My Look Does Not Define Me...Part 1

I had an interesting conversation with a lady yesterday.

After wearing a reasonable hole in my carpet over the weekend, I stopped by my local watering hole, that is, the guesthouse 5 houses from me. I joined a table filled with my usual crowd. This lady joined my table after about 5 minutes. As she walked up to me, she remarked, "Oh wow, platinum braids, how cool!" I responded courteously, "Thank you," and introduced myself. She went on to ask the gentleman seated next to me (who I had never met) what he does, and he said, "I am a lawyer." And then I perked up and said, "So am I." Then, I offered her and the gentleman my business card, cos that's what I do. I go out drinking with my business card. 

Anyway, it turns out the gentleman is a known lawyer with a partner who has a dad who served in The Hague as a judge. Small World. So while this lady was sitting there judging me, I turned to the gentlemen and told him where I had spent some parts of my summer. As we talked about it, this lady almost choked on her drink. She stopped us in between and asked me, "So wait, you're a lawyer? And you went to The Hague with other lawyers with your hair like that?" I nodded. In my mind I was wondering, was there supposed to be a dress code for lawyers my age. I told her: "I graduated in 1999 so...I've been doing this for a while." This made her even more stunned. "Not only are you a lawyer, you're a seasoned lawyer. And a brilliant one." 

She then confessed that when she remarked on my braids she thought I was a lady of a different profession but when she saw me with my glasses she thought, it might not be. I was too lazy to slip on my contacts so I guess the glasses helped dissuade her allusion. Then, she apologized profusely for jumping to conclusions. 

Nevertheless, are lawyers supposed to look a certain way? Are we supposed to be demure and pristine and nerdish? What constitutes the "lawyer look"? I have been so out of it, I might have forgotten. Even in America I joined the most conservative of companies but still was able to push the envelope with my hairstyles and dressing. That is, after I had changed the internal rules a bit. Hey...I'm the girl that wrote policies on work/life balance so we got to work from home, come to work a little later, flexible hours, have women groups, etc. That's the kind of lawyer I wanted to be and I am. If wearing different hairstyles makes me do my job well, who's to stop me? I also worked with American lawyers that sported full arm tattoos, long hair, grizzly beards, wore mini skirts to court. As long as the work was done, and trust me it was done, perfectly, then it didn't matter. So why do we have prejudices about how lawyers are supposed to look? Isn't your intelligence level supposed to be all that matters?

Pay It Forward

When people say: I don't owe you anything. No one owes anyone anything.

I beg to differ. We all do. We all owe the universe an obligation, a sacrifice, a selfless act of kindness. We owe humanity that promise to pay it forward. Someone paid it forward enough to afford you the opportunity to live this privileged life, so your duty is to keep that positive energy going by paying it forward. Let's stop living selfishly but selflessly in order to pay back humanity for the freedoms that we now enjoy.

To conclude, no one owes anyone anything but we just do. We do because we are humanity and we cannot exist in a vacuum. We cannot exist without respecting each other's rights and satisfying our obligations. Obligations that were rendered that even you, oh selfish one is accountable for. It is in that doing that we repay our debt to society. 

It's funny that people often make this statement when you ask of them the simplest of things. How petty our society has become? 

P.S. I wish I could hashtag all the people in my life who felt the need to tell me this. SMDH.

A New Yorker Goes to Paris

Interior of the Louvre

One of many Cafes in this building

Musee du Louvre - Louvre Museum

If you've never been to Paris and have been to New York quite a few times, and have often wondered, "Hey, I'd sure like to go to Paris but..." faced with so many limitations. Afraid to fly. No passport. No money for an international getaway. No adequate vacation time. You name it. Limitations stopping you from achieving your dream of visiting Paris. 

Do not despair. Just go back to New York one more time, and pretend that all the people you see are speaking in a language that you may not understand. Greet everyone with a Bonsoir or a Bonjour and a smile. The mere fact that you are greeting in French or otherwise, also is characteristic of life in Paris. Take a deep breath and let go of all the hustle and bustle, stress and angst, pretend you can't hear the car horns blaring, the yellow taxis cursing or the construction men catcalling. Just tune them out and walk around with an ease that is indistinguishably "Parisien." As you walk along any block of your choice, replace the numbered streets with an Arrondisement (for e.g., 7th street is 7th Arrondisement), every other avenue is a Rue Du something. Make believe some of the Italian restaurants, bagel shops and Starbucks you encounter every half a block in New York represent the Cafes, Boulangerie, and sweet smelling Patisseries. Imagine that people are actually sitting in them on the sidewalk leading to the block sipping espresso or Champagne or an awesome import beer at 11 in the morning. 

