As I looked at my father’s murderer, the feeling of fear subsided and was overcome by anger. I lunged at the pirate and both Jay and Luke tried to hold me back. They just about managed to restrain me from ripping the man’s throat out. He ambled over with a silver jug in his hand.

I stood up straight as he came closer and brushed myself down.

“Can I help you?” He asked with a voice which made my blood curdle from both anger and fright. I didn’t answer him; I just couldn’t find my voice. I had the idea that neither could Jay and Luke could for they both didn’t breathe a word. The man looked even more menacing close up, like a shadow that could suffocate you.

“I tried to look in his eyes but I couldn’t bring myself to doing it. I swallowed as a cold sweat came over me. “I said-” He started, but I cut him off.

“You killed my father,” I finally said.

“Sorry?”

“You killed my father,” I repeated, a little firmer this time. He still looked confused.

“You went to Sennen; you called my father Lucian before you drove your sword through his belly.

“Ahh, Lucian. So you’re his son? May I ask where is his other son?”

Jay took one step forward. By this time, other people in the tavern were looking at us.

“Oh, I see, twins. Is there anything I can do for you?” He smirked. I didn’t know how to answer that and before I could his forehead creased. “How do know how I killed your father? Were you in the house at the time?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” he stopped for a second before speaking again. “Do you remember your father telling me that you weren’t there? Do you know why he told me that? He said that because if you were in the house I would have to kill you as well.” He was talking quietly making sure that no one could listen into the conversation. “You shouldn’t have come you know, for now I have to kill you now and your brother plus your little friend you have brought with you.”

My blood turned to ice.

“Shall we step outside?” He enquired.

We walked outside and two people followed the pirate. Luke sauntered out; he obviously didn’t like to be called ‘little’. I knew I was fine, however Jay lacked immortality. I had no doubt that he was a good fighter but I was still worried about him.

Once we were all outside the pirate looked at all three of us, grinning again. His hand was by his side next to his sword. He took a step closer to me.

“Once you found me, what exactly where you going to do? “ I finally managed to look him in the eye, where I found nothing at all, no life, no death, nothing. However, I knew that he wasn’t immortal just by looking at him. His skin was not pale like mine and Luke’s and he was shivering from the bite of the wind.

I didn’t know what to say. I was hardly going to find him then congratulate him on killing my father. He knew what I was planning to do. I decided not to say anything.

“You were planning on killing me weren’t you?” I broke eye contact with him to look down at the floor.

“May I ask your name?”

“Jace,” I said.

“Right, Jace, there is a problem with your plan. You see lad what can a fifteen year old do against me? How can you defeat me?”

“We’ll see,” I said. Before I could say anything else, his hand went to his sword and drew it out. He swiftly plunged the sword through my belly.

I took half a step back because of the sheer force. When the blade came out it was not lined with blood and the wound immediately started to heal itself. The pirate dropped his sword in amazement, his hand shaking. He stared at the wound then at me and uttered the word “witchery” under his breath. I quickly took my sword and swiped across his arm with the blade. He gasped as blood stained his coat. Before I could strike again, the other two pirates stepped in.

However, Luke and Jay jumped in, sharing swipes of the blades, causing sparks. Whilst they were fighting with the other two I went after the man who I have been waiting to kill for a while. I waited for him to pick his sword up and confidence swept over me. I had a very good feeling about it all. He swung the sword round fast despite his injured arm. I found it hard to keep up.

I stole a quick glance at my allies. They were doing fine. Jay was cut a bit but not as much as the person he was up against. The pirate Luke was fighting was half dead, with one arm sliced clean through. He had found out that Luke could not die either. I turned my attention back on the pirate I was fighting. After a few more minutes the pirate finally had minor cuts on him, I was getting through his defenses.

There was a shrill cry and I turned around to find Luke standing over his enemy pulling out his sword from the man’s carcass.

Whilst the pirate whom Jay was fighting was watching his ally Jay quickly plunged his sword into the man’s chest. The pirate’s eyes went blank as death swept through him. He made no sound, unlike the other one, and went down peacefully. But I got knocked onto the floor and the shadow of the last pirate loomed over me. I gulped as he started to plunge his sword into my neck. I scrunched my eyes so as not to see anything.

I heard a gasp of pain, it sounded like Jay. I opened my eyes to find that the pirate had hit him. He fell to the ground in a heap. Whilst the pirates back was turned I climbed to my feet and came at him. My blade embedded its self in the small of his back. I leapt forward and swung my sword around, the blade stopped for only a slight hesitation as it reached his neck. I felt it slice through the bone as it came out the other end. His decapitated head had the look of shock on plastered on it.

I ran over to Jay’s slumped body and knelt down beside him. He was barely breathing, he had a gaping hole in his chest where blood started to ooze from. His eyes were filled with tears as were mine. I looked at the hole in his chest, it barely missed his heart. How could I have been so stupid?

