Nouveau Travail, Nouvelle Ville, Nouvelle Ame

I have a new job in a new Chicago. Little, falling-apart, pathetic, out-of-everything, crumbly, broke, fabulous MoJoe’s finally surrendered to the nearby Starbucks (so deceptively evil, with its warm lighting and John Coltrane and really NICE baristas!). Contrast the old job with my new job: shiny, silver, constantly-stocked, organic, sleek, RICH, hoity-toity Rich People Cafe* on Michigan Avenue.

90% of the clientele at Rich People Cafe is well-to-do older women wearing furs. They are nearly unbearable. How does one begin?

Today one of them asked me, “Do you have a thing about the drinks?”

“A thing?” I asked.

“Yes, you know, a thing, about what’s in the drinks.”

“Like a write-up?” I’m trying not to sound like a total idiot here.

“Yes, yes, something like that, a THING! Do you have one?!” I think she’s nuts, and she’s getting on my nerves.

My manager sees that something is wrong. Old Fur Lady is pissed. This is unacceptable. So, he excuses my manners, laughing, “She’s new.”

Old Fur Lady replies, “Well, that’s obvious.”

I glare at her, and call her a few names in my head that I’d rather not type out.

I feel like I work in a different city. This is not my comfortable, smelly, drunken Chicago, the one that people have to make an effort to love. This is not the Chicago of falling-apart coffee shops with the same 50 regulars who come like clockwork in and out of the shop between the hours of 6am and 9am. This is not the Chicago of hipsters and environmentally-aware yuppies who have moral obligations to support small businesses, even if they’re never clean. No, this is a spotlessly clean, polished, suburban-mom-friendly Chicago. This is a smiley shopping city that strives to keep the homeless off of the sidewalks and the black people on the southside, and a fur on every old woman. This is a city that calls its customers “guests,” that thinks its “guests” will flip out if there is a stray napkin on a table, that hires an entire fleet of cooks and janitors to do the work baristas would normally do during their downtime.

So what can I do about this dramatic change, so unsettling at a time like this? How do I deal with ladies in furs? Well, I suppose the best thing I can do is do what I need to, and well. Jesus loves all these old fur-wearing ladies as much as He loves me, though it’s very difficult to imagine why. I shouldn’t purposefully try to make their drinks taste like crap, though it takes a lot of restraint not to. I am being paid to steam milk so it has the consistency of paint, and makes the fancy espresso taste as delicious as possible. I am being paid to smile and make people think this place is great. I am being paid to be on time, wearing my stupid hat, and not trying to get free stuff all the time. Even if I may not be all about the company, they provide money for me to travel, to wear fantastic shoes, to tithe, to buy baklava from a place I actually believe very strongly in, Jaafer Sweets. They provide good, interesting people with the financial support to live and go to school and learn things like Islamic folklore and photography.

Moreover, it has become my personal mission to really make an effort to get to know the fleet of janitors and cooks, who work far harder than I do and get very little recognition. They are from Mexico and Ecuador, which gives me a wonderful and life-affirming opportunity to practice my Spanish. They are delightful people and so patient with me. I am making them a mix CD of my favorite new Argentinian music that my completely dazzling friend Kristina gave me. I try to make the darling Diego’s hot chocolate extra chocolatey. I try to pronounce the beautiful Veronica’s name with a “B” the way she does. I try to greet them when I come and say “chau” when I leave. It’s the least I could do. 

Even on days like today. Praise God for Diego and his laugh. Praise God for the man who gave me his seat on the train. Praise God for the guy who complimented me on my cappucino. Otherwise, how would I have gotten through the day?

I have forgotten how to be happy, I think. That skill left me about 2 months ago.

Thank goodness I retained my amazing barista skills.

*Name changed to protect what I’m sure is a policy about employees writing adverse things about customers on their blogs.

Una Tragedia de Cuaresma

Here’s a sob story for you. I spent this day, the second Sunday of Lent, in preparation to gorge myself on what I suspect to be God’s second physical incarnation: banana-nutella crepes at the intimidatingly posh Cafe Neo. I reluctantly gave up sweets for Lent (which I complain a lot about, but is honestly much easier for me than giving up the internet, my iPod, complaining…), and have been looking forward to breaking my fast this entire week with an American-sized version French dessert. I was mindful to eat dinner early so I’d be hungry by 8, a strategic hour before Cafe Neo would close, I saved a dollar in my wallet for a tip, I loaded my iPod with my new music (see post below!) for the auspicious El ride to Lincoln Square, and I brought along my journal and excellent reading material (Spanish Vocabulary) over which to enjoy this plate of divinity.

