Tears to Remember – A reflection on election night 2008

The following is my reflections over the presidential election of Barack Obama four years ago, on 2008.

Tears to Remember…

Pray with me… Something’s got to change…Change is a stone throw away…     (words from a song composed by Farshid Amin, an Iranian composer)

          I gasped when CNN at 8 p.m., after closing off voting booths in California, on election night of 2008, announced Barack Obama as the next president of the United States.  Everything happened so quickly, I definitely was not expecting such an easy victory.  I was numb and it took me some time to realize the magnitude of what had just happened.  I will admit, that back in January and up until Hillary was beaten by Obama I was thinking that Obama should step aside and make the path easier for Hillary.  For which my son refuted me and tried to educate me on the virtues of Obama, and his run for the presidency.  Now I realize how wrong I was…

         On Tuesday November 4th we gathered as a family to watch the results of the presidential election on TV.  The atmosphere was very intense.  My daughter’s phone was receiving ongoing text messages from her friends, first anticipating then congratulating Obama’s win in blue states.  My son Erik, the youngest in the family, was hired in Ohio for the campaign efforts.  His participation in electing Obama as President, made us feel that we were part of the process and the continuous buzz coming from my daughter’s cell phone summed up the excitement that consumed the family that night.  Between the phone calls and making sense of watching the numbers appearing on the screen, my mind wandered to an incident that occurred 30 years ago.

          It is the summer of 1978.  We are visiting New York City.  I am at a shoe store on 5th Ave trying shoes.  There is a row of chairs, and my daughter – age four – is sitting on a chair, next to a black girl, same age, whose mother is trying shoes as well.   The black girl has a Barbie doll in her hand and wants to make friends with my daughter; but my daughter not knowing how to speak English, cannot communicate with her and she's just staring at her without making an effort to respond to the little girl’s friendly approach.  Finally, the girl turns back to me and earnestly asks me, “She don’t wanna play with me, because I am black?”  My heart sinks…

          I’m thinking how paramount must have the race tensions been with blacks and whites thirty years ago that a 4-year-old, in her little mind, would associate my daughter’s none responsiveness to the color of her skin.  The little girl with Her minuscule braids, secured with colorful barrettes, that was in fashion in those days, didn’t know how fortunate she was to have been born in a different era than her mother.  Although it was 15 years after the segregation, the little girl’s consciousness, at a young age was still tarnished with the harsh reality of racism in America. Today, 44 years passed the segregation we have chosen a black President. 

          Yes, Obama, as he mentioned in his post Iowa victory speech emerged from obscurity by standing on the shoulders of his ancestors, and was greeted at Chicago’s Grant Park by an estimated 200,000 followers who stood shoulder to shoulder to listen to his presidential victory speech.  He had the audacity of planting the seeds of hope. Watching the sea of crowd waving their little flags and welcoming the new President elect was nothing short of awe inspiring.  Of all the wonderful images from the victory rally, which will always stay with me, two moved me the most.  One was when the camera caught Rev. Jesse Jackson with tears welling down his face and then seeing Oprah crying by leaning on a friend’s shoulder.

         If America can elect an African-American President then there is no reason why religious, political or socioeconomic conflicts around the world cannot be solved peacefully.  

I'd like to finish this vignette by excerpts from a poem by Mattie Stepanek who in his young life learned that in any difficult situation, there is light and hope and if we integrate life’s lessons, we can build a good future for the whole world.

“Choice Lessons”

Growth brings change…

…It is essential that we cope 


With the realities of the past 


And the uncertainties of the future 


With a pure and chosen hope. 


Not a blind faith, 


But a strengthened choice. 


Then, we can have the 


Fortitude and Wisdom necessary 


To intergrate life's many lessons 


That collect beyond points in time. 


Growing like this will help 


Build a good future, 


For individuals, 


For communities, 


And for the World.

Written by: 
Mattie J.T. Stepanek 2/18/00 age 10 - From: 
"Hope Through Heartsongs"

He died at age 14 on June 2004, from Muscular Dystrophy. 

Celebrating Vardavar in Yerevan - A Water Feast

Vardavar

Am I lucky or what? Last year while I was doing a research to write a column about "Water Feast," an old Armenian tradition of dousing each other with water, I came up with pictures shot in the streets of Yerevan, showing the kids throwing buckets of water. And I wished one day I would have the chance of being there in person and watch those kids in action and take my own pictures.