“I’m so sorry Jay,” I said voice cracking..

“It’s not your fault.” I could tell he was having trouble talking.

Luke stayed where he was, standing surprisingly still, watching me and Jay say goodbye for the last time.

“I didn’t want it to end this way.” I said holding, on to him.

“No one did.”

“I can always see if Morwena could give you something, you know to heal the wound.” I said hopefully.

“There is not point Jace,” I looked down at the ground wishing that I could turn back the time. I may have killed the pirate but it was a hollow victory, for I lost my brother’s life in the process.

“Jace.” My brother’s voice was growing quiet. I had to put my ear right next to his mouth to hear him now.

“Yes,” I said. I heard him take in a breath, but he did not let it back out.

“Jay,” I looked at him. His face was paler then mine. I closed his eyes and leaned forward to kiss his on forehead. I stood up and picked his body up, before we walked back to the ship.

Luke followed on behind me now saying a word. We were lucky no one saw us as we set sail for Lands End.

I lost everything in the world I had ever cared about all to that man. At least he is dead now and can do no more harm, I thought to myself.

Jay’s limp body lay on the deck

“What are you going to do with Jay?” Luke asked. It was the first time he had said anything since Plymouth.

“We can’t take him back to Sennen. So I was thinking of just,” I nudged my head towards the sea. “You know.”

“I just don’t like the idea throwing him in the sea.” Luke said.

“And you think I do?” I raised my voice.

“That was uncalled for.”

“I know I’m sorry. I’m just upset.”

“I understand. When you’re ready Jace.”

The sea was choppy but manageable. The ship was hard to handle with only two people, but we coped. Once we were halfway to Lands End, I decided it was time.

Together we walked towards Jay. Tears started to roll down my face again. I found the sword which he used and placed it in his hands. Luke and I picked up his limp body and carried him to the side of the ship. It just dawned on me then that he was actually dead, for when he was lying down he looked so peaceful that you would have thought that he was sleeping.

When we reached the side of the ship, we cast his body into the water, the sword going down with him. I collapsed in a heap and started to sob. I didn’t care that Luke was watching me; all I wanted to do was crawl under a rock. Luke knelt beside me and draped an arm around my shoulder.

“It’s going to be OK,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied, though I wasn’t sure I believed him.

Luke and I stayed in the house at Sennen. Luke taught me how to read and write, which is how I am writing this now. There have been many wars which we had experienced and been involved in. Death has become easier to deal with, but I still think Jay, Mr Williams and the other deaths on my conscience. The memories I had have faded, but are still with me.

During all the years I have been on this planet I have never seen anyone else like Luke and I. Although we visited Morwena about three months after Jay’s death and told her what had happened. She gave her condolences and said that I was welcome to come over and talk to her, and sometimes I did.

I think through what has happened in the past centuries; particularly two main wars which I and Luke have been in, fighting to save other peoples’ lives and unable to stop the mass murder.

It was horrible, seeing people die at your feet; however I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing when war arose. The world, even for an immortal like me. seems more complicated when you know what happens in it.

This world is a world where people stalk the darkness, preying upon on the blood of others, where the evil of people cannot die no matter how many times you may fight it.

One can’t hate Spain, though, I’ve decided. Sure, it’s theoretically possible, but why would one want to?

Even after Spain demolished my boys, the Russians, and proceeded to wipe the floor with my other boys, the Germans (and let’s not forget Spain’s 2006 World Cup defeat of my original home team, Ukraine, which could only have been more embarrassing if the Spanish players pantsed Andriy Shevchenko and proceeded to slap keeper Oleksandr Shovkovsky with his own gloves), I can’t help but be happy for them.

When does Spain, an essentially good team, ever win anything anyway?

One can hate Spain because of Real Madrid, but I choose not to. It’s a conscious decision and I’ve stuck to it ever since my youthful girl-crush on this club gave way to superstar fatigue. One does have to honour youthful girl-crushes in one way or another, it’s like honouring your heritage.

Now, since Ukraine didn’t make it into Euro 2008, I was largely content with rooting for the Russians and the Germans, and watching the parade of legs. Men hate it when women dare to open their mouths about football player legs (forgetting the male fascination with Maria Sharapova), as if it sullies the sport somehow, but I think it’s only natural for a heterosexual woman to have a thing or two to say about the legs.

Good-looking athletes exist in all sporting events, but football combines grace with strength in a largely understated way; it has brilliant, showy moments that one has to wait for as passing builds up to a crescendo. It allows for contemplation. And there’s nothing quite as beautiful as contemplating two evenly matched teams, going at it like angry gods on Olympus.

Speaking of beauty, there is the role that the ball itself plays, the way its trajectory can look so clean and precise when the right set of feet enters the equation, the way the sure ball in the air unconsciously inspires one’s own body to leap into the air as well, knocking over beer bottles and creating, for a moment, an undignified yet wholly genuine symphony of Game and Fans. It’s Tolkien’s eucatastrophe, with ample displays of physical perfection as bonus.