Then, simulate street hustlers/beggars (who to me, really have no business being in a sexy city like Paris) instead of the street hawkers, naked cowboys and cartoon characters, and the abundance of Starbucks coffee with an equal slew of Belgian beer and Champagne (not sparkling wine!). Most importantly, imagine that Times Square is filled with haunting gargoyles and medieval architecture instead of flashing lights, advertising campaigns and billboards, this image will represent the sheer magnificence of the Louvre Museum. Replace the skyscrapers and high-tech looking high rises with a commensurate amount of European, medieval architecture lined with Gothic gargoyles, must not forget the gargoyles, Paris is filled with them.

Madonna said it best in her song: I don't like cities. But I love New York. 

Now I know why.

This is my feel of Paris within the first 24 hours. For a place, I heard so much about, I gotta say, it feels a lot like New York. Like a prodigal son to New York. Like the Prodigal (much older) Son that took all of his daddy's money and used it to build the Louvre and a Grand Palais everywhere. There's a Grand Palais structure for every wife, girlfriend, concubine, once they get upset with him, he builds them an intimidating medieval structure complete with gargoyles, gold trimmings, imposing gates led by a cobbled stone parkway, all to appease them for another hundred years.


The one thing I'd say about Paris apart from the abundance of medieval Gothic architecture effaced with gargoyles that start to get a bit much is this: There's a certain latitude with their demeanor. America can be a little heavy handed with their rules, their morals that seeps into the demeanor of the inhabitants. A cop on every corner, checking forms, filling forms, frantic checking of IDs, no alcohol sale on certain Sundays in certain parts of America, certain parts consider everything indecent and against "family values." When you order a drink at Noon they look at you as if you're some type of alcoholic. In my part of Atlanta, we only got alcohol sale approved in 2013, and even with that, not all counties. You would rush to the grocery stores on Saturday to stock up for Gameday Sunday. I would go to wine country up in Dahlonega and have to wait to Noon to be served alcohol!

None of this orchestrated manipulation of human behavior existed or is apparent in Paris, it's like a breath of fresh air, easy, casual, sensual living. Drink Champagne, espresso, beer and lounge at a cafe and just be. You are not even rushed out of your seat once you're done eating. They just let you sit there and soak it all in. That felt so refreshing.

There are so many comparisons between these two great cities that I had to keep reminding myself, "You're not in New York, you are in Paris. The Paris." But it just felt and breathed a life somewhat similar to New York.  Everything about it just spelled New York at first glance. There are a only but a few distinguishing shades to both cities, but they have that imposing big city set on water with a lot going on artistically sense to them. They both have a life and it's that life that inspires you, that caresses you, good or bad, that seduces you to fall in love with them in different ways.

I could go on with the comparisons between Paris and New York, if you can remember some more, I'd like to hear them.

Can I Only Meet God in Church?

I feel a strange of sense of disconnect with my church, my hour of worship, my time with the Lord. Church time is supposed to be spiritual time but I’ve slowly realized in Nigeria it’s so much more. 

It’s networking. It’s artists' showcase. It’s “Let’s find our potential husband” showcase. It’s “Let’s pretend that we’re praying but you know we’re really not.” It's "Let's pretend that our marriage is still intact" time. It’s catching up with the neighbor, family and friends who traveled over the holidays and has casually ignored our calls. It’s showing off that new outfit you got at Harrods where you probably shopped over the weekend. It’s everything but church worship, God worship, time with God. Watching this spectacle unfold has just left me feeling disconnected. Estranged. Confused. Befuddled. Disillusioned. I know a substantial portion of Christians who refuse to enter a place of worship for these same reasons. They just settle in and pray, commune with God. Should I join them? Will God miss me? Will God punish me? It upsets me that it has come to this...but what else is there to do, sit there and observe the worship of everything else but God.

So to you...if you believe (I ask because I've recently encountered some folks who don't believe) in God, do you think it's necessary to worship Him in a church?

