Peace Corps: Preparation for Life

When I was in the Peace Corps, I didn’t realize it was preparing me to live in the Bay Area.

For most Peace Corps Volunteers, there’s plenty of things they learn that they realize will be useful when they get back to the States.  How to write a project proposal, outlining objectives and goals, maybe even how to start a fire.  I figured learning how to wait patiently for public transit, how to cook rice in a pot and how to deal with creep crawly things would still be useful tricks when I got back.  But there’s a whole bunch of other things I never expected to use in the US.

This past weekend, my friend Meg&Jack came over and we had a rummage sale.  I suppose bartering isn’t a surprising element at a rummage sale, so I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised to find myself drawing out old market day skills.

Bartering

My strategy was to decide the price I was willing to pay for the item before getting into negotiations.  I was less interested in paying the absolute lowest amount possible than in paying no more than I thought something was worth.  If the seller wouldn’t go done to my pre-set value price, I walked away.  For the rummage sale, I sort of just flipped the strategy, thinking how low would I be willing to go to part with something.  Since the sale was mostly stuff I was just trying to get rid of, this went well for buyers.

Making do with limited language skills

The surprising bit was how much I had to use my I-really-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about skills, and even more surprising, occasionally my smile-and-nod-cuz-I-don’t-give-a-vampire skills.  Nearly every person that came to the sale had a thick accent with varying degrees of English skills. 

There were the two Spanish women who asked on nearly every item, “is there another price?”  And the woman from next door who I think is from South-East Asia.  She’s got Tibetan prayer flags on her porch, but along the I-80 corridor of the East Bay, nearly everyone has Tibetan prayer flags.  An African woman stopped in briefly, but I didn’t get a chance to find out where she was from.  A younger gentleman who could have been British, Australian or even South African (I can’t tell!) came by looking for some action figures.  And there was an older gentleman who sounded as though he came from Eastern Europe a long time ago, his accent softened by years of English.  These people were all very nice and we talked only of items for sale.

I really have no idea what you’re talking about

The smile-and-nod-cuz-I-don’t-give-a-vampire skills came in with my downstairs neighbor, an elderly man from Bangladesh whom I had never actually met before this day.  He told me, and then Meg&Jack and me, repeatedly, that we shouldn’t have a rummage sale on the small street.  We should put everything in our car and just sell it out of the trunk on the busy road.  He came back later, after Megan&Jack had left and gave me the entire history of Bangladesh.  It wasn’t until about 10 minutes into it that I realized he was saying “Bangladesh.”  Understanding maybe only every 5th word, I think I got the gist. I definitely got as much as I wanted to get.  I was so relieved when he left. 

Then he came back and gave me his whole family history.  It was so, so much like a conversation that would have happened in my Zambian village.  “I moved from here to there on twenty-three April 1965 and then I went to visit my cousin in nearby city on seven June 1942 and stayed there 1, 2, 3 weeks.”   Years clearly not making sense, going backwards in time, numbers being confused.  “On 18 February, I moved here, but then I travel to India for visit to my brother and I stay 6 weeks.”  Etc, etc.  Then it got so much like a Peace Corps village story it was surreal.  “I am very poor.  My brothers and my sister, they send me money.  But my brother, he only gives me food, no money.”  And another 5 minutes about how poor he is.  In Zambia, I would have assumed a person was telling me this because they saw me as a rich muzungu and wanted me to give them money.  Here, with my neighbor saying this, I had no idea what was up.  Smile and nod; smile and nod.  And be thankful when the poor man’s cell phone rings.

Photo: one of my Zambian neighbors who would come over and just talk and talk and talk and I rarely had any idea what she was going on about

You Say ‘Potato,’ I Say ‘Latke’ (or ‘Twas the Last Night of Hanukah)

‘Twas the last night of Hanukah and on the house boat, Short Fabulous was hosting a party that’d float. 

The potatoes were laid on the counter with care, in hopes that her friends soon would be there. 

The candles were lit in the menorah of tin, burning quite quickly much to goldenrail’s chagrin. 

And Meg&Jack with a bowl and her potato shredder, scraped furiously while Short Fab mixed the batter.

