{"id":1833,"date":"2017-11-01T13:06:00","date_gmt":"2017-11-01T13:06:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theroccafamily.net\/?p=1833"},"modified":"2024-01-16T12:07:50","modified_gmt":"2024-01-16T12:07:50","slug":"note-31loves-me-loves-me-not","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theroccafamily.net\/en\/note-31loves-me-loves-me-not\/","title":{"rendered":"note # 31:loves me loves me not"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Memorable coffee<\/b><\/p>

Somewhere between Missouri and Kansas, it was time to get a cup of coffee. That is not always an easy thing, especially if you love coffee and the coffee you love is not popular. We were not on the main highways and consulting with google maps, we found ourselves taking a few lefts and rights into a small town and into a restaurant. People were there eating lunch, it was full and awkward, not sure where and from whom one gets a cup of coffee, it took a few minutes listening to the clicking of silver against porcelain (neither silver nor porcelain), before we were handed large cups to fill from the large thermoses.<\/span><\/p>

Back in the car, smelling of over-fried fat, Ola looks at me and says: \u201cdid you see how no one in that place had any teeth?\u201d And it is an image that stays with me reconstructed in time, faces looking to my direction, faces of bodies around dinner tables, in this image they are all friendly faces, smiling and chewing and talking and yawning without teeth.<\/span><\/p>

I never did drink that coffee. It sloshed back and forth until I threw it out. I do not think it was coffee.<\/span><\/p>

Not a sandwich<\/b><\/p>

There are places where food is not food. The most expensive meal I ever ate was a \u201cgourmet cheese sandwich\u201d and tea from dunkin donuts. One square yellow plastic barely melted between two brown square plastics and scalding hot water with a thing in it that seeps a bleak brown color. The least plastic thing of the affair was the paper cup, the true waste. I am sorry, sad and sorry that anyone would eat this.<\/span><\/p>

My friends waving goodbye in San Francisco said: \u201cyou will miss the food.\u201d<\/span><\/p>

This is not about poverty or access. This is about wiped out cultures. Isles and isles in huge supermarkets with nothing to eat, not really. This is about capitalism and globalization and inhumane priorities packaged in greatness and the American dream and supa pawa bulldozer. Coming from the land of (where things are being corporate sabotaged as I write) freshly fried falafel sandwiches with freshly made hummous, unpretentious fresh cheese-in-season and beautiful traditionally squeezed olive oil (precious), I cannot help but wonder what the fuck happens to a people if they do not have access to good food? To real food? Can they be happy? Are they angry? Always hungry? Never satisfied? Just think of one person on a diet of deprivation multiply by a nation.<\/span><\/p>

As we drive and hunt for food or stand at a beautiful view point, Ola wistfully says: \u201call I want is some tabouleh (really fresh, sour and salty and hot serrano chili) and a glass of arak.\u201d I dream of kibbeh niyyeh and arugula.<\/span><\/p>

(imagine this, the sun shining across a blue sky, in the middle of war and economic depression, a small town by the water, a sexy sun-weathered man smoking brings out a dish of freshly caught immediately grilled octopus and in the other hand two small glasses of ouzo and an ashtray.)<\/span><\/p>

I am angry at how the usa fucks up people\u2019s lives around the globes with wars and globalization and mc-democracy to scratch its narcissism and greed, lives like mine. Now after months on the road I am also angry for the usa-americans whose lives have also been fucked by usa.<\/span><\/p>\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t

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Loves me loves me not<\/b><\/p>

  1. In the middle of what felt like nowhere. In Kingman, Arizona. We stood outside the bar, no, too many tv screen.We stood outside another bar, maybe not, are we too brown?The bar tender says hello and she brings a basket of perfect popcorn and everything is ok.\u201cCan I ask you a question?\u201d The truck-driving-looking-white-guy asked (it turns out he was a truck driver). Ola at the juke box. Two butch women kicking two bike riders\u2019 male asses in billiards. \u201cSure.\u201d I said. \u201cSay, is this an Arab gay bar?<\/span><\/li>
  2. At the end of a day exhausted (yes, beauty and nature and sweet beast encounters can do that over a long day), hungry and ready to kill for a beer, we stopped at the busiest most local looking bar and grill in Forks, WA. Walking in, everyone was white and they all turned slowly towards the door squinting and are staring at us (actually, they were not, maybe a couple did but there were TV screens). A server camp-swings by and says \u201csit wherever you like ladies.\u201d And we take the seats best to watch everyone.<\/span><\/li>
  3. It was too early to sleep, too dark to walk, too cold to hang out in a little town in Oregon on my way to Seattle from San Francisco just after the solar eclipse and all the hotels were no-vacancy and I will sleep in my car but I really need to pee. I walked into the only place open: the bar. Akh, all men. Except, the voice from behind the bar is a woman\u2019s and she says \u201chi, what can I get you?\u201d And everything is good. He asks: \u201cwhere are you from?\u201d And I say: \u201cSan Francisco.\u201d And he says: \u201cdid you get to see the eclipse over there?\u201d<\/span><\/li><\/ol>

    Mechanics<\/b><\/p>

    Off the path, in the smaller places, there are mechanics. We changed the oil and checked the tires every three thousand miles on average, every once in a while the car demanded some special attention. About mechanics:<\/span><\/p>