The date of Water Feast, called "Vardavar," rotates. Like Easter it falls on Sundays usually in August. I remember when I was young in Tehran the coming of Vardavar was bitter sweet. Of course there was the joy of dousing each other but then it signified the end of the summer.

So, this year, making arrangements for my travels to Armenia, I didn't pay attention to the date of Vardavar, thinking: "No question, I'll be there for Vardavar." Because my plan was to be in Yerevan by the middle of July.

Yerevan welcomed me with a bang. I arrived Saturday July 14, and realized that the following day was Vardavar. On Sunday morning I looked outside of my window and saw young kids, walking with buckets in their hands. My heart skipped a beat.

I was so excited to go outside and see how they celebrated the feast. Our celebration of Vardavar, in Tehran, was subdued. I usually woke up with a splash of water on my face from my younger brother. Later in the day we went to a swimming pool to use the excuse of Vardavar to splash each other. And in the United States while my kids were growing up we hardly have celebrated the feast.

But now in Armenia I was excited like a kid to watch the revelers. First I was hesitant to go out, because I had heard there is no mercy. No matter what; you would be doused.

I put a light outfit, took my iPhone to use it as a camera, and went outside to our courtyard, where the young kids were so well behaved. I could tell that they were from America because they were all wearing the latest fashion, American outfits and sneakers.

Then a young mother came with a bucket of water in her hand. She started splashing the kids from the bucket. I took a few pictures and then joined the gang to go outside of the apartment complex and continue the celebration.

In Yerevan all over the city, there are drinking water fountains. We proceeded to one of the fountains and the kids filled their buckets and doused each other. They respected me and didn't splash water on me. I was able to catch a few nice pictures. Satisfied with my work, I went back home. Then my friend called and asked me if I'd like to go to the main square where the real action was.

"Curiosity killed the cat." So we drove to the main square where the kids were soaking wet. They were using the water from the pond at the main square to douse each other. Their fight was fierce and without mercy.

My friend sat in front of the Marriott hotel to have a "marojni" ice cream. I proceeded to the battle ground by the pond. While I was standing at the red light to cross the street, a car stopped and someone from inside sprayed me with a water gun. I quickly hide my iPhone so it won't get wet.

With doubtful steps I reached the other side of the square and entered the war zone. They were older kids and they were wreaking havoc. First I took pictures from the fringes, but then realizing my iPhone was not equipped to take nice pictures from far, I proceeded slowly to the center.

My escapade was over when someone emptied a bucket of water on my head from behind. I got soaked from head to tow. I was pretty darn sure that was going to happen. At least I had a towel in my purse which absorbed the water. When I got home I had to lay down all the paper money on the table to dry. The damage was not grave and the joy was worth the dare. I was able to take only one incredible picture.

At age 64 that was the best vardavar I had ever celebrated.

A Stroll in Yerevan on Independence Day

Friday, September 21 was Independence Day for Armenia. Two days earlier, I had taken a taxi to Zvartnotz airport to pick up my cousins who were coming from Denmark for their first visit in Armenia.

On the way back to Yerevan, as we were crossing the bridge over the Hrazdan River, by the Ararat Cognac Company, I pointed out the billowing tricolor flags along the two sides of the bridge and told my guests the flags were hoisted in their honor.  There were very amused.

Independence Day holds a special place in the hearts of all Armenians.  It signifies an important milestone, and a realization of a dream held for generations that suddenly and unexpectedly happened twenty years ago.

Friday, Independence Day, was a crisp beautiful fall day in Yerevan. The temperature was around 25C.  I had a few errands to do around the town.  I asked my guests to walk with me so I could “show off” the beautiful city and take care of a few things at the same time.

Since schools and banks were closed, there was little traffic. We started from Freedom Square, where the Opera is.  We took a few pictures of the tricolor flags set in the center of the square and waving gracefully in the wind. Then we proceeded to the Opera, where I wanted to check on the upcoming cultural events at the box office.

What I had always heard is definitely true: the best time to visit Yerevan is at the end of September.  Indeed, it was so enjoyable to walk in the shade of the tall and mature trees along the wide sidewalks.  Yerevan was sparkling with refurbished sidewalks and streets. Everything looked so fresh in the crisp weather.

