, so I go back to the infamous ballot to see who are the so-called representatives of this outfit? Well, turns out that the sample is informative to say the least. One is noted as a "mother of a family and head of a company". Whose family and whose company? All that business sounds rather mysterious. Another one is a president of the association "banlieue s'exprime". Another is noted as a 25 year old whose principal occupation is anti-zionist. Ambitious lady. Maybe we should enter that one in a guiness book of records as the most ridiculous occupation in the world. Another presents herself as unemployed and member of the same party. Clearly a winner and a social leader that could have done much with her life that hating something she probably knows close to nothing about, but let's be kind and give her the benefit of the doubt, perhaps she knows something. The big question is "what"?

Last but not least, I couldn't help but notice another candidate whose title is so french in its denial of everything that i cannot really do it justice by translating it in french - "militant altermondialisme et décroissance." And now the drum roll please, the head of the party, a certain 43 year old man whose last name is, no joke, mbala mbala (as in not a typeout, but for real) and his title is "humaniste révolutionnaire". And here, I rest my case for even in all my years in the Soviet Union, I have not heard such non-sense.

City that never sleeps or City that never stops?

Cliché has it that New York is the "City that Never Sleeps". London, Moscow, Tokyo are commonly seen as belonging to that same Sleepless in Seatle category. Paris, despite its late dining and clubbing culture, but with its socialist-marred traditions like early subway closures, is not generally placed in the same insomniac category. Though no-self respecting Parisian will set his or her foot in a nighclub until well past one in the morning, Paris does not have a reputation of as an overactive broker, more like a semi-retired lady. Maybe as disturbed occasional consumer cocktails, leading to some overly philosophical discussion, but definitely not insomniac.

Perhaps it is a result of our supposedly shorter working hours which protect the fragile and narrow Parisian streets from the hoards of traders, lawyers and other unlucky overworked folk who pour out on the streets of London and New York in search for that beer or cosmpolitain to calm the nerves. Perhaps it is because the foreigners visiting Paris never make it past the steak, frites and vin formula, to make it to the late night establishments. Whatever the historical reasons are, everyone knows that the epicenter of action is across the channel. Even considering the disasterous consequences of the financial crisis on the "square mile", Her Majesty's land is still more reputed for lights and action that the supposedly sleepy Paris.

Frustrated by customer service (or more lack thereof) and in a spout of misguided nostalgia, I bravely overcame my fears of being permanentl stuck in the tunnel and later escavated by an archeologist looking for a lost species of dinosaures, logged on on the eurostar website and booked a ticket. An not just any ticket, but a first class ticket! After all, given the startling price for a 2 hour train ride, who can be bothered to notice the difference? And then, the marginal inconvience of shelling out an extra couple of euros is declining as the euro and the pound (and I cannot believe the words as I am writing them) are almost on par! London on the cheap, now that's what they usually say in eurostar commercials, but every sensible Parisian knows ce n'est pas vrai and every drunken British lad knows that's bullocks. And yet it's not, at least not entirely. London is on sale, victim to its own overambitiousness, its overzealous Adam Smith endorsed accumulation, deregulation, and its mechanical libertarian tendencies.

But has London on sale been able to protect its reputation as the City that never sleeps? Judging from the yawning faces of people on the infamous tube, it seems that not only the city, but its whole population has not slept in months. Forget about the swine flu, the real disease in London is exhaustion - it is chronic and everpresent. A telling example is that perhaps the only business model that has come out of the financial crisis in shining armour is the coffee chain. Nero, Starbucks, Costa, you-name-it are adorning every corner of the city. Uncaffenated is one thing you cannot be in London. And that caffeine is not simply a splurge on extra low fat soya latte (though I have nothing against those), but more of a daily necessity, a low cost, trendy, addictive drug. Having a coffee in london is not a closing note to a lunch as it is in Italy or a welcome to the new day as it is in Canada. It is a constant antidote to exhaustion.

