I am sitting with Jararenk (a fake name I will be using as a reference to my close friend) on the balcony, chilling like ice cubes in a gin-basil summer drink. Then, one of Jararenk’s hidden friends comes in. Jararenk would most of the time introduce me as the French girl (not the type used in Titanic references). Mysterious Friend (MF) surprised by this revelation of the century automatically switches the casual Hi to a sarcastic Banjourrrr. At this point in my life, I just Banjouren my way out of these common uncomfortable greetings. But I will never get used to the disappointment on their faces as they take a second look and don’t see a blue-eyed-baguette-carrier girl. Sometimes I wish I could take these new encounters as fresh chances to reinvent myself. Maybe for once, I want to be the 100% Lebanese girl from Beirut who loves arguileh, quotes Fairuz and drives a mobylette on weekdays and a Maserati on weekends. But, no. I just end up speaking half the conversation in French (with a fake French accent) to make Jararenk’s statement 100% true and trying not to sarcastically laugh at MF’s frenchabic. Then Jararenk, out of nowhere, weighs in with “And she doesn’t even like cheese!”; the most offending statement to humanity. THANK YOU JARARENK! AND YES THEY SHOULD TAKE MY FRENCH NATIONALITY AWAY! AND WHAT IS LEFT OF MY DIGNITY. To people, saying I don’t like cheese is like me hearing someone say, “I don’t like chocolate”: a stab in the heart, an explosion in the brain and an instant ulcer in the stomach. So, I kind of understand the pain, astonishment and frustration that they may feel…
Buuuuut… if Jararenk doesn’t point out the fact that I have ¼ French blood and if I manage to carry a normal conversation with MF about mobylettes, this is most likely to happen: “So you are Armenian?”… no. But I can’t blame them though: my last name ends with “an”, my Arabic is “special”, I love spicy food, I am beautiful and I am in love with a Boghossian (By Boghossian I mean Oscar Isaac- in The Promise- who doesn’t read my blog, sadly). At this point, I am a French Lebanese, wannabe Armenian, trying to marry into an Italian family (it is harder than I thought).
Sometimes though, I wish I could just spray a magic mist in the air and make all stereotypes (and determined bitchy mosquitos) disappear whenever I meet new people from different backgrounds (I am stereotype-guilty as well, obviously). But then I remember that without an icebreaker, I will have to have real hobbies to talk about and learn about politics to start a conversation… sooo… tell me, what kind of baguette are you?