From the Opera, we passed by a few cafés and then came to the Swan’s Lake. We took photos of the lake and the swans swimming there.  Then we took a few more photos of the abstract statue of Arno Babajanian playing piano.  I was full of pride – as if I owned the city.

A scene from the independence day celebrations in Armenia

Then we continued on Tumanian street east to the corner of Nalbandian, to visit the Apple computer store. I wanted to pick up my iPhone, which I had left there so technicians could transfer my pictures onto discs.

Although the Apple store in Yerevan does not compare to those in the United States, the service is pretty good and the technicians are knowledgeable.

While I was at the Apple store, my guests went next door to “Hyur Service” to check on their tours in Armenia. We eased our way further east on Tumanian street and came upon an outdoor Chinese café.  Out of all the cafés in Yerevan, we chose to have a snack there.  The TV was showing last year’s military parades celebrating the republic’s 20th anniversary.  This year there were no parades, only an event in the evening at the Republic Square.

My cousin wanted to order prescription glasses.  She had heard that the price in Yerevan could be cheaper than in Denmark.   So, we went to an optician’s store on Vardanantz street.  And, yes, she ordered her glasses at a fraction of the price she would pay back home.

From there, we wound our way to the Republic square where last minute preparations were under way for the evening celebration. A show of light and a concert was supposed to bring thousands to the square.

We encountered a full throttle of Independence Day spirit at the pedestrian street at Northern Avenue.  There we met groups of young people marching with flags wrapped around themselves or hoisted in their hands.  They were chanting upbeat patriotic slogans, and the sound carried across the street.

It was so heartwarming to see those kids, our next generation of leaders, keeping the spirit of the Day alive.  I had thought that they had no idea how dear Independence Day is to us.  Most people were wearing either tricolor or orange shirts.  Young women were wearing fashionable tricolor headbands. And most carried  mini flags in their hands.

My eyes traveled to all corners of the street, soaking in the spirit of the day. It was sprinkled with young artists painting tricolor tattoos on young peoples arms or faces.  The charge was 200 dram (50 cents).  I regretted that I didn’t purchase one.

More than not having a tattoo, I regretted that we had missed being on Northern avenue during the morning hours when the state philharmonic orchestra and state academic choir had put together a “flash-mob” concert. But, thanks to YouTube we can still have the pleasure of listening to it.

That’s how the laid-back city of Yerevan celebrated Independence Day.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOeiDGcEPwE

Marilynn Monroe -- 50 years ago

In the following piece Ron Vazzano, a writer buddy, reflects upon morning of August 5, 1962, when Marilyn Monroe was found dead.  On the same day, thousands of miles away from Brentwood California, in Tehran,  my family and I were having breakfast in our kitchen when we heard the shocking news from the radio in our kitchen.

Here is Marilynn Monroe and Ron Vazzano (what Ron says is very close to my heart)

On August 5, 1962, Marilyn Monroe was found dead in the bedroom of her Brentwood home, due to an apparent overdose of barbiturates. Whether they were taken with intent or accidentally, was said to be uncertain. But certainly on that morning as I awakened from the couch of a Staten Island bungalow to the first words of the day, “Marilyn Monroe is dead,” no one was calling it murder

Since then, many have come to believe that she was in fact murdered. It’s a belief that has arisen periodically over the past half century, whenever something newly alleged regarding the circumstances surrounding her death, comes to the forefront. That we still care, is a further testament to the place she holds in that pantheon of tragic figures that have passed through our collective memory.

As a sixteen year old boy at the time, and especially one coming of age on the streets of the Lower East Side, I should not have mourned her passing. It certainly wasn’t a macho heterosexual male thing to do. Besides, Sophia Loren was the preferred sex symbol in that Italian-American neighborhood of my youth. And when Ursula Andress would later appear that year in the first James Bond film Dr. No, and then later in a Playboy spread, (Ursula “Undress” we punned) well, now we were really talking sex.

But Marilyn was not just about sex, beauty, and stardom. She was also about a sense of innocence and vulnerability. Though I was hardly sitting there that morning contemplating that mix, and how no other person I could think of had ever wrapped all that into one persona. I was upset. And trying not to show it. And of course, persona is the operative word here. The public never really gets to know the real person.