While on the stove top a pan of oil did heat, we all stared at it eagerly, waiting to eat.

Into the pan it dropped with a splash, shredded potatoes and some salt, just a dash.

Potato and onion and egg made up one.  Another to come after those were done.

The second were simpler, they came from a box, supposedly Jewish like bagels or lox.

With a flip of the spatula by Meg&Jack’s man, the potato pancakes were upside-down in the pan.

The grease sizzled and popped and made them all brown, as Short Fabulous hollered out “Gather around.”

“Sit, Meg&Jack! Sit, goldenrail! Sit, Mr and Pole!” 

“Pick up your napkin and fork she did call.”  Now sitzen sie, sitzen sie, sitzen sie all!

A smattering of latkes they sat on our plates, sour cream and applesauce waiting to mate.

Into our mouths one forkful at a time, a piece of potato on each little tine.

“Yummy!”  “Delicious!” “Scrumptious, you bet!”  “Such flavor.”  “Good taste.”  “I haven’t tried that one yet.”

Four kinds we did eat, each made a good latke, except for the box, which were a bit farkakte.

Once the dishes were cleared it was time for dessert, rich marble halava from her friend Bert.*

And with dessert must come games oh happy delight, a long round of dreidel lasting into the night.

With the coins all won and then given away, we packed up our items to make no delay.

Up the stairs to our shoes, our coats and our boots, we said our goodbyes and made our way off  of das Boot.

We heard Short Fab call as we walked up the dock,  “Happy Hanukah friends, now try not to get lost!”

 

*As far as I know, Short Fabulous does not have a friend Bert and purchased the halava herself in Jersey.  But Jersey does not rhyme with dessert.

Exciting (Huey Lewis and the) News

The best friends in life are the ones that challenge you to do something new.  Not just for the sake of doing something different, but to join them in something they enjoy that you otherwise might not have tried.  This is one of the reasons Short Fabulous (formerly Short Artichoke) makes such a good friend.  She’s absolutely crazy.  Crazy about Huey Lewis and the News.

Huey, Huey, Huey

Almost since the time I first met her, Short Fabulous has been trying to get me to go see Huey Lewis in concert, listen to Huey Lewis on the radio, watch Huey Lewis on tv.  If it’s Huey, you name it, she’s tried to get me to do it.

Ok, ok, she hasn’t tried to get me to wear Huey Lewis underwear.  I’m sure it’s only a matter of time, though.

Well, she finally succeeded, taking me a few months ago to a Huey Lewis and the News concert out in Saratoga.  It was a good show, but it was nothing compared to what Short Fabulous got me and another of our friends to do last weekend.

Handshakes, Pictures and Friends

It’s 7pm on a Saturday night and were standing around inside a book store stuck staring at the cd rack next to us, the fake jazz section, oh joy.  The line is growing, we can see the tables arranged near the front.  That’s where they’ll be soon, Huey Lewis and some of the News, to sign autographs and take pictures.

It’s me and Meg&Jack, no Short Fabulous in sight.  Where is that girl?!  She asked us to meet her here at 6.  She’s been going on about this event for weeks.  She can’t wait to introduce her friends to the band, all of whom she knows well.  Huey, Johnny and Bill come out, the line cheers.  Still no Short Fabulous.  The line starts to move, slowly winding around the corners.  Still no Short Fabulous.  Then I feel something down by my elbow.  I turn.  It’s her!  Short Fabulous has finally arrived.

We get up to the front of the line and Huey greets Short Fabulous by name.  A wide smile spreads from ear to ear, “I brought some friends,”  she says.  “You have friends?” Huey jests.  She introduces us all around, Johnny Colla, the sax player, Billy Gibson, the singing drummer, and of course Huey, the Huey.  Then it’s time for a picture:

Meg&Jack, Johnny, Short Fabulous, Huey, me, Bill

We hung out until the end, Short Fabulous and a few others chatting it up with the band for awhile.  The entire band, especially Huey, was in a kooky mood, so it was a lot of fun.  We rounded out our adventurous evening with a trip to the local Puerto Rican restaurant, plantains all around.

 

P.S.  That green jacket on Short Fabulous was one of the finds from the 10 hour fashion day.  Cute, isn’t it?