Lately I’ve been having a number of those there are so many blogworthy things happening that it seems easier to just not write at all moments. I could write a whole post on how much I hear insanely loud European techno music all the time, like at the mall opening near us last Friday. It was a family event, yet they had a dj that apparently thought he was at a rave, and we could barely talk as we ate our dinner in the food court.
I could write about how Kabob and I would blend in fairly well here if it weren’t for our white-blond child, who is treated like Justin Timberlake. We get on a bus and immediately we hear the murmuring - “Look, a blond child!” “How beautiful!” “So cute! May God protect her.” Many times they’ll give a compliment and then follow with a reverse statement, such as “She is so beautiful; what an unpleasant child.” At least, that’s what I’m told they say - I don’t truly understand it yet. This is to keep away the evil spirits - if they think we are overly blessed with our child, they will want to haunt her, but if they think she is already tainted, the spirits will move on to the next poor child. So people say this as a matter of compliment.
Either way, the real challenge comes when everyone wants to touch her and her hair. People boarding the bus will stop at our seat and want to pinch her cheeks. Walking down the street, men and women alike will try and talk to her, touch her hair, and sometimes even pick her up. This happened with the security guard at the metro station the other day; I was mildly concerned we’d get on the metro and not transfer her to our arms in time. Personal space takes on a whole new meaning here; most people will go within three inches of Chickpea’s face. Total strangers take photos of her - sometimes they ask permission, usually they don’t. It happens at the park, on a walk, in a store. One time when Chickpea and I waited outside IKEA for Kabob to bring the car around, no less than five people stopped to take her photo and try to talk to her. One guy ran up with a huge, professional-looking camera, quickly snapped about 10 photos, then ran on - as though he were the paparazzi and we were Brangelina.
She doesn’t like it one bit. And right now, I can’t blame her.
I could write about how it still takes so long to get one little thing done in a day. We’re ready to hang pictures, but then we need different nails than what we have, and that requires a two-hour trip to the local hardware store. We could install shelves, but Kabob needs his drill, which isn’t charged because we need a converter to plug it in to the different outlets, and the last converter we used blew a fuse, rendering it useless.
I could write about how fast food spoils here, which in essence is a good thing, because that means there’s no preservatives in our food. Still - I didn’t realize how many of the most basic foodstuffs in the States have additives. Onions, garlic, meat… I’ll start dinner, but then I have to make a dozen detours with the recipe because I didn’t realize our lettuce had already gone bad. Or whatever. It’s a good diet and lifestyle, but it takes some rethinking, and when you’re hungry and tired, it’s frustrating. Dinner ends up being Plan D. And I have to go to the grocery store a lot more often. This has always been one of my least favorite chores.
I could still write about how warm the people here dress when it’s 75 degrees. The day we went to the zoo we all wore t-shirts and brought lightweight jackets in case. It was an absolutely beautiful day, yet I still had a woman on the bus ask me if Chickpea was cold, and if she was going to get sick. Her child, about 18 months old, had on a full-length fleece jumpsuit with winter cap, and layers underneath. Children are especially prone to diseases from the wind, and I regularly have a mental debate over whether to dress Chickpea that will make her truly comfortable, or dress her slightly warmer than she needs, but then we can avoid the stares and head shakes in my direction and the occasional comment that she will get sick.
What I’d love to write about is how often I teeter-totter from loving our life and not wanting to be anywhere else in the world, and longing for the States, where I can live a life I understand and can freely pursue my American desires (alone time, the right to pleasure, owning a home, a thousand diversions for both me and my child). Those things aren’t always wrong, if done with the right motive - but being stripped away of my usual methods of living have helped me realize that to a small degree, deep down, I still believe that those things are human rights (at least in practice, not so much in theory). They’re not. Nobody deserves those things. But they are indeed blessings, and oftentimes, I still desire them.
But there are moments like last night, when we went on a family walk after dinner, and we passed by outdoor cafe after outdoor cafe, traversed the bumpy, pot-holed sidewalk (wherein I almost bit it for the second time), enjoyed the evening’s darkness without fear, stopped by a little market to enjoy delicious European-made ice cream dipped in dark chocolate, and marveled at having the bay to the north of us and sharply jutting hills to the south, I was happy. Happy to be here, and happy to be sent here.
Yesterday morning I was organizing photos of friends and family to print, and I teared up. There are so many people who care about us and who agree that we are called to be here, I can’t help but not feel alone at that moment. Those nagging thoughts of “nobody’s going to ever come visit and nobody thinks of us” are swept away in an instant when I remember how many people have blessed us with their involvement in our lives. Last week I had no less than five conversations with girlfriends back in the States, calling just to say they’re thinking of us and that they love us. How could I ask for more?
I am indeed happy to be here.