In terms of actual catastrophe, the biggest upset this year was arguably Holland. I have to admit that I didn’t even watch the game, unnerved as I was at the prospect of watching Russia crash and burn in the quarter-final. Instead, I got to watch Russia crash and burn in the semi-final, a slightly more bearable defeat.

In the Holland-Russia match, refinement seemed to have been overcome by power, while the Germany-Spain final had it the other way around. I believe that Holland failed where Spain succeeded because the former just didn’t have that cohesiveness, and that captain.

The electrical storm that disrupted broadcasts of the Germany-Turkey match was symbolic of the heightened emotion surrounding the game. As loath as I am to admit it, Turkey would have probably gone all the way, had they been luckier and perhaps a little bit more confident. There will always be something endearing in the way Germany plays, though. Far too many people are eager to dismiss the Germans as “boring automatons,” overlooking their good teamwork and their refreshing lack of peacock-like posturing.

Germany just didn’t have what it takes. And that’s OK, because at this point, for me, football without heartbreak is like a Friday night without a wardrobe malfunction: wholly unnatural.

Jonathan: What is it about Lebanon that made it a subject of study for you?

Sandra: In a time of unprecedented demand for oil and escalating tensions from the Persian Gulf to the Mediterranean, Westerners desperately need help in learning how to think about a region that is so vital to their interests and security. Mirror of the Arab World: Lebanon in Conflict, is an exercise to give order and bring clarity to the many complexities of the bridge between Europe and Asia that is defined by Arab culture. Lebanon serves as a tool. Despite its many unique characteristics, Lebanon is the most open of Arab societies and its history since the end of World War II includes the challenges every Arab country, in varying degrees, has and is now facing.

Jonathan: In your book, you suggested that clans and religions have long controlled the Lebanon’s political system. The most unique aspect of the system, from the National Pact of 1943, is the appointment of a Maronite Christian as the president, a Sunni Muslim as the prime minister, and a Shia Muslim as the speaker of the parliament. Do you consider this special arrangement a cause for the instability of the country? It is widely believed that the system has repeatedly resulted in political deadlock with the long struggle of electing the new president after Émile Lahoud being the latest example.

Sandra: The National Pact of 1943 created a path to independence acceptable to all the competing groups in Lebanon. It came out of a political culture rooted in family, clan, tribe, religion and sect. While the National Pact was enormously important in that it enabled the Lebanese to bind their rival communities into a functioning government, it failed to create an overarching sense of national identity strong enough to override tge “tribal” attitudes of most Lebanese. Although varying significantly from one to the other, every Arab country faces the same problem – creating a sense of common identity and a recognition of the common good strong enough to turn fragile states into genuine nations.

Jonathan: What do you think about the recent appointment of Michel Suleiman as the new president after the compromise in Doha? Will the appointment only provide short-term stability?

Sandra: The recent appointment of Michel Suleiman is a case in point of the enduring flaws of the National Pact. After six months in which the office remained vacant, the Lebanese finally came together on the choice of a president who must be a Maronite Christian. But they did not resolve the central problem of the Lebanese state – institutionalized sectarianism. Until the Lebanese replace a system that distributes political and economic power on the basis if the census of 1932 with one that represents both current demographics and political realities, Lebanon is not going to be stable.

Jonathan: Returning to your book, you argued that the United States, under the Reagan administration, tried to create its own version of Lebanon. What influence did the the Christian Right in the United States have in shaping the American policy on Lebanon at that time? I remember that Pat Robertson set up METV in South Lebanon to broadcast Christian television programs in 1980s.

Sandra: Lebanon is not only the victim of its own internal tensions it is also the victim of outside powers pursuing their own interests on the soil of Lebanon. The civil war of 1975-1990 would have killed many fewer people and inflicted much less damage if it had not been for the presence of Syria, Israel, the Palestinians, the United States, and Iran that used Lebanon as a field on which to wage proxy wars against each other.

The error of the Reagan administration in intervening in Lebanon the way in which it did illustrates how little the United States understands the Arab world and how much American policy is driven by the needs and desires of Israel. A powerful segment of the Israeli lobby in American politics is right wing Christians who see the state of Israel as God’s Biblical promise to the Jews and the restoration of the Jews to Jerusalem as necessary to the second coming of Christ. This theology, which most American Christians reject, has nonetheless profoundly influenced American policy for the entire Arab world since right wing Christians organized themselves into a political machine in the late 1970’s.