Dear English Language, I miss you.

You never realize how much you miss the English language until Google Translate becomes your dear friend and companion enabling you to cross over to the other side to ease that confused look that is often returned to even the most simplest of sentences or requests. It clarifies any brewing arguments. "I meant this not that..." And of course, reduces the excessive gesticulations and hand gestures needed to get your point across, pointing to orders on a menu, wine on a list, pictures in a diagram, etc.  

I just miss English so much. I feel like a voice that needs to be heard is stifled because the first question I have to ask before I speak further often is:

Do you speak English? 

More or less, the answer is: "A Little." With a look that says, "Don't hit me with the big words because I may not know." When it's that I always exclaim with delight, "Houston, we have liftoff."

When it's a resounding No, as if, "Of course not, why would I speak English. Why on earth would you expect me to?" When I get that response, I feel so defeated, not just for me in my quest to communicate with the other party but for the other party as well, thinking, "Your life could be so much better if you did. I wish you knew that."

After 3 and half weeks of touring the non-English speaking parts of Europe which I think is all of Europe, I just miss English so much. As I prepare to leave...I'm torn. I will miss the Western world and all it's niceties but I will be reunited with English. That reunion will feel so good. It will feel good to go to a grocery store and be able to read the labels, the directions on the box, newspaper headlines, street signs, understand the announcements at the tube station and comprehend conversations overheard on the street. It will just feel good to be heard and to hear people. I miss that connection that comes with fluid communication being seduced and having to seduce with words. As words are spoken, each one that falls from your mouth lights up the eyes of the listener causing them to connect deeper and feel stronger about the speaker.
I write. I speak. I want to be understood.

If the English Language were a man, I would greet him with such tender affection at the airport, squeeze tight, shower him with kisses and tenderly whisper all those big words I haven't had course to use in the last few weeks. Such words as: panacea, insurmountable, defenestrate. I would apologize profusely for taking him for granted, I had assumed he was easily accessible to everyone. I assumed wrongly. I would also explain how I've cheated on him recently with French Language, Dutch and recently, a delightful German. I would plead for his forgiveness (even though I plan on cheating again especially with German). For my penance, English language would ask me to spell and actively use such big words as: lodestone, disenchantment, cantankerous and many more. I would smile and accept my penance, as long as it means never having to loose sight of English language again.

A Picture Moment

This picture is important to me in a few ways. When I post pictures on FB it's to celebrate that moment, which may not amount to so much to everyone else, but to me, it represents a moment, a memory, a lot of stories encapsulated in a single photograph. 

In this picture, I was one month into my move to Seattle where I had moved to for work. Seattle, a predominantly "Caucasian" city, did not have that many beauty salons that could handle my weave. A month into my move and my weave badly needed a wash, I spent all day researching until I found one in some part of town that was 30 miles away from where I lived, aptly located off Martin Luther King Drive (yes so typical that they locate the black folks just off some MLK themed hood). 

Early Saturday, with very little makeup, I up and left, driving 30 miles with a $3 toll and the stylist charged me an exorbitant amount just to wash and curl my hair. $68 I still remember it, because the salons in Atlanta don't charge this much. $40 that's what they charge in Atlanta. I remember that so well, because if you go anywhere else, and they say $50, you flip a switch just for that extra $10. But here I was paying this much. I spent about 3 hours in her salon, answered about a million and one nosy ass questions about my hair, Nigeria, Biafran war of all things, and, Atlanta and I still got charged for it. After it was done, I sat in my car, feeling reasonably pissed, and financially violated, I called my mum for solace. 

I said, "Mum, I got the hair washed but I had to drive 30 miles and pay $68." My mum asked to see what the hair looked like so I naturally took a Selfie. Because you can never send a Selfie to your Ma without smiling, I had to force this smile. She looked at the picture and advised, "It looks lovely, but let's work on finding a cheaper place." I agreed, started my car and headed home, driving past MLK drive on my way home. It was a beautiful sunny Seattle day too...as you can see by my sunroof...so rare to have sunshine in Seattle but I was too pissed to do any sightseeing. I just wanted to go home and pretend I didn't just spend my entire savings on getting my hair curled. 

