Dawn Fabbro

“She wonders whether she will be able to talk about the hospitality of the people she has met without seeming to be trotting out the sort of pseudo-third-world speech she loathes from having heard it so often, and which is usually followed by some comment about the sense of rhythm or the contentment despite their poverty of the people 'over there'. This generosity - she thinks, as Fathi gets behind the steering wheel - is a double-edge sword: it can be turned against the giver. In giving of his time to others, he gives the impression that he has time to spare, that he does not know what to do with his days and the person he is helping finds himself thinking that he is helping the person who is helping him by giving him something to do. Most Parisians - she includes herself in this number - who leave foreigners, whether or not they are tourists, with the impression that they are incorrigibly rude are people who believe that they have better things to do than help others, even if they have only left their home to go to an office where they are miserable, to shop at the nearest supermarket, or to go for a drink with friends. She tries to remember the last time she was deflected from her course, whether actual or symbolic, by something unexpected. She cannot think of one, and, and she thinks that, perhaps, this is what she was looking for when she agreed to go up to the mountain ridge with Noureddine: proof that she can still surprise herself, since she has never given anyone else the opportunity to do so.”
― Alice Zeniter, The Art of Losing