But more than theology, the American view of the region is shrouded in ignorance on the part of the government and the electorate. Again this is why Lebanon provides such a good model for looking at the region. The United States blundered into Lebanon in 1982 with no understanding of the realities of the conflict. In 2003, Washington committed an even more serious error in judgment by invading Iraq with no comprehension of the complications that would follow the fall of Saddam Hussein. American interests have paid a terrible price for both of these mistakes. Ironically, cosmopolitan Lebanon on the Western edge of the Arab world and brutalized Iraq at its eastern edge are currently the two most similar countries in the region in their internal dynamics – communalism, Sunni-Shia tensions, and foreign interference.

Jonathan: It appears that Hizbollah has wide political support beyond the Shi’a and Druze. What, in your opinion, makes this party popular in the country? Is it related to the success of Hassan Nasrallah in delivering his promises of improving the welfare of the poor and needy?

Sandra: Hezbollah’s popularity beyond the confines of its own Shia base is due, in my opinion, to three major factors. The organization has addressed the needs of the non-elites of the society – those ignored by government for too many decades; resistance to Israel; and a charismatic leader with impressive political skills. In these first two factors is again how Lebanon reflects the whole region. The non-elites across the Arab world are stirring. But in a drought of secular ideology, they have no where to go to achieve redress of their legitimate grievances. This explains the persistent power of politicized Islam.

In Lebanon, Islam packaged as politics is labeled Hezbollah. Among the Sunnis, it carries the banners of the Muslim Brotherhood and Hamas. At its farthest edge, militant Islam is stamped with the brand name of al Qaeda by a whole collection of dissent groups demanding political and economic enfranchisement or cultural affirmation. Westerners need to understand these socio-economic aspects of militant Islam. Until they do, the eradication of acts of terrorism will fail.

Jonathan: Finally, in your afterword, you lamented the misunderstandings between the East and West on. Can you talk about your feelings on the issue?

Sandra: Unless you travel both sides of the street as I do, it is difficult to become alarmed about the bitterness, resentment, and fear with which Westerners and Arabs regard each other. It is only when you actually live with the reality of the perceptions, misunderstandings, and genuine grievances one holds for the other that it is possible to grasp just how close both the Arabs and the West are to falling into a chasm of conflict destructive to both.

To make the situation even more perilous, those who are beating the drums of war against the despised Other are the militants of Islam, Christianity, and Judaism. Consumed by the demands of their own identities, the militants of all three religions thrust forward armed with cultural certitude. Watching the confrontation, one can only recall the observation of the Syrian poet Osama bin al Munqidh who wrote at the time of the Crusades that the Arab Middle East was perceived in terms of three unequal parts: Muslim, Christian, and Jew. To him, the truth was very different.

In his eyes, the Middle East was divided into only two parts: those who believe and those who think. Today it is the believers who are gaining dominance over the thinkers. Unless the thinkers mobilize themselves, the believers could well collide in Lebanon.

Hypothesis: I will not find any bookstores open at 4 am, and will consequently be doomed to boredom for about 20 hours as I fly back to the States.
Conclusion: Hypothesis Rejected.
Results: As it turns out, the Bangalore airport might actually be the cheapest place to buy books. Not only does the mighty and domineering dollar stick the rupee’s head in the proverbial toilet, but I am pretty sure that nobody really “buys books at 4 am” at the duty free stores. Furthermore, I pick books in English, instead of Hindi or Kannada. The end result is that the guy at the counter literally just gives me the books. For the next two plane rights, I’ll split my time between reading The Godfather and watching The Game Plan about 2.5 times (I swear to God, just a single decent movie on a single flight would pretty much be the equivalent of the Mile High Club for me.)

Hypothesis: The British have mastered breakfast.
Conclusion: Hypothesis Confirmed.
Results: I actually gathered some delicious data on this during my trip to India. I had a breakfast of fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, sausage, and baked beans at an airport restaurant. Now, on paper, featuring the terms “baked beans” and “airport restaurant,” the experience sounds about as appetizing as a Bea Arthur sex scene. But frankly, it was awesome. It was a breakfast combination that just reaffirms the notion that the U.S. picked the right side in WWII.

Generally, in the U.S., my breakfasts consist of a) an apple, b) a waffle-styled entity that basically mugs me of insulin, or b) hopes and dreams. Sometimes, on occasion, there are omelets. Frankly, this is the biggest drawback to America that I have encountered so far. I’ve heard all of the criticism of our “national obesity epidemic,” and our blatantly outmoded sense of “cowboy diplomacy.” Frankly, in the face of grilled tomatoes and a sunny-side up, I just can’t see how any of that really matters.

Hypothesis: This baby will blink first. I am unbreakable
Conclusion: Hypothesis Rejected.
Results: Infants are a strange breed. They can’t spell, read, or support the weight of their own ridiculously large heads. But engage one in a staring contest, and you are finished before it has even started. It’s surprising, I know, but for some unknown but doubtlessly biological reason, those little bags of pudge simply do not need to blink. It doesn‘t matter how much of an alpha male aura you try to project, they are utterly implacable.

