I tend to think of myself as a gypsy. Perhaps I feel this way because we moved a lot. Perhaps I feel this way because it is who I am.
I spent six years in asia all together. We called it the land of the not quite right. I liked the people there. I respect them, but they view the world through different eyes. They react differently. It isn't better. It isn't worse. It is just different than what we call normal behavior.
How do I explain this?
When we first moved overseas, we had to find housing. A housing complex was recommended to us. It was where all the foreigners from the various embassies lived. We went to the office and I remember this horrid smell. Dad brought a bottle of American Scotch. I sat there and listened to how long the waiting list was and how they couldn't let just anyone in, and how.. The conversation changed when the bottle changed hands. The tone changed as well. Suddenly, he remembered that one apartment had just become available.
We went to look at it, and it was odd to say the least. The building was painted grey concrete, and was seventeen stories tall. The inner doors were all metal. There was a shopping hallway on the first floor, four elevators with elevator girls to push the buttons for us, and courtesy doormen who didnt open the doors, and some guy with a feather duster who dusted off the cars in the parking lot.
The apartment was fair. Quite a few cockroaches, but clean and we figured it would suit our needs. It faced the mountain park, and you couldnt really tell you were in a city with millions and millions of people.
Everything was fine, until the man said "No pets allowed."
Well I thought this was strange because clearly I had seen someone walking a dog down stairs. Dad told him that we were sorry to waste his time, but we had a pet, so...
Oh Oh Oh No Problem. No pet. Family member. Those ok.
That set the stage for our time in that country.
Our apartment was on the 12th floor. We had three bedrooms and a balcony. On the balcony was a large cubicle, red, metal, crate that was rusted shut. On it were the words. Fire Escape Chute.
I believe that the idea was that in the event of a fire in our concrete, asbetos filled building, we were to open this box and throw the chute over the side and slide down twelve stories to safety.
Right.
This thing was rusted shut, and Lord only knows what condition the chute was in.
Mom made the mistake of calling maintenance about it. They told her.
No Problem, in event of fire guard come upstairs and open for you. You slide to safety.
Obviously if the guard could come upstairs we were going the same way. In short, don't bother us.
I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you that our house was bugged. No I don't mean the cockroaches, although we did give them names after a bit.
What I meant was our house had listening devices in the walls. They were badly hid too. The patched concrete walls sometimes hummed with a hint of feedback distortion. There was a trapdoor in the bathroom ceiling that if you looked through you could see an extension cord that connected something to something else. Both were out of view by the placement of concrete bricks. Then, there was the phone.
It was grandmother's birthday and we had called back to the states to talk with her. Dad was still at work. After the call, Mom called Dad at the office, and in the background she heard the entire stateside phone call being played back. They had taped it. Well up until that instant, we thought Dad was a bit paranoid.
We now knew that indeed our house was bugged. We decided to have a bit of fun with it. Mom called her friends to our apartment and we started talking about how great this country was and how beautiful everything was and yada yada yada. It was just a shame that we didnt know a travel agency to take advantage of this beautiful opportunity.
Everyone who spoke and who lived there got a advertising brochure for a travel agency under their door the very next day. Everyone who didnt didnt.. It was somewhat sobering.
I could go on about this for hours, but to prove my point I'll tell you about Cathy and her shoes. Cathy had lived there for sometime. Her father had died in a plane crash. One of the last things he gave her was this pair of dress white shoes. They were her most prized possession. Now, she and I were going to a formal dance and she wanted to wear these shoes. They needed new heels though, so off we went down the mountain to the local shopping district that was very reminiscient of the main strip of a carnival. Each of the barker's were trying to get you to buy something from them. This was typical.
We found this man sitting in a rather large crate off the main strip. He repaired shoes. Cathy left her priceless heirloom and off we went to find a beret. I was supposed to get one too, but always thought that they made me look stupid.
We came back and the gentlemen smiled from ear to ear. He had fixed her shoes alright, but had spray painted them baby blue. metallic god awful, metallic blue.
He kept saying something about no extra charge, and she kept hyperventilating. At some point, she started screaming at the man. I don't realy blame her, but in the land of the not quite right. She should have known better.