In London, I feel like a piece in one of those toy kaleidoscope where the different coloured pieces, when turned, assemble a different picture every time they are turned. In London, everything and everyone is turned all the time and there is no stop button to be found anywhere. Everyone is rushing nowhere, late somewhere, catching up with time, tring to beat it, yet constantly failing. No wonder that British are always in a rush given that the buses crawl, the tube is typically experiencing "close to normal level of service" and the taxis are not an option even when London is on sale. Down the tube stairs, up the tube stairs, down the platform, down the street, across the crowd. My strategy is always to go through the crowds as if they were invisible, whith my eye closed. Say excuse me, elbow someone, say excuse me, step on someone, just get through, don't faint.

It is not enough that the hustle-bustle-all-around is like being being caught in an unstoppable hurricane or being flushed down the toilet (take your pick). All this is accompanied by what it is tempting to characterise as an accustical nightmare, or a decibels party (take your pick). I could not count the number of times I was told to "mind the gap" or how many announcements about "regular service on all lines" I have heard in a space of three days. Though I always thought my math skills were not so bad, I really cannot count these. I suspect it's a matter of higher mathematics.

Lingering in my mind was the still unanswered question of necessity of all this public guidance. Perhaps the French are lazy, but in Paris - and as far as I can remember in every other city - they only announce when the service is IRregular. Now I can't help but wonder whether the tube employees have some sort of a perverse incentive system where they get paid per annoucement? Surely, the tabloid salesman announcing the next biggest scandal in British history (usually there are 365 of them per year), get paid for every overexaggerated annoucement they make? "Did you know a British MP got reimbursed 50 cents for a Kit Kat bar?" one of them screams in my ear as I walk by. I felt like asking whether he knew what the cost of the bailout of the American banks was, that Iceland is bankrupt and the the UK is not so far away. In the grand scheme of things, is Kit Kat that sensational? Does it really matter than that some overly thrifty MP has unhealthy eating habits? With the UK financial sector in shambles, I just wanted to tell him "buddy, you have bigger things to worry about than Kit Kats". I knew he wouldn't understand and would continue screaming in my ear.

Even at dinner, the waiter is trying to outscream the overeager DJ who was trying to outplay the nearby table where the conversation has reached a normal post-few beers level: deafening. Sweating, he kneels himself down to figure out what I "fancy". I didn't say that fancied him to stop screaming for starters. Stop screaming as an appetiser? That's not on the menu madam. Pity. So, we get a few extra salads at the end, at least he heard the broad lines of the order, the rest is detail. It's not fish and chips in yesterday's tabloids, what are you complaining about lady? Good point...

But, that's just the thing, what am I complaining about? I think what I am trying to do here is to officially protest against the categorisation of Paris as the city that is asleep and London as the city that never sleeps. I can accept as an argument that London never sleeps, but for what reason? I am not convinced that even after the removal of the "no booze after 11 rule", the reason for London insomnia is that Londoners are out and about having good ole time. None of the Londoners I saw on the tube looked like they were having a jolly good time, more like people in a cage, exhausted by the parameters, but unable to change them. All of this leads me to conclude that Lodon may be a city that never sleeps (or more like never stops), but it's also a city where one cannot dream. Paris, on the other hand, maybe a city that sleeps more, but also dreams.

Sense and sensitivity

We really have a love and hate relationship with an gaping hollow middle. There is absolutely no neutral territory between us, no self-questioning, no doubts. I am either totally up-to-my ears in puppy love territory or in a state of total resentment and misunderstanding for what I have done to deserve this sort of a miserable treatment. It is really by-the-book passionate love affair, with all the ups and downs that are inherent in such matters of the heart. I cannot just look at him in the morning and think "hey, he's alright", recognising some of the positive features of his body, while accepting his mood swings, his sheer unpredictability, his sarcasm. Perhaps my responses to him are in fact stimulated by his unstable and explosive personality: at times melancholic, at times welcoming, at times rejecting, at times indiscernible.

