“If you want to write about Syria,” Tawfik whispered in my ear as we stood on the patio of the English academy where we both taught, “you should write about me. I can tell you lots of interesting things.” His offer put me in an awkward position. On one hand, it’s always seemed to me that reporting on Middle Eastern wars should be the exclusive province of well-informed people, and I wouldn’t know a Ba’athist from a bath mat. On... Read more
Turks don’t approve of eating on the street. Or rather, their idea of eating on the street involves sitting down at a café table and placing their orders with a garson — they take their word for “waiter” directly from the French. The New York version of street eating, where the diner wolfs his food straight from the wrapper while on the move, strikes them as uncouth. And so must I, because that’s how I take at least two of... Read more
Somewhere in the Hagia Sophia, directly under the bombsights of the six-winged angels soaring across the east pendentives, lives a cat. I saw him when I visited this past April Fools’ Day. Unimpressed equally by the mosaics and the Arabic calligraphy spelling out God’s names on roundels, he looked interested only in napping. For this, it seemed, he’d found the perfect nook. The crowds’ polyglot cooing did nothing to rouse him. If the visitors had spent more than a few... Read more
It would be nice to report that I begin every morning with a four-mile run, but it wouldn’t be true. Per immemorial custom, I begin it with a cigarette. Then I rifle my pockets for spare lira and stumble downstairs and across the street to the local convenience store for an ekmek, which I consume on the spot. Only then – girded by carbs and nicotine – do I haul myself, at a rate of seven miles per hour, give... Read more
In December, 1960, a detachment of French Foreign Legion paratroopers killed three FLN rebels thought to be former harkis, or colonial soldiers, who had deserted to the enemy. To help military intelligence identify the dead men, Legionnaires beheaded the corpses — with a pen knife — and presented the heads to an officer, who photographed them. Once emptied of strategic value, the heads were thrown into the bushes. During lunch that day, Simon Murray, one of the two assigned to... Read more
It would begin in April, when the stiff winds first mellowed into a breeze and blue sky first began pushing breaches in the cloud banks. I’d be in class, trying to focus while some tenured mummy droned charmlessly on, when all of a sudden, through the window would slip the essence of springtime. One caress would be all it took to render me MIA. On a good day, I’d zone out on the fresh, pink soles of some girl in... Read more
I admit I’m going to miss “The Whore of Mensa.” And “Match Wits with Inspector Ford.” And — what the hell — “Lovborg’s Women Considered” has some great lines, too: Dorf: Oh, Netta! All is lost! Lost! Netta: For a weak man, perhaps, but not if one has — courage. Dorf: Courage? Netta: To tell Parson Smathers he can never hope to walk again and that for the rest of his life he must skip everywhere. Why not face facts?... Read more
Jen Caron is a good soul — at her worst, perhaps, an hysterical ninny, but still a very decent person at (skinny, white) bottom. This, I insist, is a fair takeaway from the piece she wrote for xoJane’s “It Happened to Me” section titled “There Are No Black People in My Yoga Class And I’m Suddenly Feeling Uncomfortable with It.” It’s an inelegant title, and sad to say the piece delivers exactly what it promises. At her yoga studio, Caron... Read more
Last night, for the first time in many months, I took a drink. Beneath the accidents of appearance, the cheap wine was really the Most Precious Blood of Our Lord, Jesus Christ, which is the real news. For about as many months — nine to be exact — I’d gone without it and the corresponding Body. Catholics are required to commune once every year, so any Eucharistic fast that runs nine months is really pushing it. Nobody likes a tease,... Read more
A few days ago I did something stupid. I Googled the guy whose sidekick I was back in grad school. He’d basically been crowned king of the world, with fellowships, awards, and his very own bureau at a publication of record. Then, because I was on a roll, I did something even stupider. I visited the Facebook page of an ex-girlfriend. In each of her pictures, she wore an expression of witless animal enjoyment, the kind you only see on... Read more
Diary of a Wimpy Catholic
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In