I ordered, in a voice shaky with excitement, “Hi, um, could I please have the combo special thing–a small coffee with a nutella-banana crepe please?” As the first syllable of “nutella” exited my quivering lips, the barista began shaking her head. “We’re out of nutella,” she said with feigned sympathy. It took a moment to register what she was telling me. I held out hope as she called to the other barista, the stocky man who never gets my jokes, to ask him if there was any left. He held up a spoon with remnants of the chocolate-hazelnut spread and said, in what I felt to be quite offensive mockery, “This is all we have left!”

I know you’re going to judge me for this, but I could feel my eyes begin to burn with impending tears. They didn’t end up coming out, THANK GOODNESS, because how embarassing would that be, but for a few moments I felt like I was 6 years old again, forgetting my popcorn money at school. With sorrow, I ordered a small coffee, which came to the shocking total of $2.17 (which is absolutely ridiculous–I don’t care if the Cafe Neo baristas fly to Rome every night to hand-purchase the Illy coffee from some elderly Italian vendor on the street), which further exacerbated the trauma, as they were out of soy milk–my creamer of choice.

I came up with a Plan B (baklava from Noon O Kabab), a Plan C (baklava from Nazareth Sweets), a Plan D (chocolate from Andy’s Fruit Ranch, if I must). None of them were open, and I took a melancholy walk home, along my unassuming street with all its neon signs decidedly turned OFF.

Musica de la Primavera

Good thing I have new music. The two most intense catalysts for nostalgia in my life are MUSIC and WEATHER. These two entities will bring back so many memories in one instant that I’m surprised my brain doesn’t pop whenever I put on Rosie Thomas or walk through the first snow of the season.

For instance, last night I took the train home from the beautiful Pilsen, a neighborhood with more Puerto Ricans in it than San Juan, if you can imagine such a thing. Since the new year, almost two months, Chicago has had eleven hours of sunlight (ELEVEN HOURS OF SUNLIGHT!!!), so any glimpse of our closest star is welcomed with ecstatic jubilance, and for me, with memories. As the sun was setting over the Chicago River, its heavy pollution disguised with a thin blanket of sunshine, I began to remember summer in such a powerful way that it almost ached. Something I love about sunny evenings is the poetic beauty of twilight, which is the time of day when it looks like God unscrewed the normal sun lightbulb and exchanged it for a purple-tinted lightbulb. Everything looks mysterious and pretty; everything so clear and purply-golden.

Because I cannot wait for spring, when we will finally consistently remember what the sun looks like, I have already selected my albums for the season, which for years will remind me of Spring ‘08. I’ve gotten very strategic about this music thing. I like to pick a few albums to listen to over and over each season, so that I remember it more powerfully and vividly.

ALBUMS FOR SPRING 2008:
Kevin Johansen–The Nada: eMusic recommended this to me because I like Manu Chao. Before they recommended Mr. Johansen, I was very skeptical of their selection of lo-fi South American electronica and trippy Bollywood soundtracks (“She likes stuff from other countries–she probably loves Indian music!”). I was also skeptical that with a name like “Kevin Johansen,” the guy could teach me any Spanish. But, I was pleasantly surprised by this really lovely album that begins with a fabulous song about guacamole and crescendos into singing about Eva Peron and Fidel Castro.
Yael Naim–Yael Naim: This song is bound to be my spring anthem. It makes me feel like bouncing! The other songs on Miss Naim’s record might fade away, the way Corinne Bailey Rae’s other songs (which we all pretended to like for a while, but, let’s face it, could not hold their own to “Put Your Records On”) did, but they are gentle and beautiful nonetheless. If I spoke Hebrew, I could tell you whether or not she was a good lyricist, but since I have no authority on the matter, I’ll tell you that melody-wise, “7 Baboker” is gorgeous.
CéU–CéU: I’ve been trying to love this album for a while, because who doesn’t want to boast that they love contemporary Brazilian bassanova? However, it took a long time to warm my ears. Perhaps now that I possess it, I feel more ownership of the soft rhythm and sexy melodies accompanied by CéU’s smoky voice. Whatever it is that changed my mind, I’m loving it, especially on lighter days that call for lighter voices.
M. Ward–Transistor Radio: I will defend M. Ward to the death, but I must admit haven’t been too excited about his other albums besides “Transfiguration of Vincent,” which is a delightfully cohesive album of an entire range of diverse tunes that fuse together in an elegant, sleepy record of soul-penetrating lyrics and playfully badass guitar riffs. However, upon hearing the first track of “Transistor Radio”–a soft, simple, but supremely scintillating cover of “You Still Believe in Me” (which at this point in my life, is the saddest song in the entire world), I became indebted to the complete record. The album continues in this vaguely old-timey simple style, with clunky guitar accompaniments that will, at face value, seem pretty standard, but on second listen totally blow me away.
Calexico–Garden Ruin: I haven’t had much of a chance to listen to this yet, but I’m very curious. Apparently Calexico deals with immigration issues, which I’m all about, and draws their inspiration from Afro-Peruvian music, mid-20th-century jazz, and Portuguese fado. FAR OUT!!

