Can a day be all terrible, horrible, no good, and very bad?
It started out fine, a normal day of language class with my fun fellow students and wise teacher. Then running errands at the massive grocery store. Well, maybe more pacing the aisles in women's clothing, alternating fingering pretty scarves and talking on my cell about apartment prospects with a couple of people involved in the decision. Things got a little messy after that. Throw in a little financial tension, uncertainty, misunderstanding, and change and, well, my response was less than stellar.
I cried it out and recognized that the real enemy wasn't people. It never is. I scheduled an appointment to talk to others who help me make decisions and headed to their home after dinner. It was a short talk because of time constraints, but they helped me see where I was wrong and to identify the way forward. They also reminded me that negotiations are a normal part of life, even hard negotiations. I finished the talk tired, but peaceful.
I drove the five minutes back to my temporary apartment and discovered that I had left my computer at my friends' house. Back I went. The second time I parked my car in front of my apartment building, I realized that my apartment key wasn't in the cup holder where I normally leave it. Hmm. I hauled my bag and computer inside and started hunting for the key. Like, going through the bag two times, three times, another time, a little more frantic each time. The apartment door was locked, so that much was good. I had no recollection of what I'd done with the key, so I was half-afraid I might have absentmindedly left it in the lock.
So I screwed up my courage and knocked on the neighbor's door. I'd been wanting to meet my neighbors, but in the two weeks I've been staying here, I've not seen any of them. Not too surprising, since they fast all day, and many stay up all night. It was around 9:30 PM by then, so it was an okay time to knock. It was a young mother, two small children around her feet. I asked if she had seen my key. No, she hadn't. Maybe her husband had. She would ask him when he came home.
I went outside and looked around where my car had been parked. Someone in the next building over had parked their car diagonally over the spot where I had been parked, so it was nearly impossible to see underneath. I returned to my neighbor and asked if she had a flashlight. No, she didn't, but her husband could check under the car when he returned home.
Side note here: For every "restriction" placed on women in a culture like this, there is a husband, brother, or father who has to do that thing for her. I'm still processing whether the harder job is the woman's for not being able to crawl under a car with a flashlight or the man's for having to do so uncomplaining because his wife is being kind to some stupid foreigner woman who lost her keys. Some of these guys are really patient in having to do so much for their wives and sisters.
So she served me juice and dessert. "Not necessary!" I protested. "Yes, it's necessary," she assured me, as I knew she would."This is your first time in my home." Her husband came home and looked for the keys. They were nowhere. I thanked her (they were careful that I never saw him), and of course went and looked for myself. I didn't suppose I would find anything he couldn't, and I didn't.
So either some other neighbor had picked up my keys, or some stranger had. Some friends' apartment in town had been broken into days earlier (not common!), so I wasn't eager to leave the apartment overnight, even though other friends would have taken me in. So I needed a locksmith.
The next day being Friday, I knew that I'd have a better chance of procuring a locksmith at night. My dear American friends are crazy busy, so I asked them to point me to the shop, and I went myself. After midnight. Yes, by myself. Into the world of men. Men who stare and wonder, and I don't know what they wonder, but at least I dress like the local ladies, so they generally treat me with a bit more respect. As I drove to the shop, I promised myself that I could cry when I was safely home. And prayed that the angels would kindly surround my car in the traffic of the unknown roads, because I knew that the day could get worse if I were hit.
In the meantime, my phone was almost dead, and I discovered that the earlier long conversations of the day had run my phone out of minutes. So if I ran into problems or questions, no depending on dial-a-friend for backup.
As I sat in the cramped lobby area of the half-room locksmith shop and gazed at the glowing lights of the stores across the street, I realized that I would have been terrified to do this by myself two years ago. And now I'm not terrified. The men in the shop speak some English, but I know enough Arabic to make myself understood in a sloppy way. "I have a problem. I can't find my key. I'm sorry, I can't tell you where I live because I don't know this city very well. But I can drive there." I don't even remember which part I was saying in English and which part in Arabic.
I led the locksmith back to my apartment, around the crazy roundabouts (I can do New England roundabouts and even the roundabouts in my own small city here, but I hate the big, busy ones here), afraid I would lose him. And if I did, how would I find him again? Because he didn't have my phone number or address. But he was better at following than I was at leading, and we made it to my apartment. Up the stairs, where he exchanged the lock in about 10 minutes.
I was so tired and grateful, I paid him the full $18-ish he asked. He was efficient, he was kind, and he wasn't creepy. And I could sleep in my bed in an air conditioned room without worrying if some stranger with the key was going to pay me a night visit.
So yes, in some ways, it seemed like a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. But I guess it's all in the perspective. Because I identified some relationship work I needed to do. And I grew closer to my friends who gave me counsel. And I remembered that when things go hard, it may mean that good things are going on under the surface. And I met my neighbor, whom I might never had the courage to meet otherwise. And I needed her help, which the people here often really like. And I practiced Arabic with her chatty three-year-old, who was probably puzzled as to why I couldn't understand everything he said, when I could say the few things I know how to say so clearly. And I appreciated kindness in a locksmith who may never know how much it meant that he came when I needed him and didn't make me feel stupid. (Ha--a smart locksmith should never make his customers feel stupid if he wants them to return!)
So it was actually a beautiful day, if you know where to look.
And now a stranger is messaging me, saying that one of my students gave him my number. Sigh. Life can be as bizarre as it is beautiful.
