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November 20, 2005
A Nobel Prize-Winning Dinner
After an hour of misery commuting from the Palexpo, we finally arrived at the Diplomat. Other friends and colleagues had gathered there, and they were trying to coordinate enough taxis to get to the restaurant.
"Where is it?" I asked someone.
"In Gammarth."
Ugh. After the most frustrating bus ride of the week, now we had to get in a taxi, go all the way back to the Palexpo, and continue a few more kilometers to Gammarth. Why on earth couldn't this information have been relayed to us earlier? Fortunately, there were lots of old friends to comfort us. Suzanne Stein was more than happy to let me vent for a while, just to get it out of my system. (I owe you one, Suz.)
Our caravan of taxis drove north past Lake Tunis and the Palexpo, arriving at the Gammarth Abou Nawas Hotel's Moroccan restaurant. It was an elegant affair, with beautiful north African tiles in abundance, delicate candle lighting and a trio of musicians performing wonderful malouf folk music. The restaurant was mostly empty, though I recognized one of my fellow civil society delegates at one of the other tables; I waved to him but didn't go over to say hello, embarrassed by the fact that I couldn't remember his name to save my life. All I could recall was that he'd served as the moderator and dragoman of a contentious human rights caucus meeting in Hammamet last year. He was sitting with another delegate and a middle-aged couple; maybe his parents had come on holiday from France?
Anyway, the rest of us feasted on a wonderful dinner - a fine selection of mezzes, salads , tagines and couscous dishes. At one point a belly dancer came out; I tried to appear as if I was focused on my food because I've always been a belly dancer magnet, if you will - wherever I travel, if there's a public dancing performance, invariably the dancer pulls me on stage. Seriously, from Bolivia to Cuba to Dubai, I've been subjected to horrific embarrassment. There are two types of men in the world - those who relish swinging with a belly dancer, and those who fear it. I fear it. Thankfully, I was spared yet another dance, largely because enough of the other WSA men were more than happy to jump on the dance floor, even without her request. She actually seemed somewhat unprepared for the attention, and even stepped away from the men so they wouldn't get too close.
The last man to dance with her was an absolute treat - he was the gentleman with the French delegate whose name I forgot. Unlike every other man who danced with her, he knew what he was doing. Quite astonishingly, he was a superb flamenco dancer. His passionate, highly precise performance transformed the whole ethos of the belly dance. The music hadn't changed - it was still Moroccan, but the sheer act of dancing flamenco brought out the Andalusian elements in the music. Watching him perform was an absolute treat.
Once the dance was over, an Iranian colleague nervously got up and walked over to their table. He spoke to them for a moment and then came back.
"They will let me take a picture," he said excitedly.
"With the flamenco dancer? " I asked. That seemed odd.
"No, with Ms. Ebadi," he replied, grinning from ear to ear.
I turned around and looked at the table. I looked at the woman with the unnamed French delegate. The human rights caucus delegate. Suddenly I realized we had been sitting across from Nobel Peace Prize winner Shirin Ebadi for the last three hours. I hadn't even recognized her, despite the fact I'd seen her a couple of times over the course of the week.
The Iranian man asked if I would take their picture. I went over with him and he sat down with Ms. Ebadi, speaking in Farsi. The Frenchman said hello to me while they chatted. Boy I felt bad I couldn't remember his name. Ebadi then said hello to me in English.
"Hello, it's an honor to meet you," I replied. "Thank you for coming to speak at the summit to represent civil society. I was very moved by your remarks."
"Thank you," she said slowly in English. "You are very welcome."
I snapped several pictures of her with the Iranian man's camera and mine before returning to our group. A little while later, as we were getting ready to return to our various hotels, he asked me to email him the photo of him with Ms. Ebadi.
"Would you also like me to post it on my blog?" I asked.
"Oh yes, that would be wonderful!" he replied immediately.
"Are you sure about that?" I said, somewhat surprised. "Might not that cause you some, err, problems when you go home to Iran?"
"That is a good point," he said, just beginning to think it through. "Let me wonder about it for a while and then I shall tell you yes or no."
Meanwhile, I started talking with some of my friends about their plans for the next day. Many of them were planning to tour Tunis or Carthage, then go to dinner at the home of one of our Tunisian colleagues. I had been invited as well, but I'd planned to go to Kairouan the next day. The more they talked about it, the more I wished I could stay just one more day, since I'd barely had any quality time with them. Alex then offered to put me up in his room at the Hotel Diplomat, since he had a second bed. Why not? Kairouan will still be there on Sunday.
Before getting in my taxi, the Iranian man approached me. "You know, I have thought about it some more.... Please trim me out of the photo before you blog it."
Posted by acarvin at November 20, 2005 2:50 PM
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