Someone still loves you, Boris Yeltsin.

On Valentine’s Day I’m going to see “Step Up 2 the Streets.” Hopefully with BFF, if he’s game. 

That’s the main thing I have to say.

The other stuff isn’t as important.

Although, Jean-Michel Basquiat is very important. I learned about him at the DuSable Museum of African-American History. They have a kickin’ gift shop.

(the bomb)

It is important that I feel fantastic in my

BLACK SHIRT

SVELTE JEANS

and CHOCOLATE HUNTER WELLINGTONS.

(with earrings)

Rather British.

Rather wonderful.

It is important that it is -14 degrees right now, and that I just went on a walk, and now I have an idea of what St. Sebastian felt when those jerks stabbed him with 1,000 knives or whatever.

But what is the point of all this?

The point is that I have a postcard on my desk of the St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague, Czech Republic. It is dark and intense and pretty, and depicts a place I might like to go someday, should I find an extra bit of money in my pocket and some Eastern-European-specific wanderlust. On the back of this postcard, and this is the kicker, it says:
A ma petite, ma belle Mari, pour elle, je prendrais au lasso la lune.

It also says,
I love you.

The real point here is that today is B’s birthday. I think he is spending it with a French girl and a Belgian beer. This is my understanding of it, anyway, though the details are a little fuzzy. The point is, when I think about him tonight, tears press ferociously against my eyes, stinging until I blink to let them cascade in droves down my cheeks. My throat tightens up and causes me to puff out these really pathetic coughs that ultimately turn into sobs. And there I am, with a pile of B’s letters, the ink smudging from falling tears. How difficult. How unfortunate.

In the wake of this, does it matter that I met a strapping young lad today in a chocolate-brown sweater vest?

Does anything really matter as much when you know that Jean-Michel Basquiat died of a drug overdose at age 28?

Or when you’ve seen the way B smiled at me when he was sitting on my couch in Seattle, and wearing that black sweater that he lost on his way to Alaska?

Probably not so much.

Maybe everything matters more than we can even imagine.

Once upon a time in India, there was this guy who loved his wife so much that, when she died, he ordered the entire country to go into mourning for two years. No fun, no beauty, no games, no laughter. He had lost his companion, his greatest love, his greatest friend, and he couldn’t bear the thought of people being happy after such a tragedy. But after two years, I guess he started feeling like it was okay to have beauty again. So he got to work on this amazing palace that would immortalize his love for her.

 

 Who can really say anything after you think about how amazing the Taj Mahal is?

And with your soul always green, you’ll grow into a tall tree

Upon coming out of my semi-weekly Arabic class, I experience two feelings simultaneously:

a) Intolerable exhaustion–mentally (my mind feels as though someone has lit a match inside and burned up all its contents, completely useless for the rest of the day), physically (my heart beats quickly and unevenly, and my brain literally aches), and emotionally (after verbal lashings from my unwaveringly strict professor and her accusations of sloth and apathy if I take any extra time in spelling out a given word)

 

b) Overwhelming awe for this most alluring, succulent, and arresting of languages. Every many-thousands-of-years-old word is expressed through daring syllables, but gently and carefully leads the mind and heart and soul to its many-thousands-of-years-old God. The constant and flavorful allusions to divine mystery make it impossible not to think upon God and His Goodness at all moments of the day. Regardless of your spiritual proclivities, this is an unabashedly admirable discipline.

