Mode

A bunch of nicely dressed, young Parisians gather in a grungy alleyway. something is due to happen.

Something sexy.

This something has been happening in this city for nearly a week now. It is Paris's fashion week, the best time to be in town. For us it's busy. You might have noticed that this is becoming more of a photo blog than a textual one. This is because the French adventure is financed by articles and I need to pour my words where money comes from. I'm not complaining, though. When your gig is to write an article about fashion week. You are in serious luck.

First of all, you get to mix with a nice crowd. Fashion's in the details,

and so the public at the shows is often as interesting to encounter as the creations.

Then there are the works themselves. A definite fave is this year's collection by India's Manish Arora. A man with an imagination.



Russia's Alena Akhmadullina showed at a somewhat more upscale venue: the Carousel arcade beneath the Louvre. It was so posh the floor was literally cellophaned.

Alena knows how to be elegant.


Her designs feature some of the human hair that's been used in recent Years. I think it Was Givenchy that introduced it in Paris last year. It met with some success in the London Fashion week. It's true we still don't see people in wig skirts on the streets, but the filtering down to independent designers signals the stubborn persistence of an infant trend.


I spend most of the shows with the photographers on the media tribune, while Itka does most of the research. I'm still a straight guy, for Christ's sake. Theres only so far a I can go in interpreting fashion, although I don't understand why there aren't more straight men in this business full of stunning (albeit generally underfed) women.

It's fun on the tribune. The crowd is international and the little intrigues over who-gets-which-spot occupy us during the dead spells before the catwalk is set on fire. Then it's fun to look at the photographers swaying unconsciously to the cool music.

Japan's Junko Shimada offered the most difficult show to photograph, the lighting conditions were abominable, but visiting another planet is always a worthwhile treat.



Then again, there's certainly no planet quite as groovy as planet Paris.

Tarweea

In the pocket of my late grandfather's leather jacket, my favorite hand-me-down/heirloom, I find a wrapped chocolate cube. It was served by the coffee at Ramallah cafe "Tarweea" and bears its logo. Tarweea, if I am not mistaken, is Arabic for "peace of mind".

I take the wrapped chocolate out and put it under the glass of my living room coffee table, along with the stone from Lebanon, the old book of Lenny Bruce routines, the cork of a champagne bottle that flew on some good night, over a year ago, and the small weaved memento of Baku, given to me by an Azeri friend in a place that is neither here nor Baku. I put on my grandfather's jacket and go out for a walk with Itka and Efros.

The sea is a deep cobalt, gushing underneath suspended concrete slabs of the new Ajami boardwalk. Above are the tiled pyramid rooftops of old ottoman buildings and a lighthouse painted with red and white stripes. Crumbling fishing vessles float calmly in a basin used continually for 4000 years, surrounded the smell of cooking squid and the exclamations of Asian tourists, awed by the sunset. I've never loved my friends like this, never been through difficult times with such a sense of calm, and yet rarely been so happy to be gently stepping out of them. This evening it's happening. If life is a journey in the pursuit of Tarweea, I have somehow docked at a safe harbour.

Emos

Flashky and I buy two pitas with falafel and a pack of Davidoff cigarellos. "I'll take you to a special place to smoke them," he suggests. "Let's go to the smoking lounge at the Dizengoff Centre and sit with all the Emos."

This word is new to me.

"You know, the young kids who get their hairs straightened and lots of piercing in their faces. It's the biggest fashion trend now."

"Why are they called Emos?"

"Short for emotionals."

We climb through the massive downtown shopping center to one of its upper tiers, where a tiny roon is devoted to the smoking public. The chamber is decorated by many an ad for "Golf" cigarettes, clearly a sponsor of sorts, but the real decor consists of home-grown graffiti. Several kids, ranging in age between 13-16, are sitting there. They all fit the description of Emos down to the piearced cleavage. I take a photo of two of them, Michelle and Shani.

Then we head out into the night, to an art opening, where I bump again into downtown ex-lover (I get set back about two days in my process of forgetting her each time I see her, and I see her about once in every two days, so there really is very little hope), to the Minzar, that ancient Tel-Aviv pub, where I find myself repremending a friend who recently turned away a true companion: "You don't give love up! You don't give love up!"

And later: "Roam free, butterfly. Just take care of your butterfly heart."

The dark moon is high. Everyone is struggling. At the end of the night we're out having pizza on Allenby, with another friend sitting on the railing that graces the sidewalk, losing the good spirit that characterized his evening so far. His own failed attempt at a love story hurts him about thrice a day. Now comes the third time.

He's being quiet about it, but I know: He's an Emo, we're all such fucking Emos. Otherwise we wouldn't be singing "operator" in the middle of the street. Otherwise I wouldn't be giving each of my friends a goodbye hug that's meant, first and foremost, to comfort.

Tangled in History

It takes gallons of guts to be Kosovo. Not that they're at risk, but no one familiar with what used to be Yugoslavia can read the headline: "Belgrad declares seccesion illegal" and not shiver a bit.

Something else catches my eye besides the headline. In the photo appearing beneath it on the Haaretz website, Albanian flags are seen flown next to the Star Spangled Banner on the streets of Pristina. in the days of Communist Tirana, who'd have ever thought this combo would someday make political sense?

Ok, fine! fine! I'm willing to shake off the past. It's irrelevant. I blame fashion designers. It's those stupid comebacks that prevent me from realizing the 80s and 90s are over. Down with the huge sunglasses! long live whatever new Republic pops up next.