Marilyn was also a talented actress having honed her craft at the legendary Lee Strasburg Studio over the years. A favorite performance of mine, was her role in the “Seven Year Itch.” A piece from a Muse-Letter written several years ago on the 50th anniversary of that film, is reprised here as it originally appeared.

If Marilyn were alive today she would be eighty-six; an image impossible to fathom. And one might wonder what she would have made of all the MM wannabes that have passed through our midst these last five decades in movies, music and the pop culture in general.

Where they all fall short, is that they work so hard at it. All trying to be so bombastic. All screaming out: “Look at me! Aren’t I gorgeous! Aren’t I outrageous! Aren’t I something!” And that is ultimately what might be the real secret to the long lasting appeal of Marilyn Monroe. Norma Jean Baker never seemed to be working hard at being Marilyn Monroe. She just was. And as is the case with any great work of art, it all seems so inevitable. You look and you think, “Yes. Of course.” I sensed that at sixteen. I know it now.

Rediscovering "Hayastan" ARMENIA

When I was growing up in Iran, Armenia was a Republic of the Soviet Union and a forbidden travel destination.  By the 1980s, a small wedge had been created inside the “Iron Curtain.”  The tightly closed doors of the Republics were opened, we Armenians could visit our homeland, and we could experience what our literature and the verses of our poets had praised about its beauty.

My love affair with Armenia began on my first visit in 2001.  It was love at first sight.  They say, “Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.”  Well, I “beheld” and I fell in love.  The allure of connecting to my ancestral roots was so great, I was not affected by the dilapidated condition of the buildings, the vestiges of the Soviet era, or the rampant poverty of the whole country.

Like so many other visitors from the far-flung diaspora, Armenia got under my skin.  I went back home to Glendale, but my heart stayed in Armenia.  I decided: “Given a choice, Armenia is where I’m going to retire.”  During the following years, I visited Armenia several times, but always for short stays.

Goshavank

When my mother died a few months ago, I decided to look into a more extended stay in Armenia.  I packed my belongings and planned a trip which I embarked upon in June.  In mid-July, I had just arrived in Yerevan when my friend Sonna asked me if I’d like to join her family for a three-day trip to Lake Sevan, the verdant Dilijan, and the neighboring cities and villages in the northwestern part of the country.  It was a great offer.  I was ready at the drop of a dime to join them.  I knew I’d be in for a treat, and I was right.

Our driver and guide was the director of Pan-Armenian League of Cultural Workers; on the side he was moonlighting as a tour guide. He had arranged a very well-thought-out itinerary.

We left Yerevan on the first day of our trip at 9:30 in the morning, heading towards Lake Sevan to the north.  Our excellent guide gave us detailed background information all along our route.

Father Asbed

As we exited Yerevan, he pointed to our right to a city called Abovian. I had heard the name of that city since I was young.  In the 1930s, the Republic of Armenia allowed Armenians around the world to move to Soviet Armenia.  In 1963, the city of Abovian was established to house all the “hayrena-dartdz,” or repatriates.  My family knew people who were assigned to Abovian, which is considered a satellite city to Yerevan.

I remember very well that until the 1970s, Armenian families from Iran were packing their belongings, saying goodby forever to their loved ones, and moving to a land where they had no idea what living conditions to expect.  Since everything was under surveillance; they communicated with their families with codes.  For instance, to describe their current conditions, they would send snapshots of themselves either standing, sitting or lying down.  Standing meant that they were very happy, sitting meant things were okay, but lying down meant that the situation was bad.

We had a housekeeper whose relatives moved to Armenia.  To communicate how bad things were, they wrote back that Lucik should get married before she moved to Armenia.  And who was Lucik?  She was a spinster in her fifties and blind.  That particular coded message meant the situation was not good: “Don’t come.”

After Abovian, we passed a city called Hrazdan on our left.  Our driver told us a very interesting fact.   During the Soviet era, Hrazdan used to produce hot water for export to the surrounding cities. (I’m not sure about the technical procedure but this sounds incredible.)  In the 1990s, when Armenia was cut off from Russia after the fall of the Soviet Union and was enduring critical times because of the war with Azerbaijan, Hrazdan still had the privilege of having hot water.

Haghpat

During those “dark years” as they are known in Armenia, the country almost collapsed without water, electricity and gas.  There are many stories of how the population survived those years. I may write about that in later essays.