As an ergonomic chair, I adapt to the shape of his body but also to his emotional state of being, usually trying to accomodate him on his days of blues and rejoice on the rare days of sunshine. The days of sunshine, while rare, are exactly what makes the blues and everything else that comes with them worth the wait. The sunny-side up is really what the French would call impeccable, the Americans fabulous and the British brilliant. It is definitely all of those things and many more, making it an irresistible temptation to fly across the world - if need be - just to see him, smell him, embrace him, and perhaps most importantly let him embrace me, surround me, nourish me. On those impeccable, fabulous and brilliant days he can, at the sleight of his hand, order to curtains to be drawn open in order to reveal in all their magnificence his prize possessions, his jewels like the Pont des Arts.

On the days when the impeccable, fabulous and brilliant recede into the background, and the blues install themselves for days, sometimes even weeks, the curtain remains drawn. The audience is simply snubbed and no amount of clapping, whether sincere (the loud overly enthusiastic type that no aristocrat would lower himself to) or artificial (usually with binoculars in one hand, preventing the production of noise of any noticeable decibles) can get the curtain to raise. No amount of praying, begging or self-sacrifice can induce him reverse his decision, and if he does, it is certainly not for any reason connecting to either one of these acts.

It might just be an accident if he finally changes his mind and sheds his steely demeanor - I can never quite figure out what has caused the wind to change. It is something similar to ordering lunch at a 3 star Michelin restaurant and trying to guess what is inside the dish. Even after a lengthy explanation by the waiter, it still comes out to something reduced with something else, mixed with another secret ingredient and all steamed in a pot with a million of other spices. A witchcraft which - for those of us earthly beings is quite bluntly put, unconquerable! Given the mysterious nature of his moods, at times I feel that I have no other option but to adjust, pretend that I am going through a sunny-side-up stage, when in fact both him and I know know perfectly well that it is exactly the opposite.

And this is exactly the dance I have been unscrupulously following all of this week. It has been a masquerade smiles, polite phone calls and half-hearted excuses. I am simply not really sorry about treating him and all of his complexities and explanations the way I do. After all, what can he expect when the rays of sun stop illuminating those irregular highlights in my hair, when the normally open invitation for embrace seems to have suddenly expired, and when he is clearly flashing the sign the French would interpret as pas disponible, the Americans as out of stock and the British as left town?

I guess it must sound nonsensical to say that Paris has left town, but there are days (and lately, these days can pile into weeks and even months), that I can honestly say he has. Paris has left town, leaving me wondering what I am doing here in his quarters, which seem so utterly empty when he is not around. Having patiently waited through all of winter, I have naively thought that spring will bring him a change of mood, but this has simply not happened, though to be fair, he has made some sporadic efforts. Once again, he seems to be going through his blue stage, showering me with rain in the exact moment I finally bring out those favourite suede shoes, sending gusts of wind when I finally master the courage to wonder out for a quick run around the park, and simply shutting down for the evening much faster that I am ready for it.

More than anything, I guess I am angry with him for not controlling his subjects, yes, those other people that I patiently share him with. While on a sunny days (when I can find a place on a terrance of one of his trendy brasseries, which features every model of Chloé, Prada and Chanel sunglasses released in the past season) I am ready to be more forgiving, I am not finding this forgiveness in me given the schizophrenic temperament he has been exhibiting of late. His subjects are becoming more and more rebellious, more and more numerous, more and more unpredictable and dangerously more and more individualist. And that is even before the tourist season brings with it herds of others competing for those very same islands of peace and happiness where I have become a regular.

Paris, I know there is really not point of praying, begging or self-sacrifice to make you take seriously my request, but I urge you to consider that my love for you is not eternal. I can, and indeed have, been offended by your inhabitants whose attitude to sharing makes it difficult for me to share you with them. I know there is no other like you, with museums that dazzle, restaurants that nourish not only the stomach but also the soul, and not least importantly, avenue Montaigne that makes me want to put that Visa to use like never before. As a first measure, I might find other museums, restaurants and shops where my soul, stomach and feet will find their happiness, but this might not just last forever. I am afraid I might stop adjusting to you, like that ergonomic chair, and start rejecting you, as if you were an allergy-causing substance. For the sake of our relationship, I hope you will consider my humble request.