In the case of my own particular defeat, I was trying to face down a blonde-haired, blue-eyed 8-month old. I’ll tell you something: even in my pain, I was impressed by how classy he was in victory. He was guileless, and clapped his hands with delight when I gave up with a tiny wail of despair, as tears ran from the prunes that used to be my eyeballs. Pure strength, and a wealth of human spirit. That kid should be president.

Hypothesis: I have a 5’7 mallard for a new best friend.
Conclusion: Hypothesis Rejected.
Results: When a person tries to travel from Bangalore, India to Atlanta, Georgia, the trip to go a couple of different ways. It can go “smoothly,” which entails sitting on planes, a layover somewhere in Europe, perhaps a hotel room, and ultimately a warm homecoming. Unfortunately, my trip has gone a little differently.

Things were fine when I left Bangalore. I made my stop in London, and stayed there for 5 hours. However, on my flight to Chicago, I witnessed a conflagration of bad luck. The lady in front of me got one of those rare pieces of airline chicken that actually contains bones. She also harbored the secret ambition of being a python, because apparently she did something like try to eat her entire meal in one bite. The result, of course, was a choking hazard. To make a long story short, nobody would let me use my never-before-attempted Running Punch (hint: it requires a running start and a willing target), or let me do a tracheotomy (“formal training“ is for hoighty toighty, upper-crust snobs).

With the two flights, any my layover in London, I had been traveling for roughly 23 hours. In an effort to sidestep jet-lag, I didn’t go to sleep the night before, figuring that I could sleep a little on the flight over, be nicely tired once I reached the states, and pass out right on schedule. Due to the adrenalin spike caused by a woman wriggling around like Ursula after she got stabbed with a boat, no sleeping actually took place - I was just too keyed up.

By the time I reached Chicago, I was absolutely convinced that I had a new traveling companion, a 5’7 white mallard duck named Travis. He was my friend. On some level, I knew that he probably wasn’t real, but when I went to sleep, I hoped he would still be there when I woke up.

Maybe he decided to fly home without me. I hope I see him on the way there.

Of course, knowing my luck on this trip, he’d probably get sucked into our engines or something.

Hypothesis: That lady has something to prove.
Conclusion: Hypothesis Confirmed.
Results: I spy with my little eye an extremely buxom woman in a hiliter-blue tank top. She’s has that special, artificial shade of blonde that can only be caused by some sort of industrial spill, and is probably cursed in the sight of Almighty God. But the main thing to notice about her - and I have the feeling this is on purpose - is that she has treads like a mammoth. A mammoth that poses on Corvettes. I know I might be overstating my case a little bit, but I am pretty sure I can actually see space and time warping around her chest. Also - and this is entirely true - she has boldly added two sets of shiny concentric circles on the back of her jeans. Or, to put it another way, she has bedazzled twin bull’s-eyes onto her ass-cheeks.

Hypothesis: The couple in front of me seems nice.
Conclusion: Hypothesis Rejected.
Results: I actually generally like watching other couples. No kidding, there’s something nice about seeing two people be happy together. Sometimes, though, things can get a little out of hand. Sometimes, a girl will hand-feed her new fiancé cheezits. I really used to be hungry. But if my appetite were an unsuspecting guard, the sight of domestic bliss just snuck up from behind and snapped it’s neck like a tea wafer. If they rub noses - which seems like a very real risk - I’m going to ask airport security to do something about it. Somebody has to

Hypothesis: I will never escape O’Hare.
Conclusion: Experiment in Progress.
Results: This airport should be renamed Satan’s Urinal. Security checkpoints are madhouse labyrinths, manned by emotional mutants that probably punch seals and mock orphans for fun. I swear this is true: I put my luggage into one x-ray machine, and walked through the metal detector with my passport envelope. The security actually took my passport envelope and put it through the other scanner. Now, I’m not up on every new travel regulation that comes out, but I’m didn’t think that airline-distributed paper envelopes posed a threat to the liberty and democratic ideals of our nation. Also, putting my envelope in the other terminal is pretty much the security guard equivalent of setting my tricycle on fire and pissing out the flames.

Additionally, my flight has been delayed. This is apparently not very rare at Chicago International. This place is a domestic travel black hole. My fellow passengers and I exchange exasperated looks and wait patiently for the attendants to give us delay reasons like “severe weather conditions,” or “we just ran out of airplane wings.” I await further updates.

Pray for me.

Back in 2003, the love affair between France and America ended.

To make matters worse, the “break-up” between the two countries happened on Valentines Day - what a stab through the heart!

The sexiest politician of all time, Dominique de Villepin, then the French Foreign Affairs Minister, made a famous speech at the UN Security Council, condemning America’s invasion of Iraq. As the result, many Americans deserted Paris.

However, four years later the conflict between America and France is mostly over. The lovers have reconciled, and the American crowds are swarming back.