Pictures don't have to be picture perfect, they just have to represent that moment that is memorable and poetic to you, that breathes life into that moment.

I see people on FB get up in arms with me because I don't post picture perfect, razor sharp I'm-Wearing-My-New-Dress pictures. That's not what pictures represent to me. If I look good in them, great. If I don't...well, you're just gonna have to deal with it. It's the look, it's the moment, the preceding factors that led to the picture, the memory that comprises that one solitary photograph that makes it THE picture worthy of being shared and celebrated.

We all need to remember that. 

A Watched Phone...

To everyone and I mean everyone both professionally and personally who was blowing up my phone while I was gone...via Whatsapp, email, text, etc...I AM BACK.They just had to talk to me right then and there no matter how much I pleaded that I was away, they still needed to discuss. Despite the fact that I was battling a cold and cough that relented for 2 weeks and had me congested to the extent I could hardly hear myself talk. They still wanted me to be coherent and available to discuss with them.

 "Hey Anita, can we discuss the position with you? Give me a little bit about your background."

"I can't. I'm in The Hague."

"Hey, we'd like to do a Skype chat with the CEO about the position."

"I can't. I'm at The Hague."
 

"Hey Gurl. Where you at? Just passed your crib. Come out tonight." 

"I can't. I'm in The Hague."
"What's that The Hague...you running from Lagos...I see." 

"It's the seat of International Law."
"Wait...you're a lawyer..." 

To all these people...I am back. Now, you can check for me. Not while I'm trying to enjoy my chilled glass of Champagne at Rue du Pont Neuf, trying to get my vacation on, knowing it may be awhile before I get this opportunity again and I want to soak in and bask in every last drop of this vacation from the motherland, just then, when I'm trying to pretend I don't have to return, then, you wanna talk to me. Now that I'm back...where you at? 

People only need you when you're not around

Sir, Can I Buy You a Drink?

There appears to be this uncommon rule with men that when they meet you, even though they are interested in you, they will not make the first move. And even when all the moves have been made, they will still not ask you for your number, instead they will give you theirs, and ask that you call them. 

To me, that is not right. 

Too many years ago, I had this conversation with a nice looking young man I met on a certain Saturday night in Atlanta. This young man was so good looking but so conceited and dense. He said that, from his experience, women preferred to take the guys' number and would call the gentleman in question if they were interested. I just thought that was so cocky and I had to tell him that straight up. I am sorry if you don't want my number or ask for it, I most certainly do not want yours, and I don't think women should do that. I don't want to give you the pleasure of giving me a fake number, or screening me out of your calls. He said, "Well nice to meet you," and trotted along leaving me feeling like the biggest fool on the planet for even attempting to chat up a good looking fella. Can you imagine the emptiness that would consume me upon dialing his number childishly, one, two, three times without an answer? I have a host of numbers in my phone that were voluntarily given to me by other equally handsome men and I never call them and they never call me. It doesn't mean I've lost my feminine mojo. I am just fascinated by the hunt and if the hunt does not exist or at least a tinge of the hunt, then, why bother. I don't think this is the way God intended with Adam and Eve and I don't think it is the right configuration of the male/female setup, no matter how feminist I am or may seem.

Is this the new unspoken rule among daters, that women, not men, would have to ferociously dial the numbers they accumulated from their weekend trysts so as to ignite some type of relationship? Is this something I would have to do to stir some interest in a guy? With each call I would have to reintroduce myself to the guy on the phone. Hey, this is Anita, the girl you met at such and such, in the red dress with the bright hair, yea, that one, remember me? You asked me if I was such and such and I said this and that, and you laughed and said, I'm funny. Remember me now? Can you imagine how embarrassing it is to engage in such a myriad conversation? As I source for the words to make this a more scintillating conversation between 2 people who just happened to meet per happenstance, the gentleman on the line, who has been so kind to pick up the call and hasn't sent me to call screening hell, would probably try to make me feel even more stupid by requesting further information that would help him remember meeting me, further details of our transient conversation from the night we met that led to us exchanging numbers. He would do this in an effort to try to humiliate me, just so he makes me feel even more embarrassed for making the first move. Intriguing plot twist, except, I thought it was the other way round? I thought men made these type of calls. Am I mistaken? What's next, we start buying men drinks? Or are we doing that already?