Islands of small and peaceful

There are two kinds of people: those that are born, live and die in big cities and those who could skip on all the fatigue, pollution and melodrama associated of living in the big apple, big london or even the not-so-big paris. I have always been of firm conviction that I belong to that first type who cannot spend more than a weekend in the country side, and even that, on the condition that there is wi fi access. It is not a question of being obsessed with connectivity, of a blackberry happily blinking along, with being virtually at the office - god no! It's really a question of lights, action, camera; of speed of action; of being a part of something larger (and not just a little bit larger). And I am not speaking from a position of ignorance here - I have lived in a small town! A small student town in the Netherlands, of which, as small towns go, virtually no one has even heard of or ever will. The only good news about this place, which proudly featured in its center - as indeed most European small towns do - a church, a pub, and a bank - was that I could pronounce its name which is not the same I can say of anything else in Dutch. (not to self: Dutch was clearly not my special talent in the language department).

After that experience, I resolved to myself to that I would never again live in a small town. And I have not. While my travel itinerary has been diverse, from Ukraine to Canada to UK and finally to France, I have exclusively lived in big cities. I think my quantitative threshold lies somewhere near 2 million inhabitants. Though it has never been explicitly set, every significant other, friend or relative in my life had at some point understood that for me, no city can be considered to deserve this status if it does not feature museums (note the plural here is no accident), restaurants, night life, theatre, think tanks, universities, and of course, a synagogue - in case I ever have an urgent need to enter into direct dialogue with god. So far it has never happened, but in case such need ever arises, it ought to be urgently satisfied. Besides, a city with no synagogue is not a good sign if I ever want to start eating kosher. Again, it is not likely to happen, but since I am already a vegetarian, who knows what the next weird thing I will do?

So, here I am, in probably what is the best compromise between big city living without big city distances - Paris. A city which I can cross in its entirety (without of course the suburbs, in which no self- respecting parisian goes for one and quite convincing reason: fear) for 20 euros, which is comparable to about 3 subway stops in London. A city which at the same time as being small is incredibly diverse, with little self-contained villages with almost distinct accents, dress-codes and dog sizes. On this last point, you might think I exaggerate, but I assure you not. For instance, in the sixteenth, a dog is an accessory, it must fit in the second smallest longchamp bag, otherwise, it's too slow to walk. In the eighteenth on the other hand, a dog is an instrument of protection and therefore it does not fit in any bag - not even the largest longchamp.

And yet in this compromise, I can't help but think that people like me, who love cities for their action and tireless movement, can only be happy in this whirlwind if they find their oasis of small and peaceful, a sort of a microcosm of reality. In Toronto, it was Queen Street West. In Paris, it can vary from the neighbourhood cafe, which during off peak hours features only two types of creatures - the waiters and the owner's Dalmatian whom I quite got used to, to a yoga studio which does not smell like a mixture of indian food and your neighbours feet (yes, sorry, but it's true), to Luxembourg garden on a sunny day, before everyone else gets there and takes all the chairs (one for the ass, one for the bag, and one per leg of course!). I seems like after years of being treated like an american tourist and being confused myself what my oasis or oases of paradise in this city are, I have finally found them. I have gotten to know all the key characters: the Dalmatian, the yoga instructor, the guy who serves a great brunch near by (and who is open on Sunday!). There is only one wrinkle in the storyline. Since I have discovered them, all these places have become famous: now my facial place requires two months to book an appointment, the brunch place features a line which is becoming less and less reasonable, and today, as a last straw, the yoga class was too full to accept me! "But I discovered it before all these people" I almost screamed in the face of the receptionist who politely offered me to unfold my mat outside the studio. Instead, I just limited myself to a resolute "non".