France is attractive to Americans for numerous reasons:

Paris in particular offers a lower cost of living when compared to other big cities such as New York or Boston. Paris’s architecture is arguably more charming than New York’s. Where else can you have lunch under a Tiepolo, or lounge on the Bateaux Mouches on the Seine? Utilitarian tasks become all the more delicious in Paris.

In the summer, you can even lie on the beach by the Seine. Manhattan’s shoreline is highly unattractive by comparison.

This love affair between the two countries traces its roots to King Louis XVI and his support for the American Revolution. And Benjamin Franklin, for example, made numerous gracious visits to France and to the Court of Versailles.

For a 20th century American, Paris was the place to be, especially if one were an artist. Painters such as Mary Cassatt and Henry Ossawa Tanna lived there. In fact, Henry fell so in love with Paris that he remained there until is death. American writers living in Paris wrote some of their best works there, the list includes: Norman Mailer, Ernest Hemingway, Henry Miller, and so on.

Today the prominent Americans who are attracted to move to Paris are of a different kind – the Hollywood glamour kind. Why not? It seems that Paris has always been glamorous and will remain so, just look at the designers: John Galliano, Christian Lacroix, Hedy Slimane, Azzedine Alaïa, Jean Paul Gautier and the house of Dior (speaking of which, American Doris Brynner, the widow of actor Yul Brynner, manages the interior design department of Dior and travels the world looking for the right objects to represent the company.). One can’t forget America’s own Marc Jacobs, Creative Director to Louis Vuitton.

Paris is in a revolution of cool, as Sofia Coppola’s film “Marie Antoinette” (shot at Versailles castle) has demonstrated. Miss Coppola is not the only Hollywood star living in Paris, she is in good company along with Lauren Bacall, Kristin Scott Thomas, Monica Belluci and the very witty Whit Stillman. Other, glamorous Americans in town include Lee Radziwill, the sister of Jackie O, almost as famous as Whit Stillman for her great sense of humour.

It’s not surprising that these rich Americans who get the most for their dollar can be found living in the chicest and oldest areas such as the 6th district. Ariana Boardman used to live there before she married tycoon Dixon Boardman.

If you are an American only going for a quick trip to Paris, you should know that rich Americans’ favourite hotels to stay in are the George V and the Crillon, which famously hosts the Crillon ball every year. American debutantes such as Anna Wintour’s daughter, Lauren Bush, and Victoria and Vanessa Traina (daughters of American novelist Danielle Steel) came out at the event.

The fact that American celebrities have adjusted well to Paris does not mean, of course, that the average American can. There are many potential pitfalls along the way. Do read Edith Wharton’s book who explained it all (French Ways and Their Meaning). The film “Le Divorce,” may also steer you away from over-dressing, breaking the rules as to who gets to pay for dinner, and misunderstanding extra-marital affairs.

When I was at Dana Vachon’s book reading - he wrote the best-seller Mergers and Acquisitions - I found out he’s decamping to Paris too. Many are following, considering the financial troubles in the United States.

I suppose I’ll see you in Paris!

It is a long narrative, a fascinating and evocative one, as it brings to life not only the personality of this great sage but also the life in Travancore at the turn of the 19th century: its concerns and topics of high society discussion, its aloofness to the world outside, its court life and its encounters with the modern ideas of the time.

The Swami was on his tour of south India, as every monk from time immemorial used to do, going from place to place, visiting pious householders, accepting their obeisance and giving them advice, and then moving onto the next place…

So one day, the Swami, accompanied by a Muslim peon in the Cochin state service, arrived at the gate of Sundarama Iyer unannounced. Iyer’s 12-year-old son thought the visitors were both Muslims because of the peculiar kind of dress the Swami had, and told his father so. The peon was accompanying the sage from Cochin as a guide on his trip to Travancore.

They had left Ernakulam two days earlier and on the road, the Swami had not eaten anything except for a little milk. It is not clear which route they took, whether they traveled by foot or took a boat as a major part of the route is easily covered by water. Both travelers were weary as they reached Thiruvananthapuram but the Swami insisted that his attendant be cared for before he took anything from the household. By our standards, it was an unusual journey because the Swami came unannounced, as a complete stranger, without making any arrangements beforehand for his stay or meetings.

During his nine-day stay in the city, Vivekananda had made many acquaintances, met many people and addressed many small gatherings. His meeting with the elite of the city at the Trivandrum Club and his audience with the Maharajah are interesting episodes. At the club, he had an encounter with a Brahmin dewan peshkar, a senior revenue official of the principality, who took objection to the way the Swami had returned his salutation. But the Swami, who had noticed the way the man had returned the salutation of another officer of a lesser caste, showing off his caste supremacy, asked him how he could discriminate against another person and demand equal treatment for himself. The man had no answer.

Then there was the meeting with the Maharajah himself. The Swami in his tours had been the guest of many an Indian prince, and had experience talking to them and advising them on statecraft and other matters. But in Travancore, the meeting with the Maharajah lasted just two or three minutes as the author tells us and “the Swami was a little disappointed”.