Back to our trip: It took us about an hour to reach Lake Sevan, which is 60 km north of Yerevan. We climbed all 250 steps up to the monasteries that were built around 1000 years ago. And we marveled again over our phenomenal past history.  We enjoyed the beautiful and exquisite scene of Lake Sevan, which epitomizes deep nationalistic sentiments for Armenians. The first time I visited Lake Sevan, I was almost in tears.

After many exclamations over the beauty of the landscape and the surroundings, we left the lake and headed to our next stop: another monastery called Hagharsin, built in the 1200s.

I won’t go into the details all the architectural aspects of the monasteries and churches we visited, but I just want to say that it boggles the mind that my people have built so many of them. Our driver/guide says there are more than 3000, mostly built around fifth to thirteenth century.

After Haghartsin, we visited Gosha vank, another monastery and then we drove into the city of Dilijan and stopped at its history museum. Dilijan has a rich collection of art and unearthed tools and vases dating back to 4000 years ago.  I should add that I was pretty impressed to see all that antiquity.

We finished our first day in Haghpat, a city known for its monastery, arriving at around 8 p.m.  The father superior in charge of the monastery was waiting for us.  We were served dinner and slept there at the monastery.

The next morning, the father gave us a personalized tour of the churches.  I got the chance to climb the bell tower and ring the bells.  From there we headed to another monastery, Sana-Hin, then to the village of Dsegh, where our most beloved poet and writer Hovanes Toumanian was born.

After having an early dinner at a restaurant along the banks of the Debed river, we journeyed further to Gyumri and stayed at Berlin Art Hotel, a nice boutique hotel in the center of town.

We managed to fit in a visit to Gyumri’s history museum the next morning before heading back to Yerevan.  The young docent at the museum impressed us with the detailed history of the town explaining everything through the artifacts.

In the 19th century Gyumri was the cultural hub for the South Caucasus.  It was called Alexandrapol and was home to all the wealthy Armenian families who had direct ties to Russia.

And at last, our three day tour came to an end.  I enjoyed it fully and wish I could write even more.  I should add that the roads were well constructed and the landscape was so beautiful that I wanted to take a picture on every turn.

I rediscovered my homeland.

You can also find this story on Asbarez.com.

Armenians of Issy-les-Moulineaux - a suburb of Paris

One of the main reasons I decided to visit Paris on my way to Armenia was to learn and write about the small community of Armenians living in Issy-Les-Moulineaux, a suburb located on the southwest edge of Paris.

My father’s family moved from Tehran to Paris when he was 9 or 10, and they had lived in Issy-les-Moulineaux. So I was on a mission: first, to visit the old neighborhood where my dad grew up; and second, to visit the City Hall to find out about the Armenian community in Issy-les-Moulineaux, which I will call ‘Issy’ for short.

My friend Lala, who lives in Issy, had invited me to spend the night at their home so that I would have a nearby base from which to explore the neighborhood. Lala and her sister live on a street named Yerevan. Rue d’Erevan is a short, narrow, uphill street which ends at the top of a hill, where their apartment complex is located.

They live on the seventh floor and have a commanding view of Paris with the Tour d’Eiffel in the middle. At night, when the tower is illuminated, the view is even more spectacular.

I arrived on Monday evening around 5:30 p.m. at Issy by metro, the last stop of Paris-Metro Line 12. As I stepped off the train I saw a shoe repair shop. The guy inside the shop looked Armenian. My patriotic blood sensed a connection. I gathered my courage, entered the shop and asked him if he was Armenian.

Nicole Essayan (assistant mayor of Issy-les-Moulineaux) with her daughter and son at her son, Azad's flower shop

“Bonjour monsieur. Est ce que vous êtes Armenian?” And indeed he was Armenian. He was a handsome middle-aged man with dark Armenian features. His name was Lionel Sarkissian. His surname was same as my maiden last name.

I had many questions, but he was preoccupied with his work. It was a busy time of the day. While I was there a woman brought in a pair of shoes needing repair and another picked up a pair. I really wanted to ask him if by any chance he was related to a long lost great-great uncle of mine, but I didn’t. All I learned that he was born in France and his parents were too. He spoke Western Armenian. I was happy to observe that as a member of the second or maybe third generation he could still speak Armenian.

