A Blast from the Past

–Wind-borne

I finally got off the resort, and true to form, I did it in style.

You might have guessed, from reading this blog, I get about. In fact you could say I’m kinda like influenza – common & wind-borne. Though, while I might be as common as muck, I’m very rarely airborne. Flying is strictly off the cards for me. I’ll travel by coach, boat, train, camel, rickshaw, cab, donkey and many other fine methods of transportation with pleasure; but the only way you’re getting me on a plane is with a tranquilizer gun. To be honest, I couldn’t even cross the Brooklyn Bridge without turning tail half way across because I could see through the wooden slats in the footpath (pathetic – I know). That said, I was so glad to leave the beachside resort – I flew off that bitch (pictured below).

My exit from the apartment, which was in a place called Saint-Laurent-du-Var, wasn’t completely plain sailing, mind you. The landlady refused to give me back my four hundred euro deposit. She just walked in, looked me square in the eye, and said: I can’t give you back your deposit today, Cheyelle. She said it wasn’t her fault. She said she would give it back to me over the weekend. She said she was waiting for the next tenant’s cheque to clear. She said a lot of stuff. In fairness to her, I think what happened was, she (and her husband) made some bad business decisions, and when things went wrong they needed a fall guy – me. It’s also worth mentioning that I only had an oral contract with them and the rent I had agreed to pay them – €800-a-month – was extremely reasonable. I don't believe they were bad people.

It still hurt though, mainly because I had been completely honest and straight with them. Eventually I told her to keep the money, but she swore she’d give it back…I’m still waiting. It’s okay. That money’s cursed now; it can’t bring no one any joy.

I’ll keep it real, I cried. And when I did, the landlady hugged me (it was a four hundred euro hug, cos the bitch still kept my money). It’s not like me to cry (I’m like my mother – I never cry but when I do it’s like I’ll never stop). I think (the crying) was because I’d been up cleaning since 5am – the place was sparkling – and as you know, early mornings aren’t my thing. Additionally, I had budgeted that €400 for my next place and because I had already withdrawn my daily limit on my debit card, I was really worried about the prospect of not having the full amount that I had agreed with the owner of my new property, which I was supposed to be moving into later that day (have you ever noticed how contagious misery is?). Letting the sadness infect others was not an option for me – I was not about to pay the pain forward! I would have sold my clothes on the Promenade des Anglais before I’d have broken my word to the owner of the property I was about to move into (she’s a French-Canadian lady and I really like her).

Ultimately, I procured the missing euros (an ugly currency) by buying them from a bureau de change – on my debit card – from Nice Airport. The French-Canadian lady was none the wiser (unless, of course, she noticed as I counted out her money that my eyes were ever-so-slightly bloodshot). Truthfully I don’t think I’ll ever see that €400 or the landlady ever again – and, along with that apartment in Saint-Laurent-du-Var, that might not be such a bad thing.

In a way it’s quite funny. Looking back, I had been extremely diligent about not getting pickpocketed by one of the gangs of juvenile North-African immigrants common in the South of France. Yet as it turned out, I, myself, the descendant of a North African immigrant, got mugged-off by a 60-year-old French lady…a woman old enough to be my mother! Brahahahahaha. I’m laughing now, but it did knock the wind out of my sails. For about four days after the incident the sadness took a hold of me. It’s no big deal – it’s over now. There’s a time to fight and a time for flight. That occasion called for the latter.

I was at the end of the pier, which for some unexplained reason was covered in blue Astroturf, and the man said, in pidgin English: “When rope is tense – resist.” He was talking to me like I was his favourite Ox, about to plough his field. He continued: “Don’t let boat drag you off edge – RESIST. When, and only when, I shout ‘NOW’ – you run. When you reach the end: jump.” And with that he slapped me on the back and walked away, as if he was about to go and fetch me a carrot for being so obedient.

© English Heritage

I dunno what possessed me to do it, but I did it. It was the strangest thing; it wasn’t scary at all…not in the slightest. In fact I didn’t feel as though I was being hurled through the air somewhere between the Star Jasmin flowerbeds of hillside villas, and the seabed starfish. Being dragged by a speedboat whizzing across the Mediterranean whilst redefining my fear of heights. It was more like I was completely still, and it was everything else – the yachts, the mountains, the buildings and people that were hurtling through the air. It was as though I was the airless night and they were the bullets. I fell still and everything around me moved – just like that time when, believing my life was in danger from the iC1, I became housebound. I thought about those years…the storm I sailed into when I left New York. I thought about the fear, the fight, the lies, the violence and the inertia of it all. I thought of Liverpool and its city walls (pictured, right). The city walls that protected me when I was lying low in the Ropewalks (my neighbourhood). And then it occurred to me, up there, on my own, on the wind: I can’t fly and I never will. But all around me, all around us, are things; people; places and moments just crying out for us to let them lift us up. Hold us aloft. Up, up out of the way of the bullets, up out of the way of the past, up out of the way of our lost self.

Today is my mother’s birthday. Had she lived up to her title, I would have been wishing her a happy 60^th birthday. There is a time to fight, and there is a time for flight. Jump.

–Cheyelle Omar

Ps. I hope this post lifted you, cos it cost me €400+.

Update:

Sometime around September €400 was deposited into my bank account. Although I didn’t receive an email, I presume the landlady deposited the money. After all, she did say she’d pay me back. As it turns out, I blocked the drains (with Omar droppings) of the property I’m currently renting and it cost me just over €400 to have the problem fixed – so that money really was cursed! LMAO.

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