I glanced at my watch, we were ticking into the third hour of dinner and hadn’t yet ordered dessert. I was outnumbered nine to one by French colleagues so English was spoken only here and there. From what I could gather, the conversation had recently drifted from a debate about the cultural superiority of Moscow over Paris to a more pressing topic – a comparison of the 2002 Medoc they were sipping to the previous Burgundy. Just twenty-four hours earlier, I was stooped over a bowl of beef noodles in Singapore, listening to a shifting mix of Singlish and Mandarin. The fried chicken was being debated – I thought it was delicious but I was in the minority. There was a better version elsewhere, they explained, at some elusive place I’ll never get to.
My cell phone rang, it was Miguel. “Where you at, kid?” “Paris”, I answered, sticking a finger into my free ear. “What time is it there?” he worried. “No problem man, it’s only 11pm, I’m still at dinner.” I was so happy to hear his voice, to understand every word. “Cool, cool. Hey, when you coming home? You know you’re my get out of jail free card.” I wanted so badly to explain just how strange it was. How weird to be in one part of the planet and then in another, just like that. It’s not the cultures themselves, I’m familiar enough with both. It’s the switch from one to the next so quickly. It’s jarring. “I’ll be home in a few weeks. Make sure you’ve got plenty of money ready, I’m bringing the new clubs with me."
2 comments:
I wonder what continuous culture shock/jar does to a person's brain or personality? I do not envy you, kiddo. Though, maybe you'll tell me that all things considered, it's a plus kind of thing. You think?
@Sal - I can tell you what it does in my case - makes me stupider and stupider. It's a great, if strange, experience.
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