Giving the Gift of Laughter...and Social Awkwardness

Yesterday during one brief moment of total hubris, I thought to myself: “I think I know what’s going on here. These folks are so afraid that they won’t understand what I’m saying in English that their language anxiety precludes them from hearing that I’m actually asking in Arabic!” I became so content with this delusion that, mistaking it for a universal truth, my theory accidentally slipped out when I was chatting with one of my housemates. He sardonically replied, “Yah, that’s what it is…the Palestinians are the ones getting it wrong.” Ouch. Mind you, the derailment of my stupid train was not due to a misguided belief that I have reached any level of fluency in Arabic. It was sabotaged by the certainty that I don’t have any real Arabic fluency, save all but eight words that I am certain I know pretty well. That is, I was certain that I knew them pretty well.

One of these words is ayna. Ayna, to the best of my knowledge means “where”. So being the fearless linguist that I am, I approached the first woman I saw and asked, “Min fudlick, ayna Mount Scopus Hotel fee Sheikh Jarrar?” She smiled, looking around somewhat perplexed. I also detected just the slightest expression of “Oh crap. What did I just step in?” Still, she graciously listened as I repeated this question, and added, “Idrusu Arabbiya fee el maddrasa bejaanib Mount Scopus Hotel.” In my little head, this translates to “I study Arabic in the school next to Mount Scopus Hotel.” I have since come to the conclusion that I alone hold that supposition to be likely. We then embarked on a series of “uhhhhh, ummms...”, shoulder shrugs, crinkled noses, exaggerated neck craning, nervous giggles and empathic eye rolls to the heavens...as if by engaging in this interpretative dance lucidity would bubble to the surface of our respective consciousness. She finally asked, “Sheikh Jarrar?” I replied “Uh...na’am.” She said something to me in what apparently is real Arabic and pointed me toward the road on the right. We laughed a little and off I went in the exact opposite direction of Mount Scopus Hotel.

As I headed toward the city center in West Jerusalem, I figured I better ask someone else for directions. It was a nice day for a hike, but I had other things I needed to do. Man, I swear...It was as if there was a Neighborhood Watch alert. People were avoiding me like ham sandwich. So, doing what any unbelievably conspicuous American would do, I popped into the American Colony Hotel to buy a grossly overpriced tourist map. Too bad the Israeli cartographer who compiled the thing was unaware that East Jerusalem exists. That’s not true. It exists but only with Hebrew street names. Oy. That will get me a whole lot of love in East Jerusalem. “Min fudlick, ayna Ben Gurion Street wa Golda Meir Avenue? Ana bidi yeshiva bejaanib Mount Scopus Hotel.”

So, with my chronic optimism prodding me along, I thought I would give Arabic another try. [If I ever become famous, those better not be my ‘famous last words’.] Alas, I hope you embrace the lesson I learned from this folly and know that it is applicable for every traveler in every travel destination on this planet. If you are lost, and you need assistance there are several types of people you want to avoid:
* those who you can smell before you see them,
* those who are overly anxious to assist and insist on escorting you to a “short cut”,
and possibly the scariest of all...
* pre-teen girls who travel in packs.
My self confidence received its death knell blow when I repeated my questions to a pack of giggling schoolgirls who were walking past American Colony.

Parents: please, please, please; when you have little girls, do whatever it takes to instill in them a sense of agency, self-assurance and grace. All these bobbleheads could do was interject between giggles and snorts: “No English...snort, giggle, giggle, giggle, snort...” Their inexplicable amusement rivaled that of the pasty, Jerry Garcia T-shirt sporting, college freshman who once generously offered a bong hit upon introducing himself to me at a beach party. I wasn’t amused by him either. In an exasperated tone I said “La ‘English’, fee Arabbiya!” They would stop, walk back towards me and say OK. Then before I could get the words out of my mouth, again I’d hear: “snort, giggle, giggle, giggle, No English! Don’t...giggle...understand...giggle-giggle...English...snort” This dialogue repeated several more times before I thought to myself: “How do you say in Arabic ‘I’m going to roundhouse kick you in front of cab’?” Good grief, I wish I could go back to the days when I cut an intimidating form and I could just demand an answer from someone younger than me...and get it. For the time being, I suppose I’m at the mercy of a cadre of hijab-ed Britney Spears.

In any case, today was my first day of school. I already love it. I can’t wait to actually be able to communicate with someone other than the little Arab person in my head. ‘Cause they apparently can’t speak Arabic either. It turns out that although my Classical Arabic gets me by in a classroom in Washington, DC, it is the communicative equivalent of reading the ingredient listing on the side of a Twinkie package here. Some of the words sound familiar, but no one in their right mind wants to investigate their meaning. We all want to continue to like Twinkies.