The Swami’s Travancore visit was a few months ahead of his historic visit to Chicago where he addressed the Parliament of World Religions in September 1893. Curiously the Swami was reluctant to give public talks and all his meetings were either dialogues or conversations in small groups. Sundarama Iyer says that he once requested the Swami to address a meeting to which he replied that he had never before spoken in public and would “surely prove a lamentable and ludicrous failure.”

But in spite of his reluctance to address public gatherings, Vivekananda was preparing himself for the coming address and asked how he would face the gathering at Chicago, he cryptically remarked that ‘if it was the will of the Supreme that he should be made His mouthpiece and do a great service to the cause of truth and holy living, He surely would endow him with the gifts and qualities needed for it.’ Surely Sundarama Iyer thought Swami was being evasive (if God could help him in Chicago why not in Travancore…?) May be he was not willing to address a meeting at Travancore, that was all.

On the third or fourth day of his visit, the Swami made inquiries about the whereabouts of Manmathanath Bhattacharya, an officer of the Madras Government who was on an official tour in Travancore. As the Swami expressed a wish to shift to the fellow Bengali’s place, Sundarama Iyer was naturally reluctant to let him go, and the Swami pacified him saying that “we Bengalis are a clannish people.”

He also told him that Bhattacharya was a class-mate and that his father Pandit Mahesh Chandra Nyayaratna was a famous scholar in Bengal. But there was another, perhaps much more pressing, reason why the Swami wished to go to the place of Bhattacharya. Ever since he left Bengal, especially during his south Indian tour, he was staying with Brahmin households where fish and meat were anathema. A quintessential Bengali, the Swami thought a little rice with fish was a welcome diversion even for an ascetic like him!

When Sundarama Iyer, a Tamil Brahmin of orthodox ways, heard this, he was flabbergasted. The Swami pointed out that the ancient Hindus were used to eating meat and they were also used to kill cows for their yagas and yajnas. He thought it was the habit of avoiding meat, which came with the rise of Buddhism, that made India lose her strength and paved the way for foreigners to conquer her. This line of argument, interestingly, resonates with the advice given to a young Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi by his Muslim friend in Rajkot, that to gain strength one should eat meat and encouraged him to do so…

Those nine days were eventful in a deep way though surprisingly Sundarama Iyer or his other scholarly friends, who were engaged in long and passionate conversations with the Swami, never thought of keeping a written record of these daily meetings. In fact the author says he was writing from memory after a lapse of two decades and he confesses that many of the deep metaphysical discourses the Swami was engaged in while in Travancore were lost to posterity.

Perhaps that speaks a lot about our own lack of a sense of history…!

Most United Nations officials do not make for engrossing literary subjects. Samantha Power, however, has found an exception. The Yale-educated Harvard Law Professor was previously awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 2003 for her work “A problem from Hell: America and the Age of Genocide”. She recently served as a foreign policy adviser to Barack Obama, but resigned after suggesting that Hilary Clinton is a “Monster”.

Power’s latest book is about Sergio Viera de Mello, the Special Representative of the UN Secretary General in Iraq, who died tragically in 2003.

One hardly expects a book devoted to a UN official to be an engrossing read. However, Power does a brilliant job, crafting a compelling biography. Not only does she show the witty and romantic side of Vieira de Mello, but she fully illustrates Mello’s experiences when it comes to the reconstruction of war-torn countries, painting a detailed picture of both success and failure.

This book illustrates the clash of pragmatism and principles. Power highlights the complexities of Vieira de Mello’s career and personal growth: he was both an idealist and someone who sat down at a dinner table with the Khmer Rouge if he thought it practical.

Vieira de Mello’s life makes for a mesmerizing narrative. A life-long philosophy student, he got out of the ivory tower and took on the world. He was also a bureaucrat who freely exhibited basic human kindness and charm. And finally, a man who worked toward peace - and died as the result of a suicide bombing.

One can hope that Barack Obama will read Samantha Power’s excellent biography of this excellent, if complicated, figure. There are many lessons to be learned from the life, and death, of Sergio Vieira de Mello.

Most people would look aghast look and scream: No!

I, however, would laugh at them and tell them that I would happily take off my beloved’s head in exchange for immortality. My reasoning would be that my beloved would love me so much that she’d want me to live forever and give myself to every generation after hers.

I stopped asking this question when I grew older. I realized that no one would love me that much.

I’m kidding. That’s not why.

I stopped asking this question because as each day I grew closer to death, I was less inclined to desire immortality.

This can only mean that while I fear death, I fear life more.

*

When I say to the world that men and women are the same, I do not understand why everyone points to their private parts.

*

Around the time that Muhammad was singing the praises of Allah, there was Muzahim al-Uqaili, singing lamentations to Allah. He wrote about love. Says the poet:

The earth outside
spun within
when they told me
she had married him.