So...am I being:

a. Old-fashioned
b. Too much of a feminist
c. Cocky

d. Individualistic

e. Right in every way

Multi-Colored Solo Life

Whenever unmarried people get to a certain age (aka way past their prime), their married friends often feel the need to say to them, "Your life would be so much better if you did..." and then they suggest some modifications which often have to do with identifying specific character flaws, lifestyle flaws, that may be deterring this unmarried person from claiming the throne of marriage.  

I find that very insulting and denigrating. What makes you think my life is not awesome now? 

Yes, I am single. But I am happy. There are joys with being single, just like I am certain there are joys with being married. Don't talk to me in that condescending tone as if God has blessed you with something and deprived me of it because, "Oh gosh, I'm a bad person." I have and continue to live a colorful life. It's a privilege to go through life's pitfalls on your own and still come out swinging. Can you? Don't you always run to your spouse the first chance you get of a hint of a problem and both of you put your heads together to resolve it. I don't have that. I have my brain and I have God and a heart of stone that still keeps me swinging when life hits me. I hit back and I say, "Is that the best you got? I got all night." 

People think your life is in need of help just because you had the balls to stop, turn around and start over, so they say very mean things to you, that you being the "bad" person that you are caused the first stage of your life to disintegrate. Not so. I just wanted and needed a change because I had fallen into a routine...do you have the balls to effect that in your life?

Forgive me, if I chose not to settle for the predictable. Yes, I said it predictable. The white picket fence, marriage and 3 kids before 30, possibly other children after that, the life that seems like a postcard from Hallmark or a Lifetime movie event. I never wanted that. God knew I never wanted that. God knew better than to give me that. I wanted a colorful life...and this is what I have. And I'm pretty certain there are some folks out there who started with the predictable and got out when it seemed too...eh...predictable. And there are probably a few folks out there who want to take the plunge and leave. They are tired of the routines, the school runs, PTA meetings, planned forced vacations, the manicured lawns, husbands making advances at the nanny, etc. There are probably a few folks who are sitting there thinking, "If I could just be as spontaneous and flighty as Anita [or insert your name here]" but they can't, why, because it takes a whole lot of balls to live this colorful life that oftentimes requires you to rely on yourself, and no one else. 

For the past 3 weeks I have been engaging in further study on my day job as a lawyer in The Hague. In that time I've heard quite a few interesting statements made here and there, from people I know, thought I knew and from strangers. Some statements hurt because I let them. And some just got me thinking...so that's what this person thinks of me. In between all that "hate" I did something I haven't done in a long time: I planned an impromptu trip to Brussels for a one night stay. I didn't consult with anyone (except God) and my credit card balance and I just did it. And it felt so good. Most of all, it reminded me of what it is like to be me - this solo life-grabbing, fun-having, adventure seeker Anita that I am. In all the "hate" I had started to loose that person and I am glad I was able to taste that person again and reintroduce myself to her. 

If you want to say or think, "Oh wow, your life could be better..." Go ahead say it. But I think my life is pretty awesome as it is. I give God the glory for everything He's made possible now...and that is about to come. I know He had this plan figured out down pact so He's gonna keep it so multi-colored. 

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

My dear Peace Palace friends, forgive me for ditching you all at that Italian restaurant we all decided to eat pizza in but...I don't know. Usually when I go to Italian restaurants the reception is warmer, nicer, family friendly and inviting. They greet you and serve you bread with olive oil and vinegar while you wait for your food. This place did neither. I just have a problem with being insulted when I'm spending money, Euro for that matter. It's one of the highest currencies in the world (after the British Pound) and customer service should be tantamount to those willing to spend it. After all, the economy is still in a flux last time I checked. If I choose your establishment out of all the others, I am Queen Bee and you should cater to my needs. That's one thing the U.S. is good at and I have to say that's why they fought the depressing economy battle and have (seemingly) won.

I ended up going to a smaller, nicer Italian restaurant on 79 Fredrik Hendrik Laan called Pastanini. My server was a blond South African student, the owner was Italian, and the chef cutting the pizza with the bulging biceps was...I forget where he's from I just wanted to take him home with me. 

As I checked out the South African and I exchanged Nigerian music influences and I looked at my chef longingly and all he could say was, "I'll see you next time." I just thought to myself: Yes Sir, you will. A lot! 😉

I'd say that was money well spent, don't you?

