Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Why I’m going (or coming) home

I have been living abroad for the past fifteen years. I have obviously not loved every minute of it, but there are only a few I might trade. There were some bad experiences with taxi drivers, some out-houses I’d rather forget and many moments which have left the building already. Overall though, I learned a lot, taught a lot, laughed and cried a lot, made friends and generally had a ball. I’d do it over again in a hometown minute. So, why am I here on the cusp of leaving Europe and the East to go back to California? Simple. I need time to think and I spend too much time “living” abroad to spare what I need to process the last fifteen years. Living in a foreign country uses up a lot more “free time” than living in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Here’s good example. About a month ago, I forgot to pay my gas bill. I had the money; I just kept not paying it, because it meant going to the post office or a local bank, standing in line with the other pensioners and actually giving money to a person who stamps your bill and returns it to you. This can take upwards of an hour, depending on the time of day and month. Near the end of the month when due dates are looming usually means half an afternoon. When I got the shut-off notice, my woeful language skills allowed me to get the message: pay in five days or we cut you off. So I went to the ATM for cash and freed an afternoon to go pay the bills. I had gotten a tip that the main post office was always less crowded, so I hopped on the rute and went downtown, about a 20 minute journey plus or minus 10 minutes waiting for the bus. The main PO was indeed, not crowded. I got in line and prepared my stack of “notele” and cash and waited. When my turn came, after about 10 minutes, I greeted the clerk and handed her my bills and money. She took them, paid one and gave the over-due gas bill back. I should say she threw it back, with none of the minimal politeness Americans have come to expect from a civil servant. I asked why I couldn’t pay it and she snarled, “Veche!” This literally means “old”. Because I’ve lived here for three years and could hear the nuances, I understood her to mean that because the bill was a shut-off notice, I had to pay it at the gas company, and just how stupid could I be , even for a foreigner, not to know this little bit of information about my (foster) country. Using another one of my paltry supply of useful Romanian adverbs, I asked where the gas company was located. She didn’t answer, of course, because she’d gotten a call from her bf or bff and was ignoring all the patrons. At least I didn’t feel singled out. I did, however, spend several hours doing a task which takes about three minutes to do in the US. And if I’m ever going to figure out why I haven’t stayed in one place, why the question, “Where are you from?” always makes me hesitate while I run through the possible answers to find the most appropriate, or at least the one which causes the least discomfort to the questioner; while most people I know can say a simple place designator and I have to give a suitably brief version of my life story; I know I have to do it in my native tongue. See ya