Awkward Is As Awkward Does
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re back in the tourism whirlwind in Egypt, embarking on a short Nile cruise today.
Awkward Is As Awkward Does
The through-line of my life, the theme that connects one day to the next, is awkwardness. I’m used to it. I smile and nod, and Lee asks me what’s happening, and through my smile I mutter that I have no idea. It happens more days than not.
A few years back, on our first trip to India, we went to see the old mansion where The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel was filmed (I loved that movie so, so much). Nowadays it’s an actual hotel, with a restaurant, but you can also just take a tour for an hour or so, then have lunch, which is what we did. We were the only visitors, and the waiter got us settled in the dining room. One wall was glass; on the other side of the glass was the barn where a stallion was stabled. On our side of the glass was a gigantic television that was playing The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. We sat at a table, alone in the dining room, watching the room that we were in on the screen, and behind it the stallion paced back and forth, occasionally peering in at us.
The waiter brought in our food, then moved about three feet away and settled himself to watch us eat. I’m not kidding—he stood there throughout our entire meal, like an overly curious butler. Back then we thought it was weird and awkward; now it’s just normal-weird. Weird awkwardness is my everyday state.
On our most recent visit to India, when we arrived, we went to a mobile phone shop to buy a SIM card. India is one of the more difficult countries in which to buy a local SIM; it’s doable, but you have to have the name and number of a local ‘reference.’ The first time we went, we used our Airbnb host’s name. This time, we were staying in a chain hotel, and should’ve gotten the manager’s name and number, but forgot.
The staff in the SIM card store said they couldn’t help us, but they knew someone who could. He would come to our hotel room.
So we called and texted with some random guy all day, and finally in the late afternoon, he showed up. We met him in the hotel lobby, and the three of us sat on a couch doing business for thirty minutes while guests checked in, milled around, passed through. We couldn’t understand a word he said—the entire transaction was carried out via sign language and rupees. It was awkward and a little weird, but also a fascinating way to complete a mundane, necessary task.
In a small village in Tamil Nadu, we went for an evening walk, and after jumping out of the path of a sort of pissed-off looking bull, we got sucked into the local holiday festivities (which apparently included bull-chasing). A very nice man pulled us under the village pavilion, set out two lawn chairs, and urged us to sit. We sat, and suddenly the crowd, all of whom had been socializing and living their normal lives, pulled up more chairs and surrounded us. We were front and center, watching the races. My favorite was the one where each child got two bricks, one for each foot. They had to get to the finish line without their feet touching the ground. It was small-town wholesomeness at its finest, but when people started asking us to participate, we beat a hasty retreat, before the bull-chasing started. So awkward. We really just meant to go for a walk; I had no desire to be a guest of honor.
In the backwaters of Kerala, we went on a private two-night cruise. When we arrived on the boat, there were two large wicker chairs set up in the middle of the main deck, slightly elevated on a platform. They looked like thrones. They were meant to look like thrones. The three crew members waited on the two of us, hand and foot, for three days. Every move we made, there was someone right there, asking what we needed, adjusting the fan, bringing us drinks, offering more food. When we told the chef we only wanted two meals a day, he looked as if we’d said his baby was ugly. We met a couple of British guys on another boat, and they said they’d been reduced to ‘polite eating,’ even though they weren’t hungry. The whole experience was very peaceful, very relaxing, and very awkward.
In another hotel, the ‘activities director’ called our room to ask what services we would like for the day. I didn’t really want any ‘services,’ but he couldn’t understand me, so two minutes later he was in our room, very intent on planning our day for us. We gave up and agreed to join him on a walk. This walk consisted of: go out the front door of the hotel, exit the gate, turn right, walk half a block, then take the pedestrian trail through the woods until it comes to the lake. Walk in a big circle around the lake, on a very nice sidewalk. Then retrace steps back to hotel. A ‘guide’ was entirely unnecessary, and actually kind of … awkward. We couldn’t understand most of what he said. Plus he kept picking flowers and insisting I put them in my hair. If you’ve read this far, you deserve a prize, so here you go: me, awkwardly wearing an awkward flower.
The difference between service in the west and service in India is difficult to pinpoint, other than awkward. Once you lean into it, though, it’s service on a level we are unaccustomed to in the west. You can require a waiter to hold your plate while you fill it at the buffet. Or you can just sit at your table and command the staff to go get you some toast, with butter. No, I’ve never done that—I prefer to butter my own toast, thankyouverymuch—but I’ve seen it happen.
It all works out in the end, though—I just smile and nod, and smile and nod some more. Awkward is temporary. That photo of me wearing the flower? That’s forever.
Take care,
Lisa
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