The city's Armenian Genocide monument

I had a rendezvous with Lala at 7 p.m. To kill time, I decided to look around for another Armenian shopkeeper. Close to the metro station, there was a small hamburger place. The owner was Indian or Pakistani. I had a hamburger and asked the owner if he knew of any nearby Armenian shopkeepers. He said that there were many Armenians in town, but he didn’t know of any Armenian shopkeepers close by.

Wandering around I noticed that most people, who seemed to be coming from work and heading to their homes had baguettes in their hands. So I joined a queue in front of a bakery to buy a baguette with the hope that I would meet an Armenian in the line.

Lala arrived around 7 p.m. We took a bus to their home. We couldn’t walk because the streets leading up to the apartment complex are quite steep. From inside the bus, Lala pointed out two Armenian churches and a youth club.

Rue D'Armenie

When we got off the bus, we crossed Rue d’Armenie. On the corner was an Armenian grocery store, but since it was Monday the store was closed. I thought I could check it out the following day, but I didn’t get a chance to do that.

There was another Armenian grocery shop called “Markar,” which is my grandson’s name, but I didn’t get to visit that store, either. My slow pace limits me to about a project a day.

Lala took me around and showed me a few monuments in the city that memorialize Armenians’ presence. All were within walking distance from her home. The Genocide monument was directly at the bottom of the hill – literally under their nose.

We took a set of steps down to visit the monument. It was built in 1982. Flanked by a hillside with a terrace-type setting, it was striking and very interesting. I was moved by the Armenian-themed architectural features and the bas-reliefs. The monument was built with pink Toof stone brought from Armenia. I learned that the monument’s construction was funded half by the Armenian community and the other half by the City.

From this Genocide monument, we walked to an abstract bronze statue which had been erected to commemorate the victims of the 1988 earthquake in Armenia. The statue was located at a square called “Etch-miadzin.” I was really impressed with the number of street names and structures dedicated to Armenians.

Rue D'Erevan

The following day I met Nicole Essayan, one of the 18 elected deputies of Issy’s mayor André Santini. Essayan believes that Mr. Santini holds the record of being the longest elected mayor in the modern history of France.
He has been mayor of Issy since 1980!

Essayan has lived in Issy for 60 years. She says the main influx of Armenians began in the 1970s. Of the City’s 63,000 population, about 5,000 are Armenians. The Armenian community has two churches, one Apostolical and one Evangelical and one school.

The “Sourp Tarkmanenchatz” Armenian elementary school (k-6) was founded about 10 years ago. There is also an active Armenian soccer team. In 1975, “ASA Issy” (Association Sportive Ararat Issy) was formed to unify Armenian soccer lovers of Paris and its surroundings. In the beginning, the club was limited to Armenian players, but now it is more open and has become the town’s only major soccer team. Today, it has around 400 members and 30 coaches.

By the time I visited my dad’s neighborhood and walked to his school, “Lycée Michelet,” it was time to head back to Paris. I invited Nicole to visit Glendale. I hope one day I’ll be her guide in Glendale.

Flying Easy-Jet

Flying Easy-Jet – from Paris to Copenhagen 

"Caveat Emptor" (ka-vee-ott emptor): it's a Latin expression for "let the buyer beware." Unfortunately, this buyer, moi, was not aware. I had not read the the Easy-Jet's ticketing disclosures about the number of bags and suitcases customers could bring.  And I had to pay for my negligence.

I had three pieces of luggage – a large suitcase, one carry-on and a handbag.  Flying American Airlines from LAX  (Los Angeles airport) was no problem.  Passengers are allowed to check-in up to 50 lbs. of luggage. My large suitcase weighed closer to 60 lbs. The officer at the counter said, "Ma'am, I can let you go a few pounds over but not 10."  He suggested I transfer a few items to my carry-on bag, and I did. This worked out fine.  

I later realized, after the security check, even at the boarding gate, we could check in another bag. Ah! how spoiled we are as Americans!  After this personalized customer service, I didn't even think to read through the rules Easy-Jet sent me after I bought an online flight ticket from Paris to Copenhagen. I had not realized when flying Easy-Jet I could only check in one piece of luggage up to 20 kilos, plus one carry-on, and THAT WAS IT.