Now I know it’s over,
but Allah,
why did you let her go?

To pity what is left of me?
and emphasize you still control?

Be merciful to her,
through him.

He must have been poor indeed
to need her more than I.

This poem reminds me of a book I once read about old Arab proverbs. One of the proverbs spoke about losing your beloved to another. The jilted lover would say something to the effect of: at the least, I hope I have lost you to someone better than me. Al-Uqaili expresses that idea in his last stanza.

Isn’t that such a generous form of jealousy? We should be jealous like that today.

Magnanimously.

*

Some say that we create art in order to provide ourselves a “what if.” To explore what might have happened if we only had the courage to talk to that woman, make that particular decision, or touch that certain person.

On the other hand there are those who say that art is when we are able to assign a greater beauty to that which, though we admire, we would have found disappointing had we really interacted with. They say that a woman, no matter how beautiful, never seems to converse with the eloquence that we assign to her from a distance.

If these – cowardice and arrogance – are the only two bases of art, then I am saddened.

*

Muslims are funny people. All of my life I have heard them complain about how they dislike it when ‘I am treated like the other.’ However, when you ask them why they are Muslim, they always point out that it’s ‘because Islam is different.’

*

I would not be a particularly effective political leader, as I have a tendency to fall in love with my enemies. I do this because our love is forbidden and that only makes me desire it more. This quality of mine is especially troublesome when it comes to people who hurt me, because I inevitably end up encouraging them to hurt me more, since I consider being hurt by them an opportunity for me to give them more of my love.

People call this sadomasochism but those people are my enemies (whom I also love), because loving my enemies makes me happy, and if I am happy, then it cannot be sadomasochism, but pleasure.

She will come
Oh, yes! She will come.
If I have to sprain an ankle,
She will come, she will come.
She makes like she won’t,
but that is just dumb.
Before the cock crows thrice,
She will come, she will come.
If I have to break a leg
Before an audience of two
If I have to break a sweat,
If I have to think out loud,
She will come, she will come,
And boy won’t I be proud.
I’ll float around laughing
Like a hatter in May,
With a Cheshire grin
That will never disappear
Her voice when she comes
Is all I’ve ever wanted to hear.
“Hello, I have come,
And now I shall go.”
Back she will come,
Inside then out,
Like a cat house with a
Revolving door.

She Will Come, Audio

In 1980’s, a group of Israeli historians including Tom Segev of Haaretz (a daily Israeli newspaper), Avi Shlaim of Oxford University, and Ilan Pappe of University of Exeter opened up the debate regarding mainstream interpretation of the history of the Arab-Israeli conflict.

Major arguments from the new historians included:

That the British government tried to stop the establishment of an independent Palestinian State
That the refugees were forced to leave their homes
That Zionists had both greater manpower and more weapons
That Arabs were divided as to whether they should work to eradicate the Jewish state
And that Israel should be held responsible for the failure of peace talks

Among the prominent new historians is Benny Morris of the Ben-Gurion University in Negev. He has been the most controversial member of the camp, due to his justifying the expulsion of Arabs during the war in 1948.

If Morris’ latest book represents a political position, it is right to suggest that he is no longer aligned to the left. One of the examples of Morris’s sympathy for the right is his justification of Deir Yassir massacre. The massacre, he believes, was necessary for accelerating the exodus of Palestinians in order to give space to the Jewish state.

Still, the book brings good insights. The most surprising discovery would be the Czech support for the just-born Jewish state. The Czech republic, in an ironic twist, shipped the guns and bullets left over from the Nazis to Tel Aviv and Haifa.

Morris is right to claim that Christian Arabs were unlike their Muslim neighbors in resisting the establishment of the Jewish state. His point is confirmed by the Maronite alliance with Israel during Lebanon’s civil war. The collaboration is both aided and complicated by the Maronites’ belief on the re-establishment of the Jewish state as the realization of Biblical prophecy.

The title may focuses on the year 1948, but the content goes beyond this. I was intrigued by the books description of the negative image the United Nations has among many Israelis. While it is widely argued that the hatred of the United Nations came about as the result of the United Nations equating Zionism to racism in 1974, Morris adds a new dimension to the situation.

The major cause behind the animosity, he claims, is more detailed. The unfinished business of Greater Israel and the UN’S reluctance in supporting the partition have also played a role.

The book also talks about possibly the most explosive issue arising from the war: Jewish refugees from Arab states. Here, Morris appears at his most pessimistic. He claims that the return of Palestinian refugees will also raise the question of the return of Jewish refugees who fled their homes during the war, reducing the chance of success of the peace negotiations between Israel and Palestine to zero for as long as the Palestinian Authority demands that Israel absorb people who left in 1948.

With this book, Morris has firmly established himself in the mainstream of historic thought and analysis. This may be a disappointment to some, and welcome news to others.