Monday, 8 April 2019
The true horror stories in modern Paris part 109
My mother has been staying with me, thus I am late updating my blog. I have a lot to make up to her after my poor judge of characters led to Mme. Landlord’s ruining my mother’s short stay in Paris last year. We both thought my mother would never be strong enough to travel to France from Japan, but Mme. Landlord’s malice woke up the fighting spirit within my mother that her health actually turned for the better. Voila, one year later she withstood the long flight back to Paris. This time she is staying longer as that dragon Mme. Landlord has left the building. My injured wrist will never regain its former strength, the result of the abusive labor demanded by Mme. Landlord, but it has healed to the point that I can somehow live normally. The obsessed woman may still wander back into the garbage room, I'm sure, but still the dark cloud has been lifted. Those challenging characters may have been put on the earth to serve others in an unusual way.
You may then ask ‘Even the restaurant from Hell, that is still acting a menace to the neighborhood by mocking every regulation possible to break, has its purpose? Yes, and I say this not because the restaurant from Hell has finally started getting bad reviews…from the real French clients (not friends or acquaintances) accusing deception in the quality of their wine and passable food which does not merit its high price tabs. The lesson here was not about a mere 'karma for bad guys getting what they deserve'. I can’t speak for the other residents who are exposed to the hellish music of the restaurant, but to me the long trying experience may have been to cure one big flaw of mine--the bleeding heart. While it sounds kind, the bleeding heart is not a virtue at all. It is a denial of the real responsibility while trying to look a saint about it. They often take the God as their hostage to gloss over their coward acts. In my case, I have not yet picked a religion, thus I have never hidden behind the God, but I must say that all my life I have been sympathetic towards the minorities of any sort. I was always a sucker for soliciting pleas and god knows how many people have taken advantages of my disposition.
And yet I have been such a snob telling myself 'it is nobler to be a duped than becoming a deceiver'…until four years in Paris has smashed some sense through my thick skull that the acts of bleeding heart is similar to some parents who over spoil their children, a sinister kind of child abuse. It helps the so-called underdogs turn into monsters who mock honest hard works but agile in swindling from others. If you have been reading my true horror episodes in Paris, you would know that I have fallen prey to variety of them on so many levels. I now regard with bitterness the young people who defend the victims against anyone. It will be decades before she or he would realize that she/he had been used by the victim businesses.
So for my readers who must have been puzzled as to why I did not opt for revenge against the people behind the restaurant from Hell, this was the reason. I had been in a long round about way responsible in festering the mentality of victim business. I was made to confront the result of my smug bleeding heart after refusing to acknowledge it for a loooong time. This realization will save me from falling for wrong companions in the future. Unlike some women with gold-digging heart, I have always fallen for losers with a helpless demeanor. An angel must have watched over me because something always happened that put those problematic men far away from me just before they could sink their fangs into my life, but the guardian angel must have decided that I should not get myself into further troubles and thus taught me a big hard lesson because even women could take an advantage of me. The recent example being Mme. Landlord, a seemingly harmless old woman.
My newly gained concept has pushed me towards solitude, but I was not allowed this because I still needed to rely on tradesmen to install phonic insulation onto my walls and the floor to combat the noise travelling up from the restaurant from Hell. My landlord has given me the permission as long as I paid for it, but he offered through the agent to freshen up the old kitchen and bathroom too so long as I would oversee the work to make sure the cost was contained within his budget. This sounded great until it put me into the direct contact with the tradesmen. I would not use the term Horror stories, but those vultures, sought their potential prey in me. My guardian angel was not done with me with her lessons and thus a new chapter begins in my True Horror Stories in modern Paris.
To be continued.