But as I gazed upon it, I saw a masterpiece. I saw grace in its curves, a defiant resilience in its knots. I imagined the storms it had withstood, and the sunsets it had silently admired. Its imperfections housed ingrained stories, and its scars whispered secrets.
From my perch high above the valley at my cousin Sadek Hussains’ farm, I marvelled at Botswana’s vast and golden landscape, a breathtaking panorama. Beauty, it seemed, was not a trait to be measured or judged. It resided in perception, in the stories we tell ourselves. For the beholder shapes the world, finding wonder in what others might overlook.
And in that lies its truest form. Her smile was a paradox provocative yet elusive, a puzzle I could never quite piece together. Her gaze held steady, unyielding as if daring me to unlock her secrets. I had encountered her many times before, each meeting leaving me both captivated and confounded. The more I tried to unravel her mysteries, the more deeply they seemed buried.
This time, I was not alone. A crowd had gathered, their eyes fixed on her timeless face. How many others, I wondered, had been ensnared by that enigmatic smile? Should I feel jealous, watching their awe mirror my own? Yet how could I begrudge them? She was not mine to possess. Mona Lisa belonged to the world a masterpiece to be shared, admired and puzzled over endlessly.
And as I joined the sea of gazes, I realised her allure lay not in answers but in the eternal mystery she so effortlessly preserved. The Louvre, the largest art museum in the world, stands as a tribute to human creativity and history. Nestled in the heart of Paris—the eternal City of Light—it shines as one of the many jewels in the city’s illustrious crown. With my visit, my bucket list grew lighter, as I happily crossed off “springtime in Paris,” a dream finally realised.
Amongst Paris’ many treasures, the Eiffel Tower soared into the heavens, its iron latticework a dramatic statement of elegance and ingenuity. As I stood beneath its towering frame, it stole my breath with an ease no photograph could capture.
Though far smaller than Dubai’s imposing Burj Khalifa, the Eiffel Tower possessed something the sleek Emirati skyscraper could not rival soul. Its timeless charm, rich history, and unmistakable silhouette left the modern monolith in its shadow, a reminder that true greatness transcends mere height. I carry fond memories of Paris, made all the sweeter by the realisation that my passable French sharpened with a bit of practice smoothed my journey.
The French, as many will attest, are notably warmer when you make the effort to speak their language. For this, I owe an enormous merci to my high school French teacher, Mr. Rory MacDonald. His name, of course, conjures not the vineyards of Bordeaux or the sun-dappled villages of Provence, but the proud, rugged highlands of Scotland.
Yet it was this extraordinary man who ensured I studied French throughout high school. As time ambles forward, quietly filling the rearview mirror of life, a few figures shine brighter in memory and Mr. MacDonald is one of them.
Recently, we reconnected, and he insists I call him Rory. But in my mind, he remains Mr. MacDonald, a name spoken with respect and gratitude. Rory, let me speak not only for myself but also for my classmates, Tina Pope, Gary Burrows, and every student lucky enough to learn from you: your lessons shaped more than language they shaped lives.
I remember the first time I saw you. We sat in class, an anxious silence hanging heavy in the air, our anticipation palpable. Then the door opened, and you entered with a confident stride precise, athletic, assured. Your presence filled the room, bold yet never intimidating.
You moved to the front of the class and set your books down with quiet purpose. The afternoon light caught your hair, the fiery hue of an African sunset, while your neatly trimmed beard framed a jawline that seemed almost sculpted. Your glasses hinted at depth, magnifying the kind, intelligent eyes beneath them.
Before you even uttered your first bonjour, the apprehension in the room dissolved, replaced by an inexplicable sense of ease. It was a gift an innate ability to connect, to inspire trust a gift reserved for the rarest of individuals.
It’s a gift that, without a word, began to shape my own path forward. It was at that moment, Rory, that I knew we would be eternal friends a person etched into my memory forever. Your French classes were never dull, never tedious.
They were vibrant, filled with laughter, and punctuated by your ever-amusing stories. Each lesson felt less like learning and more like a shared adventure, a tribute to your rare ability to teach with both skill and joy.
It was because of you that I chose to take French throughout my high school years, a decision that shaped more than my academics it enriched my life. Rory, you are not just an educator of the highest caliber but an unforgettable, extraordinary human being.
Merci pour tout, mon ami cher.