So, all this drama in my life begs the following question: what does one do when their islands of small and peaceful become invaded? Does one flee to another city or try to find other bubbles of peace? Any advice on this dilemma is welcome. Of course, I could find another brunch place or a smell-less yoga studio, but that would be on the other side of paris, and I would have to take the metro there, which is most definitely not smell-less, particularly on the weekends. In case you didn't know, on the weekends, Parisian men suddenly forget they have toilets at home and start to use the streets as their personal toilets. This may be funny for those of you who don't live in the sixth arrondissement in Paris, but for me, that creates another dilemma: as I decide to have a run around the neighbourhood following being turned away from yoga, I have to treat it as some sort of an obstacle course between (hmm...how shall I say it, number one and number two). The latter usually belongs to dogs, but does not make it any more pleasant for my white adidas running shoes or my nose for that matter. Part of the problem is that I run though the fabulous gallery district and of course I want to be looking around not down! And that brings me to my last thought of the day: Paris maybe the best compromise in the city category, but now it looks like I am going to have to compromise on my bubbles of small and peaceful, sharing them with the invaders, who probably like me, have realised that even here, they need to escape.

A marriage made in heaven

Here is a trick question: what is common between Islam and communism? As the meeting between the Saudi King Abdullah and the Chinese President Hu Jintao proved - contracts. Yes, you heard me (or rather read me) right. Following the visit of the Chinese president to Saudi Arabia, a range of contracts have been signed between the two countries, covering a range of sectors, including oil, mining and others. The Chinese have even agreed to set up a chapter of the King Abdul Aziz Public Library in Beijing. While the interest of the Chinese in Saudi oil does not take a rocket scientist to figure out, the establishment of an islamic library in a country which officially still embraces communism may raise a few eyebrows. Please include mine in the list.

Naturally , this seems to be a concession on the part of the Chinese in return for those very interesting natural resource and constructions contracts they are bringing home (not to be forgotten at the times of high unemployment in Saudi). But who would have thought that the Chinese would be willing to compromise on this kind of opening to outside forces, particularly as they struggle with some of their own Islamist movements in the area bordering the former Soviet Union's republics? Given today's exchanges of promises, the Saudi's don't seem to be concerned with working with countries whose political ideology explicitly denies the existence of religion. Likewise, Islam, while seen as a menace at home, is not seen by the Chinese as a threat, as long as it stays in the Gulf where they will just temporarily export some of their labour force.

Echos of the Gaza conflict in Morocco

In both the Arab world and in the Arabophone communities abroad, there seems to be a consensus on the death of the pan-arab ideal, so skillfully animated by Nasser's politics. Since the well-known and failed attempt at a unity between Egypt and Syria, in light of the generally acknowledged disfunctionality  of the Arab League (the institution which unites the 22 heads of state of the Arab world), the pan-arab ideal is considered dead. But is it? 

Politically this is certainly the case. Even smaller groupings such as the GCC have a difficult time coordinating their policies on a range of economic issues (ex. the delayed and mystic currency union), let alone their political stance. Observers point to the emergence of a 'stable' sunni crescent of Jordan, Egypt and Saudi Arabia and the 'dissenting' shia crescent of Iran, Qatar (and even some non-state actors such as the Hezbollah in Lebanon). This political split became once again evident in the recent Israeli-Hamas conflict in Qaza, where Qatar and Iran lambasted Israel for irresponsible killing of civilians, while radio silence was heard from Jordan and Egypt. The Jodanian leadership, with its own sizeable palestinian population, could win some browny points from their electorate by engaging in populist rhetoric against Israel, chose not to, probably in part to internal standing considerations as well as for the fear of adding fuel to an already combustive mixture. The Egyptian leadership was coerced and coalesced by France to maintain this radio silence, which in any case they had no reason to break. After all Hamas is an offshoot of Muslim Brotherhood - Mubarak's biggest threat. 

The sense of pan-arab unity is clearly dead on the political front. Is it so also on the social one? Well, while the politicians were considering the various trade-offs and ceding to international pressure, the 'arab street' for the lack of a better term, was certainly in a clear agreement against the Israeli position. Of course, the reaction to the conflict was not only contained to the Arab world, with several  manifestations across European cities, but if one looks closer to the cities where such expressions were the strongest, those cities feature large arab populations. London and Paris are both clear examples of this.