 

And how nice, how beautiful, to be disciplined even down to daily conversations so that every human interaction will also interact with the Divine! What vibrancy and deliciousness Arabic thus infuses into all its ravishing words with their dazzling diphthongs and those impossibly marvelous short vowels.

 

DAY OF ABUNDANCE, GOODNESS, AND BOUNTY! Arabs say, when they see each other in the morning.

 

DAY OF BRILLIANCE, ILLUMINATION, AND ENLIGHTENMENT! They reply.

 

No lovelier way to greet each other than that.

 

There is a fetching fellow about my age from Jordan who works at Nazareth Sweets. He has deep eyes and a fantastic nose. He has enviable posture and is the most precisely perfect height there exists. I would some day like to walk under an umbrella with him. Or read poetry together under a blanket. Either activity would be perfectly pleasant. Though for now, he provides me with the most delectable of baklava, and for that I am content to adore him within our current context. Last week I went in to buy my final walnut and cashew indulgences from him, before Lent would prohibit me from indulging further. As I was leaving, I assured him, “See you soon,” though I knew it would be at least 40 days and 40 nights later (so I plan). He nodded and replied, “Inshallah.”

 

“What does ‘inshallah’ mean?” I asked him, desperately wanting to kiss him.
“It means, ‘I hope so,’” replied he, without a hint of unsteady awkwardness afflicting most American boys his age.

 

This week I learned in class that “Inshallah” in fact means “If God wants it to happen.” How wonderful. By comparison, “I hope so” seems so flakey, so unfounded. “If God wants it to happen” is a tangible and trusting illustration of true hope. Another token of linguistic brilliance.

 

I will leave you with a poem from Rumi. Rumi did not write in Arabic, but in Dari Persian, which is quite different but uses the same script, and shares some sacred words. It, too, has a richness in symbolism and spiritual reverence. Rumi ostensibly mastered the careful craft of bringing forth all the light and depth of his native tongue onto page. So much so, in fact, that his poems are able to radiate an elegant holiness and romance even through English, which we must agree is one of the least elegantly holy and romantic languages ever, despite having the words “ambrosial” and “twilight” in its vocabulary. Because I do not know Persian and neither do you, I will give you what is sure to be a comparably pallid translation, but is still radiates aching loveliness:

 

THE AGONY AND THE ECSTASY 

 

In the orchard and rose garden

I long to see your face.

In the taste of Sweetness

I long to kiss your lips.

In the shadows of passion

I long for your love.

 

Oh! Supreme Lover!

Let me leave aside my worries.

The flowers are blooming
with the exultation of your Spirit.

 

By Allah!

I long to escape the prison of my ego

and lose myself
in the mountains and the desert.

 

These sad and lonely people tire me.

I long to revel in the drunken frenzy of your love
and feel the strength of Rustam in my hands.

 

I’m sick of mortal kings.

I long to see your light.

With lamps in hand
the sheiks and mullahs roam
the dark alleys of these towns
not finding what they seek.

 

You are the Essence of the Essence,

The intoxication of Love.

I long to sing your praises
but stand mute
with the agony of wishing in my heart.

Calme-toi, le ciel, calme-toi

Il contiue a neiger. Il est difficile de croire que la terre sera encore seche. Ces jours-ci, c’est toujours blanche. Chere neige, je t’aime, c’est vrai, mais arrete, s’il te plait. Arrete. Ca suffit. Tu es jolie, mais il y a beaucoup de choses qui sont jolis, qui ne fait mouiller pas mes chausseurs. C’est la verite. Alors.

There is a broken cross on my desk. I collect hand-made crosses from Central America, and this is one of two in my collection. However, it happens to be my favorite. It was made in Mexico, by someone who is very good at ceramics and very good at painting. Thank you, Cross Maker; you are very good at what you do. However, it broke when I was being careless this summer; it fell hard on the cold tile of my basement bedroom, and fell into two large pieces. Some day I shall repair it, so that I can have a wall of crosses in my hypothetical future house, as I always dreamed. (That, along with a wall of clocks. Would that be fabulous or what? Or nothing. Just fabulous.) For now, it will be my Lenten symbol. To remind me not to eat sweets, naturally, but also to remind me of Christ’s suffering, and my gloriousness, two things which I am to meditate on during Lent. I obviously need to learn more about Lent.

