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The potential hum-drum of an evening in Nablus where there are no bars or cafes open beyond a certain time (about 8pm) was interrupted by an unexpected invitation upstairs.Let me explain something of the building I am living in. It is a block of apartments known by name in Nablus, as it tends to house the upper strata of society here. We are fortunate to live here as the neighbours are very relaxed and don't really seem to care too much that a bunch of foreigners, both boys AND girls hang out together. A tolerant and liberal group of neighbours by Nablus standards and wealthy, very wealthy. This perception was not contradicted by what Bonnie and I found when we visited the man whom I had met a few times who owns a large vintage American car and whose distinctive pipe smell eerily haunts the lift. Amr is a ball gown and wedding dress tycoon as it were. His grandfather started out years ago in Nablus as a humble tailor. Now he imports dresses from around the world and ships them off to whoever wants them. This method seems to have worked for him - he owns an entire penthouse suite on the top floor of a well-known apartment block. I shall describe the apartment below.
We were visiting because he had attended a concert and talent-spotted Bonnie, one of the volunteers, as being perfectly suited to modelling the collection for his new season's catalogue. Essentially, she is blond and pale-skinned and totally foreign-looking. Slightly alarmed at the invitation to ascend from our lowly ranks on the fourth floor on the pretence of modelling wedding dresses, Bonnie requested that I accompanied her to ensure that she was not walking into a penthouse play-den of iniquity. Curiosity meant I was only too happy to oblige.
The first thing was the noticeable warmth. It took me about an hour to realise that this was emanating from a large patio heater in the centre of the room which looked so futuristic I had assumed that it was merely a vast designer sculpture. We were greeted at the door, not by a sleezy man in a silken dressing gown, blinging gold chains and a hairy chest, but a fifty-something Palestinian with a grey moustache, his wife, two children and a small highland terrier called Icy. We were shown to luxuriant leather sofas which faced a huge television, placed in the centre of a glass-fronted dresser full of, well, useless by obviously highly ornate and valuable-looking trinkets. The next three hours was spent making conversation about how Music Harvest was going, how Amr makes a living and how much we liked Nablus. We were plied with a3sir toot, a very sweet juice which I think from its name should be mulberry or something like it, followed by tea. The crowning glory of it all though was the producing of what I think epitomises Palestinian culinary preferences. This delicacy is called Latayif and consists of nuts or soft cheese deep fried in pastry and served with a diabetes-inducing ladle of syrup. Kevin, who appeared at just the right time to benefit from a fresh serving of it spent the next two hours dying for a glass of water.
Amr then wanted to show Bonnie the sort of setting he was expecting to photograph her in. He lead us up the mini staircase into the main entertaining room of his penthouse. It was a vision to behold, a glorious vision of gaudy, vulgar wealth, in other words a totally acceptable and enviable display of riches by Middle Eastern standards. The whole room, which was the size of our two flats combined, oozed opulence from the tiniest tinkle of the chandaliers. All that would have been required to complete it in my opinion was a large white grand piano. The room was stuffed with large cream and gold sofas.So creamy white I wondered whether they had furnished the room so that Icy's dog hairs would blend in therefore saving precious money off the cleaning bill, not that they'd have to worry about that sort of thing. Then I thought it more likely they bought the dog to match the décor. There were expensive golden and glittering objects dripping off the walls and ceilings in true palatial style as far as the eye could see. However for me the highlight of it all was a magnificent golden peacock lamp which arose from the fluffy white carpet vision-like in cast gold idol style that would have made Moses blush. It was literally crowned with the lampshade which was, again gold, upholstered with real peacock feathers. I would pay good money to take that object home and marvel at it from the comfort of my own worn-out armchair. Fortunately I don't think I'll be persuading them to part with it any time soon, nor do I think I'll be allowed across the border with it. I don't think the chosen people would permit the exportation of idolatry from the Promised Land.
The rest of the evening was spent pleasantly watching as Bonnie tried on ('just to check her size') one very large meringue-barbie-style wedding dress. It was most pleasing and, for the first time in a long time I was thanking my lucky stars I was not a size 10 all over. Most importantly though, I was greatful that I am not blonde.
However, I do wonder whether my presence and model potential has not gone completely unnoticed in Nablus. The other day I was walking down the road we all live on when, as I passed one of the numerous clothes shops I noticed a lady at the window staring at me. I thought nothing of it as I was rather late for an appointment as one normally is in Palestine, and I hurried on my way, past the mannequins which happened to have dark curly wigs as well as displaying a lovely line in those velour tracksuits that Palestinians like to wear around the house.
Today I was passing the same shop. The woman who had stared at me before was there again and gave me a grin and pointed at something in the window. It took me a few seconds to realise she was pointing at the mannequins. They had all been given haircuts to, er, resemble mine. I think I shall build the revolution slowly, wig by curly wig.
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