Do I Want to Go to There

There are very few places I've traveled to that I haven't responded positively to. 

Every time I've traveled somewhere, I'm convinced I want to move there. I always exclaim, "This place is so awesome, can I move here?" Then I start looking at their real estate prices, available jobs in my industry, social life for singles, etc. Even some unassuming cities like Austin (known for its weirdness), Dallas (known for its love of fashion), Chicago (aaahh, that architecture!). Then, there are the favorites that I actually want to move to - San Francisco (no better city than this one, hands down), New York (one of the most culturally sound cities I've been to thus far).

Thus far, only one place failed this instant fascination test, and that was Miami. I don't know if it was the unease of getting lost in a very dodgy neighborhood, the surge of exuberant tourists especially over the weekend, the high expense account living in a place like that entails, I just didn't even want to vacation in Miami ever again. 

Now, we have The Hague joining this esteemed list. Between having to use Google Translate to grocery shop, and lack of customer service almost everywhere, and just the general cold reception of a people who inhabit a land where international laws that unite and proffer peace to countries of different nationalities/religion/ideologies etc have been brokered, between all that and so many other subtle things, I just do not scream excitedly, "I will be back to The Netherlands again."

But for their international law job markets....

Tale of 3 Women

I have to confess I have been in the Netherlands for part of the Summer. I am participating in what I know as my day job as a lawyer, in a course that takes place at The Hague. Because this does not really qualify as a "solo quest" so to speak, because it is travel for professional purposes, I haven't really done that much blogging about the entire experience. Besides I am continually surrounded by people.  However, one day I made a particular observation which only a writer or a quiet observer such as myself will notice.

On a particular Sunday afternoon as I walked through the infamous Red Light District in Amsterdam like a good ole’ tourist with my camera phone in hand, an overweight Latina looking lady in a too tight negligee contraption saw me from one of the windows. As she noticed my inquisitive eyes on her, she quickly moved to hide behind the curtains, pulling them to her for coverage. She signaled to me with a look of reprimand, waving at me not to take any pictures with the camera phone in my hand. I smiled and complied, even though I secretly wondered why she was suddenly embarrassed about not wanting (much-needed) publicity via social media which the whole world seems to be craving - a 15 minute interlude of some sort.
I actually didn’t really want to take pictures of her or of any others. I just wanted to talk to her mostly, ask her questions like: So this is the Red Light District, what do you guys do here? It looks rather tame to me. It’s in the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday and the place is flooded with tourists, looks like any other narrow cobbled street filled with shops, merchants and tourist gift shops in Anytown USA. Is this the sex stuff that you’re selling by standing in this window? Doesn’t look very inviting to me? Is there supposed to be more to it? More to you? I could have asked her any of these questions but for two things: She didn’t seem like she understood English very well; and, two, she seemed as if she was suddenly conscious of who she was, where she was and what she was doing when she saw me. And for a wee second, I felt sorry for her.

An hour later, at Catholic mass a little girl, less than a year old, was being baptized. Parents, godparents, grandparents and priests so enthused about this baby's future about to begin in God's eyes. As everyone fussed over her, snapping paparazzi type pictures in church, I was cold to the glamor of it all. I kept saying to myself, how do they ensure she doesn’t end up in a window on the Red Light District on a Sunday afternoon being swarmed by tourists like some circus act? It won’t happen, I suppose and I pray, I suppose we all pray but then, how do we ensure that is not the case. Good beginnings such as hers, especially Christian beginnings, rarely end up with bad endings, or middles, however you look at it. But who’s to know with these things? Who’s to determine she won’t loose her way somewhere along the line and just have to resort to using her body to sell sex on a world-famous tourist destination? And maybe, just maybe, enjoy doing that instead of anything else,  anything more cerebral or spiritual?

On my tram home, as I walked over to show the bus driver my bus pass, I looked up and my tram driver happened to be a woman. A lady, a young woman who couldn’t have been more of 30. She laughed when I exclaimed, “Oh wow, it’s a lady.” So proud of her, I greeted her warmly by saying, “You have a good afternoon.” She responded with a proud laugh and quickly shut the doors to continue with her trip. I could only hope she understood me.

3 women. One day. Different lives. Different fates. Solo traveler.