While the inhabitants of the chick and rich Gulf may look down in certain way on their poorer Moroccan and Tunisian cousins, when it comes to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, everyone is clear on which side they are on. There is simply no discussion. As far as Morocco, the suffering of Gazans during the last conflict, clearly reverberated with the people. During my last trip to Morocco, I even learned that some creative Moroccan mind has created and distributed a hoax which persuaded Moroccans to boycott certain outflits such as MacDonalds, since allegedly, a part of its profits was sent to Israel (with the obvious pre-text of financing their military). This may of course sounds absurd to any logical person, who knows that MacDonalds is a franchise and that there is no that it's Moroccan owner would be sending money to Israel, but apparently not to an average macdo consumer in the country.

But a larger question which looms behind all this, is why would an average Moroccan refuse him or herself adecent halal burger because of some alleged link from Macdo to Gaza? The answer, so unintuitive to me, who sees so little in common between Palestine and Morocco, is that this alleged link is somehow real to these people. The Gaza conflict resonates as far as Morocco. For the thousands of Tunisians, Moroccans and other, the whole pan-Arab ideal is much more real that the talk of political and economic unity. They are already voting with their wallets in macdonalds while the politicians are scrambling over their votes in regional and international institutions.

Russia...another one bites the dust

Just around the corner from the Kremlin, Stanislav Markelov, a lawyer who defended a range of anti-Kremlin characters, along with a young journalist Anastasis Baburova, were shot at blank range in the middle of the day. The Economist has commented that "even by Russian standards, this was brazen." But was it? In a country which, in a rather clear reversal of the "Kremlin spring", is still governed Stalin-style, why do commentators seem to be surprised? As the KGB would have defended one of its members (though at the time there was nothing to defend them from, since it was running the country), the Kremlin is defending one of its own (colonel Budanov who raped and killed a young Chechen woman the night of Putin's coming to power whose family Markelov dared to defend). Observers note that he could have been killed for this act of challenge to the regime, or for any of his other activities. Whatever the real reasons for this bullet being fired, the episode is rather telling of the little change that has happened since Gorbachev left loose the reigns holding together the almighty Soviet Union. 

Murders of journalists of media outlets which claim to have some independence from Kremlin have become commonplace, giving one the impression that pretty soon everything will be back to square one. The Russian people will receive a choice of two propaganda newspapers and slightly more propaganda channels, and that will be it. The murder rate of journalists and lawyers might then actually decline to the lows of good old Soviet days. The regime will just send them all packing to Siberia and call it a day, after all, the precedent already exists for a few daring oligarchs and other "activists". Repressing public opinion this way may actually be better for the Russian international image which has suffered significant, if not irreparable damage during the past year. 

On this point, Mr. Putin and Mr. Medvedev have only to consult many of their colleagues in the Middle East, where virtually all local regimes systematically supres any attempt at independent press. At least the latter do it more transparently. The Moroccan constitution, for instance, prohibits any criticism of the King, him being the direct off spring of Allah and all. Perhaps Mr. Putin should inspire himself of such bold but at least transparent moves and pronounce his position clearly on the issue - no criticism of the his majesty or any of his encourage. At least then everyone will know they are risking a bullet in the back of the head should the rule not be complied with. 

What does all of this leave us, the observers of the "resurgent Russia"? Well, it leaves us observing the return (or perhaps the lack of a departure?) of the good old Soviet mentality - the supremacy of the state in every sphere of life, including of course media. The danger of it all, is that the propaganda of the state controlled media, whether that produced by the Kremlin directly or by the favourable oligarchs, reaches hundreds of thousands of ears and eyes all across the former Soviet Union, with the possible exception of the Central Asia states which were never really fully integrated in the Russophone space. And these eyes and years, a number of which were educated in the Soviet Union, in classrooms featuring a photo of Lenin benevolently staring down at the ordinary folk, might just not know any better than reject it.

All of this gloom and doom coming out of any European or American analysis of belligerent Russia does make one want to start undusting the Cold War dictionary. Not so fast. While Mr. Putin can make the dumfound Duma pass all kinds of legislation prolonging presidential terms or elevating him to the status of god, he should not forget Russia is not Middle East, and he is not the King of Saudi Arabia. And being a intellectual off spring of Stalin just won't do it. Unlike in the Middle East where the spheres of market economy and democracy and clearly separated, this is not the case in Russia. 