It seems I'm more punctual as I'm getting older.  I arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport at 10 a.m., more than three hours before my flight.  I bought my last French baguette sandwich, which was called the American sandwich with ham and cheese.   After two weeks in Paris, 5 Euros for a sandwich no longer seemed expensive.

In the food court there was a McDonald's which was still serving breakfast.  So I also bought a ham & egg sandwich for 1.40€.  I love their breakfast sandwich. I thought I could have the baguette later when I got hungry again.  

After having my breakfast sandwich I headed to the check-in counter.  My big suitcase was exactly 20 kilos.  The problem was I had to pay for the extra handbag.  After adjusting a few things, and transferring a few things here and there, my handbag weighed five kg. I heard the officer say I had to pay 19€, and I thought, "That's not so bad."

It's not an exaggeration to say that I went into a great deal of trouble maneuvering myself and carrying all my suitcases to the cashier at the other end of the hall. Why do Europeans have such illogical ways of doing things? Why couldn't we pay at the check in counter?

At the cashier's I found out that the surcharge was 90€, not 19. For my ticket I had paid only 60€. Go figure! With much resentment, I paid the 90€. After the fact, I realized that I didn't carry anything of value equal to 90€. Hindsight is 20/20.

Even before that unfortunate incident, prior to arriving at the airport, I was thinking that I should have taken the train instead of the plane to Copenhagen because I would have had more time to write.   My cousin had advised me that the flight would be cheaper than the train trip. In reality, it could have been cheaper if I had read the disclosures.  In my case the flight turned out to be much more expensive.  But I don't regret it, because at the boarding gate I met a young guy and got into a conversation that will always stay with me. 

His name was Mohamed and he was from Tunisia.  That 26-year-old, who looked much older than his age, put forward a sage argument.  Mohamed at his young age was able to solve the mystery of the Existence of God.  My fellow passenger said, "In my heart, not in my head, I believe in God. And since my feeling is stronger than my reasoning, I say God exists."

Now when I think back to our exchange of opinions about religion, I cannot recall how we got into a discussion about God. On the airplane we sat next to each other, and he told me that he was part of the movement that overthrew the old government of Tunisia.  I should admit that I didn't know much about Tunisia.  I only remember that I had read in Time magazine that the "Arab Spring," as they call the recent revolutions of the Arab nations, had started with an incident in Tunisia. 

Mohamed brushed over the surface of their revolution.  He also told me how he loves Tunisia and he thinks that tunisians are the most intelligent of all other Arab nations.  He also told me about their beautiful  beaches and made me want to travel to Tunisia. 

Mohamed now lives in France and he has high hopes that soon one day,  everything in Tunisia will stabilize and he will be able to go back to his homeland.  He said, "The main problem of Tunisia is corruption and no opportunity for youth to have employment ."  He hopes the new government will be able to solve the problems.  

Unfortunately two hours was not enough time to learn more.  I gave him my information and asked him to follow me on my blog.  I'm not sure if Mohamed will read this post or not.  But I hope all Mohameds will have the opportunity to follow their dreams.  

The following is about the incident that brought about the movement of Arab Spring.  Copied from Wikipedia.                     

"Tarek al-Tayeb Mohamed Bouazizi (29 March 1984 – 4 January 2011; Arabic: محمد البوعزيزي‎) was a Tunisian street vendor who set himself on fire on 17 December 2010, in protest of the confiscation of his wares and the harassment and humiliation that he reported was inflicted on him by a municipal official and her aides. 

His act became a catalyst for the Tunisian Revolution and the wider Arab Spring, inciting demonstrations and riots throughout Tunisia in protest of social and political issues in the country.

The public's anger and violence intensified following Bouazizi's death, leading then-President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali to step down on 14 January 2011, after 23 years in power. The success of the Tunisian protests inspired protests in several other Arab countries, plus several non-Arab countries.

The protests included several men who emulated Bouazizi's act of self-immolation, in an attempt to bring an end to their own autocratic governments. Those men and Bouazizi were hailed by some Arab commentators as "heroic martyrs of a new Middle Eastern revolution."

In 2011, Bouazizi was posthumously awarded the Sakharov Prize jointly along with four others for his and their contributions to "historic changes in the Arab world".The Tunisian government honored him with a postal stamp. The Times of the United Kingdom named Bouazizi as person of the year 2011."