For those of you who haven't had the experience of living and working abroad, I have a few thoughts.
I've learned to ask a lot of questions of landlords when I rent a new place, as very often you don't see them for quite a while after you sign the paperwork.
So here you are, moving into a new place. Think of all the questions you need to ask. Where does the trash go? What's the internet password? How do you turn on the stove?
And then there was that Russian washing machine.
I wanted to avoid the fate of my friend here. She told me that she thought that her own washing machine didn't work, only to find out when the landlord and the repairman arrived to fix it, she'd plugged it accidentally into something that wasn't actually a plug. She still doesn't know what that thing is that she plugged it into. Oh, well - who knew?
When I left my building to go to dinner with friends, I thought a lot about these questions. It was still light out when I left for dinner. Things are easy in the light, but I'd be home after dark, and I had to take a cab to meet my friends. Did I know my address - in Armenian? Would I be able to find my way back here? Did I have change for the cab once I ordered one from an Uber-like app?
* * *
I did make it (almost on time) to see my new friends on the other side of town. We had a lovely dinner and split a bottle of wine. The laughs we shared!
There are precious few people in the world who know what it's like to wake up in the middle of the night and not be sure what country you're in. It had happened to all three of us with regularity, and we had quite a chuckle about that.
It happened to me at my daughter's house when I was home for a week recently. I woke up, and I really wasn't sure where I was. It didn't look like my apartment in Kuwait ... but was I in Sudan? I was sure it wasn't China, but it could have been Egypt; the bed was about right.
I truly wasn't sure.
* * *
The three of us shared a lot of these stories, and a few hours later, it was time to go home.
But how to get there? I cut and pasted my address (which I had carefully saved on my phone), but somehow I managed to get it mixed up when I ordered the cab.
My friends had left, and I was waiting for the taxi. But the driver called and could only speak Armenian, and the app suggested he was somewhere other than where I was. Oh, well.
I cancelled the ride and decided instead to go and get a few groceries so that I could have breakfast in the house in the morning. I took off down the street to find a grocery store.
But the labels in the store were also in Armenian. I think I bought some cinnamon for my oats in the morning, but were they really oats? I'd find out for sure the next day. Once I thought I'd purchased cinnamon in China, but it turned out to be some kind of hot, brown chili powder, and that made for an interesting breakfast.
* * *
When I finished shopping, instead of ordering a cab, I just got into one on the street. But this driver didn't speak English, either, so I showed him on Google Maps where I live. But I had my app set to show an English translation, and he couldn't read the streets, so he got out of the cab and found a friend who said that he could speak English, but....well, not so much.
So we spent 10 minutes finding someone who could speak English, but he didn't know my address.
Amazingly, I live next door to the only KFC in Armenia, so that helped, but you have to picture an aging American woman saying repeatedly, “KFC? KFC?”
It was as though I just couldn't get enough chicken and that I would need him to take me there right away before I died of neglect. Eventually, we all three of us got into a bit of a laughing fit, and they were mimicking me: “KFC? KFC?”
But the point was made, and off we went with a smile.
* * *
We did find KFC after a bit, and the driver burst out laughing when we stopped in front of it. I let a giggle slide, too, but I was already ahead of him in my mind.
Now I would have to find the right door in the alley, and I would need to be able to punch in the code to open it. The door is metal and beyond the light of the street.
I paid the driver, grabbed my three bags of groceries, and readied myself to get to the door and attempt opening it.
When the landlord had left, I had walked down with him to give it a try on my own. (This after practicing with the ancient key and the second lock in my door to be sure I could lock and get back in my apartment - not an easy task, I must say, as the ancient key fits only one way, and a metal slide must be lifted first.)
I had some trouble with the downstairs door, too, and to be fair, so did my landlord. He had laughed, and he said in his delightful broken English, “Well, if you go out, try to do it in the daytime because the man who sells flowers on the street can help you if you can't get back in.”
This was, of course, a fine idea, but it was now 11 p.m.
I punched the code a few times, but it was tricky. You have to do so with one hand by putting your fingers in this odd position to press three keys in two rows at the same time, while keeping your other hand free to try to turn the door simultaneously.
It took about 10 minutes, but I managed to open the door. I placed my right foot inside the pitch-black space to hold open the door and grabbed the three bags of groceries from the ground with my other hand.
I stepped inside, and the door slammed shut behind me.
* * *
No light came on, and it was pitch black inside. My hands were still full, so I couldn't reach my phone for a light. I just staggered forward, hoping I'd hit something with my feet and making a mental note to bring my headlamp with me the next time.
The floor is constructed of uneven ancient stones, and the stairwell was somewhere in the distance in front of me - maybe 30 feet or so, if I remembered correctly.
Truth be told, I was also laughing hysterically in the dark. I felt like I was running some kind of gauntlet. Door open, check. Groceries in hand, check. But where were my damned keys? I figured I'd deal with that at the top of the stairs.
Bam! My sandaled foot hit granite. I found the stairs! Being the good former rescue worker and part-time firefighter that I used to be, I had counted the stairs on the way down, so I knew that the first flight had 12, and the other flights 10.
So, giggling away, I began to count out loud and feel around for the landings.
It really was totally black in there. I was trying to balance the grocery bags and count stairs without touching the railing, which was old and dirty. Seven ... eight ... nine ... ten ... time to turn a corner. Where is that corner again?
Then I started with the giggles. I'm sure my neighbors think I'm a loon.
* * *
When I reached the third floor, a miracle occurred. A motion-detector light came on and, suddenly, light flashed before my eyes! I practically ran up the last flight, knowing that as quickly as the light came on, it could also quickly turn off and I still had two locks to negotiate.
I dropped my grocery bags in front of my door and began with the antique key first, but I didn't have a lot of luck. Eventually, I got it.
At that point, it was like a game show: Go for the second lock, Fran! Get it open before the light goes out! Win the big prize! Get inside your apartment!
Just as I turned the second lock and knew I could get inside, the downstairs light went out and bam - it was black again!
I opened the door, tripped over the groceries, and promptly fell on the entryway floor. I lay there for a minute, still laughing, in the pitch black, happy to be in my new home with no ill effects from the fall.
But then, it began again: me, like the blind woman and the elephant, feeling my way around the walls, trying not to squash the groceries while attempting to find a light switch. And suddenly, voilà! I found the switch, turned on the light, got the groceries in, and even managed to lock the door from the inside.
But this party wasn't over. Now I'd have to figure out where there might be sheets in this fully-furnished apartment so that I could make the bed and crawl in.
And then I wondered: If I wake up in the middle of the night, will I know where I am?
* * *
I happily choose this life.
I choose to live in places where I don't speak the language, where going to the grocery store is an adventure, where I regularly trip over the culture and have to apologize, where my friends all have similar experiences, and where we can share a bottle of wine and start stories with sentences like, “I was working in Thailand for a couple of years and....”
There's never a dull moment, and I'm always living on the edge.
It isn't always easy, but it's fulfilling in a way that just doesn't happen for me when I stay in one place for a long time. When it gets too simple, my expat friends and I all agree, it's time to move on.
The challenge of travel and culture is the fun part - and, let's face it, the world is a big buffet.
I want to taste it all.