The King of Saudi Arabia may well tell his subjects "no thanks" to political pluralism, this causes no concern to foreign or local investors, businessman and other economic actors (with the notable exception of course, but that for another entry). Mr. Putin's more veiled attempt to say "no thanks" to political pluralism has however been mistakenly accompanied by a very obvious proof of the doctrine that the state is back in the economic sphere as well. By nominating his friend as the head of the stock exchange, while the latter has lost 77 percent year-to-date, by nationalising assets and supporting/closely controlling state-owned enterprises, taking an obvious strike at British interests in Russia, he has done a serious disservice to Russia and to his own reputation. Ruble is collapsing (see sratfor.com "Russia implodes"), banks are taking a hit despite being protected by the relative underdevelopment of the Russia's financial system, and unemployment is naturally on the rise despite the conclusion of today's "Pravda" to the contrary.

While the state propaganda may claim that the unemployment in January has somehow gone down (note: contrary to every other country in the world!), the reality is hitting Russia with investors moving out assets out of the ruble and out of Russia generally. The lesson to the Kremlin seems to be that while it can still fire bullets in the heads of local journalists without so may as making any statement about it, and poison political opponents abroad, Stalin-style tactics are perhaps not to be transposed on the economic sphere, for the 750 billion US dollars of reserves may just not be enough to prevent another 1998 from happening if investors feel as unsafe as journalists on the streets of Moscow.

I thought to start my blog-year with... a book review!

I refrain myself (thought I don't know for how long) to white about the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, which has now become a subject of daily conversation and manifestation even as far away as in Paris. Though, while the characters and the geo-political context of what I'll write about today may not be the same, the quintessential problematique is not so radically different. Instead of Israel's war on Hamas, please consider the war of the West (I have this term but it is convenient!) on first, Al-Qaida, then the Taliban. (Nota bene: As a welcome sign, the book, unlike many 'commentators' on Afghanistan, differentiates the two). 

With no further adieu, I think it's now the time to break the mystery and spill the beans: the book's name is Decent Into Chaos by Rachid Ahmed, a Pakistani journalist, familiar with the region to the point of being able to fluently site the names of local tribal leaders, while at the same time enjoying access to Karzai and Musharraf, among others. The book is a jewel of anecdotes, some documented with detail so meticulous that it gives away the author's journalistic origins, while at the same time making the narrative almost difficult to follow for those not familiar with Central Asia. 

Despite the mountains of details, Rachid insists on several key messages, which he craftily waves in the story line. His first claim comes of no surprise - the American strategy in Afghanistan since the 1980s has made it a ticking bomb. As a result,  to experienced observers of the region, the 9/11 came as a shock, but not as a surprise. Many forget today, as Fred Halliday often points out, that the cradle of the global jihadist movements is Afghanistan already in the 1980s. Perhaps few will be surprised today that it is not Iraq - even Bush admitted last week that he was disappointed with the intelligence on Iraq he had received at the time. Rachid explains and convincingly documents the failure of the US, and indeed in the "international community" in Afghanistan, but also in Pakistan, and in the Central Asia generally. One can argue that this is no news, and this is hard to deny, but those able to understand why this has been the case, are far and few and between. 

The author of the book is one of them. If you are interested in why the US failed in nation building in Afghanistan and why NATO has found itself unable to create a convincing strategy in Afganistan, this is a book you might just enjoy. Just as a matter of preview, I will reveal that Rachid puts the weight of the guilt over Afghanistan on the shoulders of Pakistan (primarily under Musharraf's rule) and the complicity of the American strategy with the Pakistani leadership. This is all of course a story of the past. If you are interested in a story of the future, he has some pretty grim predictions abou the future of Central Asia (and Uzbekistan in particular) which make the current position of the Middle East as the winner in the 'most conflictual region' category seem questionable in the near future.