I had something to say but I’m not going to say it. Instead, I’m going to write out a poem that I read this time exactly one week ago. I take great delight in this poem and cannot tell you why:

The Wonderful Philosopher

The wonderful philosopher
met me for tea.

He ate a beautiful crepe
with whipped cream.

He was so joyous and grounded
At the same time,
I was joyous.

He left me walking on air.
I made a decision.
No more thinking.
Yes, walking on air.

I think that poem is by Maira Kalman but I’m not completely sure. It was in a book of hers, so I imagine it is she who penned it, but if it isn’t, please don’t sue me, Real Author; let me take you out for crepes and whipped cream and we’ll call it good, okay?

He was as tough and romantic as the city he loved

I wish I were going to New York this afternoon. New York is a dream-world of wonder and magic, containing the most interesting and fantastic of people. I know a family (of Jewish artists, no less!) who live in an apartment (in TriBeCa, no less!) who have 3 bookshelves in their BATHROOM, and I am not kidding about that. This is what I’m up against. People raised with 3 bookshelves in their bathrooms.

Instead, this afternoon I am going to Al-Khaymeh, with my two friends April and Andy. Maybe from now on I will call this event “A & A @ A-K.” Why not? I plan to tell them that I’m depressed. Sometimes it’s great to talk these things through. Other times, people just wish you would shut up.

One time I met this Welsh guy on a flight from Florence to Dublin, who told me he toured with Super Furry Animals and that he lost 40 pounds when his girlfriend left him. Then he asked if I’d ever had my heart broken, only it took me about an hour to figure out what he was asking me because his accent was so thick, and by that time, the plane had landed. That’s not a terribly fascinating story, but it illustrates my point.

Dress, Snow, Sad

I have a new dress. It is grey, and short, and has amazing shoulder lines. It makes me look like Queen Rania of Jordan. Or Jackie O. Or Grace Kelly.

Or the Beatles, as my friend Mark noted.

Whatever, Mark.

 Mark loves the Beatles. He and B, and my friends Nigel and Ethan, were in a Beatles cover band called the Hard Days Knights. At their show they looked fabulous in their skinny pants and skinny ties. (What is it about skinny pants?? What is it about skinny ties??)

Where shall I wear my new grey, short, amazing-shoulder-lines dress? Perhaps to my photo shoot in Monaco. Perhaps to my Valentine’s Day date with some tabloid big-shot like Prince William. “Prince William was seen enjoying an afternoon coffee at Cafe de Flore in Paris with a mystery girl. She had beautiful posture, sipped coffee like a princess, and the shoulder lines on her grey, short dress were to die for.”

Aujourd’hui il neige et il neige et il neige. Mais ca va, parce que je me sens mal et j’avais reste dedans la plupart de la journee. Et ca va parce que la neige resemble a le sucre en poudre. C’est trop jolie. Je crois que le monde dehors est tranquille, doux, et calme. Mais c’est pas la verite. Il fait tellement froid. Il est bruyant, venteux, dur. Le fenetre dit des mensonges.

Ce soir, je crois que les Beach Boys est la groupe la plus triste du monde. Je ne sais pas le pourquoi. Les voix sont si melancolies. Les chordes sont si longues. Je ne les ai apprecie pas quand j’etais petite. Mais, c’est toujours le cas, n’est-ce pas? En outre, quand j’ecris “petite,” je veux dire “il y a deux ans.” J’ai grandis beaucoup. Eh bien…en actuellement, je n’ai pas grandis beaucoup. Je suis la meme. Je fais beaucoup d’erreurs. Je pleure comme j’ai 5 ans. Peut-etre les adultes ne sont pas tellement differents que les enfants. Ils ont simplement plus de joie, plus de tristesse. Ou peut-etre ils sont vraiment tres differents. Que’est-ce que je sais?? Rien! C’est quoi! Mais ca va. Parce que la neige est douce et belle. Alors. Bon soir.

Me Gusta Guatemala, Me Gustas Tu

Everything is set for Guatemala in March. The plane tickets are bought, the school has accepted me, the “garden room” (“with coffee maker and ceiling fan”) has been reserved. Everything is set down to the description of the man who will be picking me up from the airport:

Roberto, 39, 6′1″, 225 lbs, short dark hair, will meet you after arrival of AA983 from Miami at 1:20 p.m.

