Tamara Reichman9 May 2017
I was floating down the streets of Paris at 40 kilometres per second, my arms straining against his denim jacket, laundry powder and cigarette smoke and joyful fear. A thousand indie rock songs spinning in my ears. Like a dream from a movie where I couldn’t belong. I was in Paris in summer, and I was having the time of my life. He had curly hair and converses and he was Into Music.
smoky glass army past
It was one of my first weeks as a volunteer in the desert eco-village of Lotan, as the relentless sun scorched onto my tanned shoulders and I was 20 metres up a date palm, up to my elbows sorting sticky, squashed dates. It was 2 pm, nearly time to climb onto the tractor that would take us back for a hearty lunch of three different types of pasta, two types of tomato sauce and one type of salad: Israeli salad. The other volunteers and I were participating in the usual end of work banter, until Yaki, the kind, father-of-four, Neil Patrick Harris lookalike, communist, rap-loving, crazy boss of the date plantation scaled our tree with his bare hands and said something that would guide my journey in the months to come.
Today I bought silver hoop earrings to be like my new friend.
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