There’s a veneer of familiar international commerce here that staves off the worst culture shock. The 7-ll on the corner is oddly comforting. But it’s hard to relax, struggling with the role we’ve been assigned: The Distinguished Visitor. Every door is opened for us, every bag is carried, people offer to plan our every move.
There’s a complicated social structure we haven’t quite figured out, nor our place in it.
Note that Charles and I stand out like a freak of nature. He’s taller than everyone. I’m wider. Plus no one else in the entire city has white hair.
Second, we yankees (especially politically correct, I’m-against-this-oppressive imperial-system-yankees) are not comfortable being waited on. Phyllis’s daughters do not impose on others. On the other hand, we are guests and our hosts are genuinely gracious and welcoming. It’s just exhausting trying to figure out how to behave with equal grace.
Charles is somewhat more comfortable. After all, he’s a genuine eminence gris, and has a well-defined, invited mission and a fairly clear professional role. I had hoped I could hang out in the university library and write while he worked. Ha! I had to be introduced to the director of the library (charming woman). The head tech guy (equally fine) set me up on the internet in a special carel right in front of the air-con. I was escorted back and forth to the loo and handed my own roll of TP. And, when I took a break, hoping to go outside and warm up, I found that an administrator had been waiting there just to take me back when I was ready.
This should settle with time. C and I feel a great deal of respect—and growing affection—for our colleagues here, and only hope what we bring will be worth so much effort on their part.
Lost in Translation #1: When a woman from the Mayor’s office offers her card and says “Let me know where you want to go and I’ll arrange it,” is the proper response A) “Here’s my list!” or B) an air kiss on each cheek?
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