I'd been needing to have my car washed, and the automatic wash next to the Shell station looked like the solution. You can get ticketed here for a dirty car, and I don't believe in tickets. But I wasn't sure how it worked, so last night when Alyssa and I were out, I asked her if we could stop there together. Her presence would lend me confidence to figure it out.
She agreed, but when we pulled up next to the car wash office, she informed me that she would stay in the car and pray for me. Um, okay. At least we could see a man in the office, so as long as I could communicate with him, he would show me how to use the automatic wash. I slung my Baggallini over my shoulder and stepped inside.
"Hello," "How do I use the car wash?" The usual pleasantries and necessities. He spoke passable English, and showed me how the car went into the wash. Well, yes. I've seen these things before, but where do I pay, and where do I sit while the car is washed (because there were two chambers, and the flashing sign did not seem to be giving directions)?
"Oh, you pay me." It wasn't expensive, so I forked over my $2.60. Then he asked me if I knew about computers and Microsoft Word and pushed his laptop toward me. Then he walked out to the car, motioned for Alyssa to join me inside, shared that this is only the third automatic car wash in the country, and pulled my car into the car wash himself.
Is this the usual treatment? I sat down and looked at his computer. "Alyssa, I'm not sure what he wants. He acted like he wanted me to fix his computer."
"Oh, he probably just wants you to use his computer while you're waiting," she guessed. So we both stared at it until he came back in, no car in sight. He asked again about Microsoft Word, and we discerned that he wanted to find out where it was. It was a brand new computer, not loaded with Microsoft Word, which we had to explain to him apologetically after poking around for a minute.
Then the questions started: "Where are you from? What religion are you? What are you doing here?" He was surprised at our religion, so I explained pretty emphatically how much following JC means to us.
I practiced my language, trying to be polite without being too friendly.
The questions got a little more personal: "Where do you live? How old are you? [I've been told that they are not supposed to ask this question of women, so I smilingly refused to answer, even though I normally tell anyone my age.]" I'm older than you think, I thought, with appreciation for the Jean P etiquette class that provided that answer. Then, "Is she [Alyssa] your daughter [thanks a lot, though she is 14 years younger!]? How many children do you have?"
"I am not married." Oh, dear. Here it comes.
"You are not married!"
"I am waiting for a great man from God."
He misheard. "From Iraq?!"
"No, no--from God!" Then I seized upon a straw of hope. "How many children do you have?" I returned.
"Three," he answered proudly, and found their picture on his cell phone. They were cute, and Alyssa and I admired them with appropriate briefness.
Phew, I thought temporarily. He's married. He's not hitting on . . . oh, dear. What if he's looking for more than one?
"How old are your children?" I'm certain I asked.
"Twenty-eight."
"Uh, no. Your children."
He answered quickly, and I didn't catch all of the numbers. Then he found a picture of his wife. She was pretty in the picture, and he was proud that she was a stay-at-home mom.
"How old is she?" I asked.
"Twenty-four. Or twenty-five." He probably wasn't a forgetful husband as much as consistent with a culture that doesn't emphasize birth dates or ages.
He'd been impertinent with me, so I got a little bit cheeky. "Is she happy?"
"Of course," he laughed. I laughed with him. Maybe I should have asked if he was happy, because in hindsight, this could have all been an advertisement for his happy home, not just a simple friendly exchange.
"Well, I would like to meet your wife sometime." Emphasis on your wife.
"Oh, you are welcome in my home any time! It is close!"
"Well, you ask your wife what she thinks, and if she wants me to visit, maybe I will."
Off and on throughout this conversation, I'd asked him where my car was. It was not in the automatic washing machine. I think the other employees had it out back. It took plenty long enough for the office man to have a good chat with Alyssa and me. Finally he went and asked where it was, and they brought it around.
I asked the man for his name (in my good local dialect, which made him chuckle), but because I want to ask one of my non-local guy friends to visit him and discern his motives. I've interacted with slimy men, and he wouldn't have been on that list. If he's a genuinely nice guy who wants to learn and practice English and meet westerners, he can come to a local language institute. If he's looking for another wife, not it.
As we got back in the car, Alyssa commented, "Maybe I shouldn't pray next time that the man will have compassion on you." Um, yeah. That was probably not necessary.
