Ode to a Broken Charger

You emerged from your box, but an accoutrement to this delicate jewel of melodious technology. She was named, called Adelaide, and beloved of her inconstant possessor. But you, oh charger, were denied your laurels. Nary a word of recognition for your exertions was voiced during your tenure. Unfailing was your service, yet unrequited was your devotion.

 

As is the case with all such heroes, your industry, your zeal, your very essence was terminated by hollow tragedy. Misfortune, capricious mistress, dispatched you without ceremony, once again denying you of your just accolades. Your proud protuberance, the pulsing polestar of your potent power now lists, swaying listlessly to port and prow. Your flaccid appendage, impotent, rests at your base.

 

And upon this sad day, poor friend, you shall be given your insufficient reward, that one acknowledgement upon which is built the spirit of dignity. You will become known upon your grave. I will call you Willy. 

Oh, So that’s what Culture Shock Feels Like

Holy Crap. You wanna know what a room full of yelling Egyptians feels like? Piss-ass scary, that’s what. Part of the reason that I love studying the Middle East is that there is so much passion and verve in life here.

 

It’s fantastic watching how taking group photos for the yearbook becomes a social excursion. In the States, we’d all put on our shirts, walk out to the photo area, take two minutes to arrange the photo, dither about the arrangement for another two minutes, and then take it, change the pose, take another, and take small group photos.

But here, oh, here there is none of that cold, sterile efficiency that you see back home. Here, we must take 45 minutes to distribute t-shirts. And did everyone pay? Did we know we were supposed to pay? Is there lunch provided? YaAlla! YaAlla! Let’s go! It’s our turn! 

Did you take your individual picture yet? No? Why not? What do you mean you didn’t understand the instructions? Oh, they were in Arabic? I didn’t even notice.

Our group’s up! No, wait, we aren’t all here! … Add forty-five minutes of awkward small talk with the kind people who come to make the new girl feel included. Which I appreciate more than I can say… 

OK! Outside! Line up! Oh, she said that we were going to take one picture facing the camera, one facing away from the camera, and one video singing and dancing. (Thanks for the translation. Singing? Really?)  snap! Meshee, now turn around! OK Everyone start singing on three! Wahed, itneen, talata! Singing ensues.

There is a good bit of feet shuffling. I still don’t speak the language. I still don’t understand the instructions. I still don’t know what’s going on. I still don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. We shuffle around. Another group lines up for a photo. I don’t know what group they are or if I’m supposed to be with them. No one in my immediate vicinity knows either. 

Ask Omar! Hey, Omar, Laura ‘aindaha sou’al lik! No, no- Laura doesn’t need to trouble Omar (boss-man) with her question. I was just wondering if I was supposed to be doing something (other than standing awkwardly along the side). No, no, really, I’m fine. No I’m not in a hurry to go. I was just confused about what we were doing. Ok. I’ll wait for instructions.

More shuffling ensues. Hey, aren’t you DPC? You’re in this one! Shuffle. Shuffle. Am I in the next one too? Which group did she announce. No, don’t ask Omar. It’s fine, I’m good. No, sorry Omar, no I’m fine. I’ll wait here. Forty minutes pass while anonymous groups scamper to and from the steps with no apparent organization, but clearly enjoying yelling, laughing, and being with their friends. I observe with the other out-of-place looking freshmen around the edges. 

Are we still doing group photos, or should we be going? No! Don’t call Omar, no Laura mish ‘aindaha sou’al! I’m good. I’m good- don’t make me bother Omar again. Shit-weasels. No, Sorry Omar, I was just confused again. What are we doing? OK. I’ll see you next week. Phew. It was complete and utter chaos. I understood none of it. I was completely out of place the entire time. It’s precisely what I came here to experience, but even by my fairly even-keeled standards, that was a lot. 

I like to think I can integrate myself into a group. I like to think I can deal with uncomfortable situations with grace and flexibility. I like to think I can make it through this trip without the gut-wrenching homesickness that has been described to me by other study abroad kids. I like to think I’m enjoying my circumstances too much to wish I was in DC with my team, or home with my family enjoying pumpkin pie and football games. 

I know I’m happier here than I would be home, feeling like I wasn’t gaining anything, inside my little bubble. But Lord, do I miss being on familiar ground. I miss knowing what’s expected of me. I miss being surrounded with old friends. I miss my family. Apparently, having to start over with a blank page and the cultural comprehension of a four-year-old is really scary.