There is nothing not fabulous about that.

I am so anxious to go somewhere that’s just straight-up beautiful. I love gritty beauty, untamed beauty, freakish beauty, urban concrete beauty. It’s all beautiful, all of it. But there’s something about straight-up beauty every once in a while. There’s just something about it.

Today I took a Spanish test. What a trip. There is this guy in my class who really struggles with Spanish. Before the test this morning I asked if he was feeling okay about it. He said that he wasn’t. He told me that  he didn’t study because he was slow-dancing with his girlfriend last night, and he thought that was more important. He’s right, and I’m so happy he thought so. I told him that.

During the test, I couldn’t remember if “Me llamo Mari” or “Mi llamo Mari” is correct. How embarassing. How utterly embarassing. I could remember a tense we haven’t studied of a verb we hadn’t learn, but I couldn’t remember how to say “My name is.” Oh well, the Jaafer Sweets man will still open his shop at 11 tomorrow whether or not I know how to introduce myself in Spanish.

I hope Guatemala will help.

With everything.

I also hope I am able to sleep tonight. Considering how tired I am, you’d think it would be a no-brainer, but it’s tending not to work that way lately. Oh well. The man who delivers the newspapers will still wake up at 1am and drop off a bundle of tattered papers by the door of my coffee shop whether or not I can sleep.

This weather outside is BONKERS.

The air around me vibrates with so many images. Which is great, because most of them are British.

I hurt B so much. So so much. The kind of hurt that makes you so dizzy that you start thinking horrible ideas are wonderful ideas. The kind of hurt that is so bad that you are inspired send hate mail. And leave angry messages. And propose marriage. You’re just too hurt to even know what to do.

There is nothing I can do, because I cannot see him. I cannot touch him. I cannot even hug him. The brutal rules of emotional health mandate that I cannot do these things. And the thought of not being able to is almost too much to bear. It’s making me feel like I’m going to fall off my chair and collapse into a Mari-blob. So I’m not going to think about it right now.

Instead, I’m going to think about how good baklava is. I just ate some, and it was so good. I never know if I like walnut or cashew better, so I get both. I’m going to think about how my throat feels (it feels funny). I’m going to think about my friend Alex and how he always looks kind of crazy when I see him; perhaps he is nervous around me because he wiggles a little when we see each other. Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps he is just a little frantic these days. In that case, I hope he feels better.

Alex is married. I don’t know many married people. Well, not young married people. Alex is a young married person. He has a wife who has a great haircut. I wish I could have her haircut but I don’t have a good face for it. This is just one of the many bummers I am experiencing right now.

I would really like to be married. I would like to have a very small wedding on a Friday night. For this occasion, I would like to wear a midnight blue cocktail dress and have hummus and baklava and coffee at somebody’s nice apartment for the reception. That’s all, no fuss. I would like to live with my husband in an apartment with a lot of natural light, but also a lot of lamps, and definitely a chandelier. I would like for us to have pancakes in the morning, and then I would like for us to go on a walk. We would see all sorts of fabulously interesting people and we would hold hands everywhere we went. Perhaps we would have a dog. Perhaps a beagle. Perhaps named Ophelia, but perhaps also named Martin, or even Merriwether Lewis. I just don’t know. We would talk about how much we loved each other, and we would be quite happy.

I was very lucky last night to have read my favorite book and seen my favorite movie for the first times on THE SAME NIGHT. I bought a beautiful book but the guy at the counter totally ruined it with his dirty fingerprints, after I was so careful to keep it glossy and beautiful. You’d think I wouldn’t care because I have more important things on my mind. But I totally care. I care a lot.

You really must see “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.” I’m not kidding. I’m not sure if it will make you remember every one of your best memories…I’m not sure if it will make you remember why you are a Christian…I’m not sure if it will make you sob…I’m not sure if it will make you want to write a letter to your ex-boyfriend and tell him you will always care about him. I’m just not sure. But that’s what happened to me.

I think it’s nice how people in Mexico call their friends “mi amor.” I think it’s nice how Italians say “I want what’s best for you” to say “I love you.” I think it’s nice how Arabic-speakers say “Get off your horse” to say “Hello.” That’s pretty badass. Also quite nice.