It started out fine, a normal day of language class with my fun fellow students and wise teacher. Then running errands at the massive grocery store. Well, maybe more pacing the aisles in women's clothing, alternating fingering pretty scarves and talking on my cell about apartment prospects with a couple of people involved in the decision. Things got a little messy after that. Throw in a little financial tension, uncertainty, misunderstanding, and change and, well, my response was less than stellar.
I cried it out and recognized that the real enemy wasn't people. It never is. I scheduled an appointment to talk to others who help me make decisions and headed to their home after dinner. It was a short talk because of time constraints, but they helped me see where I was wrong and to identify the way forward. They also reminded me that negotiations are a normal part of life, even hard negotiations. I finished the talk tired, but peaceful.
I drove the five minutes back to my temporary apartment and discovered that I had left my computer at my friends' house. Back I went. The second time I parked my car in front of my apartment building, I realized that my apartment key wasn't in the cup holder where I normally leave it. Hmm. I hauled my bag and computer inside and started hunting for the key. Like, going through the bag two times, three times, another time, a little more frantic each time. The apartment door was locked, so that much was good. I had no recollection of what I'd done with the key, so I was half-afraid I might have absentmindedly left it in the lock.
So I screwed up my courage and knocked on the neighbor's door. I'd been wanting to meet my neighbors, but in the two weeks I've been staying here, I've not seen any of them. Not too surprising, since they fast all day, and many stay up all night. It was around 9:30 PM by then, so it was an okay time to knock. It was a young mother, two small children around her feet. I asked if she had seen my key. No, she hadn't. Maybe her husband had. She would ask him when he came home.
I went outside and looked around where my car had been parked. Someone in the next building over had parked their car diagonally over the spot where I had been parked, so it was nearly impossible to see underneath. I returned to my neighbor and asked if she had a flashlight. No, she didn't, but her husband could check under the car when he returned home.
Side note here: For every "restriction" placed on women in a culture like this, there is a husband, brother, or father who has to do that thing for her. I'm still processing whether the harder job is the woman's for not being able to crawl under a car with a flashlight or the man's for having to do so uncomplaining because his wife is being kind to some stupid foreigner woman who lost her keys. Some of these guys are really patient in having to do so much for their wives and sisters.
So she served me juice and dessert. "Not necessary!" I protested. "Yes, it's necessary," she assured me, as I knew she would."This is your first time in my home." Her husband came home and looked for the keys. They were nowhere. I thanked her (they were careful that I never saw him), and of course went and looked for myself. I didn't suppose I would find anything he couldn't, and I didn't.
So either some other neighbor had picked up my keys, or some stranger had. Some friends' apartment in town had been broken into days earlier (not common!), so I wasn't eager to leave the apartment overnight, even though other friends would have taken me in. So I needed a locksmith.
The next day being Friday, I knew that I'd have a better chance of procuring a locksmith at night. My dear American friends are crazy busy, so I asked them to point me to the shop, and I went myself. After midnight. Yes, by myself. Into the world of men. Men who stare and wonder, and I don't know what they wonder, but at least I dress like the local ladies, so they generally treat me with a bit more respect. As I drove to the shop, I promised myself that I could cry when I was safely home. And prayed that the angels would kindly surround my car in the traffic of the unknown roads, because I knew that the day could get worse if I were hit.
In the meantime, my phone was almost dead, and I discovered that the earlier long conversations of the day had run my phone out of minutes. So if I ran into problems or questions, no depending on dial-a-friend for backup.
As I sat in the cramped lobby area of the half-room locksmith shop and gazed at the glowing lights of the stores across the street, I realized that I would have been terrified to do this by myself two years ago. And now I'm not terrified. The men in the shop speak some English, but I know enough Arabic to make myself understood in a sloppy way. "I have a problem. I can't find my key. I'm sorry, I can't tell you where I live because I don't know this city very well. But I can drive there." I don't even remember which part I was saying in English and which part in Arabic.
I led the locksmith back to my apartment, around the crazy roundabouts (I can do New England roundabouts and even the roundabouts in my own small city here, but I hate the big, busy ones here), afraid I would lose him. And if I did, how would I find him again? Because he didn't have my phone number or address. But he was better at following than I was at leading, and we made it to my apartment. Up the stairs, where he exchanged the lock in about 10 minutes.
I was so tired and grateful, I paid him the full $18-ish he asked. He was efficient, he was kind, and he wasn't creepy. And I could sleep in my bed in an air conditioned room without worrying if some stranger with the key was going to pay me a night visit.
So yes, in some ways, it seemed like a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. But I guess it's all in the perspective. Because I identified some relationship work I needed to do. And I grew closer to my friends who gave me counsel. And I remembered that when things go hard, it may mean that good things are going on under the surface. And I met my neighbor, whom I might never had the courage to meet otherwise. And I needed her help, which the people here often really like. And I practiced Arabic with her chatty three-year-old, who was probably puzzled as to why I couldn't understand everything he said, when I could say the few things I know how to say so clearly. And I appreciated kindness in a locksmith who may never know how much it meant that he came when I needed him and didn't make me feel stupid. (Ha--a smart locksmith should never make his customers feel stupid if he wants them to return!)
So it was actually a beautiful day, if you know where to look.
And now a stranger is messaging me, saying that one of my students gave him my number. Sigh. Life can be as bizarre as it is beautiful.
Posts
1 comment:
Wow, what a day! I feel your pain, thousands of miles and more than a month away : ( I hope you gave yourself the freedom to bawl your head off before you looked on the bright side! And so glad you were able to find that bright side! Phew!
ALL things work together, right? 'men. :)
Post a Comment