I looked at the car wash receipt this morning. "Hand wash" was checked. So much for the automatic wash. Maybe I paid for the chat.
She agreed, but when we pulled up next to the car wash office, she informed me that she would stay in the car and pray for me. Um, okay. At least we could see a man in the office, so as long as I could communicate with him, he would show me how to use the automatic wash. I slung my Baggallini over my shoulder and stepped inside.
"Hello," "How do I use the car wash?" The usual pleasantries and necessities. He spoke passable English, and showed me how the car went into the wash. Well, yes. I've seen these things before, but where do I pay, and where do I sit while the car is washed (because there were two chambers, and the flashing sign did not seem to be giving directions)?
"Oh, you pay me." It wasn't expensive, so I forked over my $2.60. Then he asked me if I knew about computers and Microsoft Word and pushed his laptop toward me. Then he walked out to the car, motioned for Alyssa to join me inside, shared that this is only the third automatic car wash in the country, and pulled my car into the car wash himself.
Is this the usual treatment? I sat down and looked at his computer. "Alyssa, I'm not sure what he wants. He acted like he wanted me to fix his computer."
"Oh, he probably just wants you to use his computer while you're waiting," she guessed. So we both stared at it until he came back in, no car in sight. He asked again about Microsoft Word, and we discerned that he wanted to find out where it was. It was a brand new computer, not loaded with Microsoft Word, which we had to explain to him apologetically after poking around for a minute.
Then the questions started: "Where are you from? What religion are you? What are you doing here?" He was surprised at our religion, so I explained pretty emphatically how much following JC means to us.
I practiced my language, trying to be polite without being too friendly.
The questions got a little more personal: "Where do you live? How old are you? [I've been told that they are not supposed to ask this question of women, so I smilingly refused to answer, even though I normally tell anyone my age.]" I'm older than you think, I thought, with appreciation for the Jean P etiquette class that provided that answer. Then, "Is she [Alyssa] your daughter [thanks a lot, though she is 14 years younger!]? How many children do you have?"
"I am not married." Oh, dear. Here it comes.
"You are not married!"
"I am waiting for a great man from God."
He misheard. "From Iraq?!"
"No, no--from God!" Then I seized upon a straw of hope. "How many children do you have?" I returned.
"Three," he answered proudly, and found their picture on his cell phone. They were cute, and Alyssa and I admired them with appropriate briefness.
Phew, I thought temporarily. He's married. He's not hitting on . . . oh, dear. What if he's looking for more than one?
"How old are your children?" I'm certain I asked.
"Twenty-eight."
"Uh, no. Your children."
He answered quickly, and I didn't catch all of the numbers. Then he found a picture of his wife. She was pretty in the picture, and he was proud that she was a stay-at-home mom.
"How old is she?" I asked.
"Twenty-four. Or twenty-five." He probably wasn't a forgetful husband as much as consistent with a culture that doesn't emphasize birth dates or ages.
He'd been impertinent with me, so I got a little bit cheeky. "Is she happy?"
"Of course," he laughed. I laughed with him. Maybe I should have asked if he was happy, because in hindsight, this could have all been an advertisement for his happy home, not just a simple friendly exchange.
"Well, I would like to meet your wife sometime." Emphasis on your wife.
"Oh, you are welcome in my home any time! It is close!"
"Well, you ask your wife what she thinks, and if she wants me to visit, maybe I will."
Off and on throughout this conversation, I'd asked him where my car was. It was not in the automatic washing machine. I think the other employees had it out back. It took plenty long enough for the office man to have a good chat with Alyssa and me. Finally he went and asked where it was, and they brought it around.
I asked the man for his name (in my good local dialect, which made him chuckle), but because I want to ask one of my non-local guy friends to visit him and discern his motives. I've interacted with slimy men, and he wouldn't have been on that list. If he's a genuinely nice guy who wants to learn and practice English and meet westerners, he can come to a local language institute. If he's looking for another wife, not it.
As we got back in the car, Alyssa commented, "Maybe I shouldn't pray next time that the man will have compassion on you." Um, yeah. That was probably not necessary.
I looked at the car wash receipt this morning. "Hand wash" was checked. So much for the automatic wash. Maybe I paid for the chat.
Posts
1 comment:
From IRAQ???
hahaha...
Post a Comment