Well, this is Awkward

I met a couple of young women at the Chai Chat where I did storytelling at the Embassy. One of them invited me to her home and the other invited me to go shopping. I said something typically American in response to each invitation, "That would be nice." Well, that started the dominoes clapping each other on the back.

"Can you come over tomorrow?" Nigina asked me.

"No, not tomorrow. It's Saturday, I spend Saturday with my husband."

"Can you come over Sunday?"

"Sundays I hike."

"Monday?"

And on it went until I gave her a specific day and time.

The same conversation began with the other young woman, Yulia, after I had just had it with Nigina so I told Yulia to e-mail me and we would pick a time. This next part of the story I know a few of my friends (Julie, Howard) will particularly enjoy. I followed through and e-mailed her and suggested a time to shop. I never heard from her. I saw her standing outside the Embassy the next Friday and she asked me if I remembered about shopping with her.

"Yes," I said, "I e-mailed you."

"Oh," she replied, "I didn't check my e-mail."

So we set a time to shop.

Nigina told me that she'd meet me at the Embassy and take me to her house. That was very nice of her since I still don't know where much of anything is. We hired a taxi on the street and about 20 minutes later were at her apartment. It is a very large building made of chipped cement, maybe six floors, that is not well maintained on the outside. Clothes hang outside windows, some windows have bars, some are open, some framed with wood or brick. Inside, however, it lookes quite nice. Nigina's family was most excited for the visit from the American. Her little sister was peeking out the window and neighbors were watching. We sat in the living room which was cozy. The coffee table was layed out with cherries, raisins, cookies, candy and juice.

The first awkward moment was a result of my big mouth. We were told by the medical officer to not eat any fruits or vegetables without soaking them in a mixture of bleach and water for about 10 minutes. Raw manure is used in the soil and traces of it are often found on food. It was early spring and it had been so long since I'd seen cherries, I exclaimed "Oh, those cherries look so good!". Oopsy. Now I had to eat some.I said a quick prayer and ate a few after discreetly rubbing them on my pants (like that would help).

Second awkward moment came with the homemade apple juice. We are not to drink the tap water. Period. Once the word 'parasite' came out the medical officer's mouth, he had my attention. I didn't know if they used tap water in their homemade apple juice or not. I didn't know how to ask without seeming insulting. People here are not shy to ask, "Why?" "Why don't you drink the water?" ("Why don't you eat the fat/gristle?" "Why do you wash the fruit/vegetables in bleach water?" "Why do you wash your hands so much?")And they are more informed than I am. "I drink it, it won't hurt you." Thank God, on the table was a store bought bottle of juice which I managed to pour before the homemade juice was brought out. No one seemed to notice.

Next awkward moment was the soup. I was told by the medical officer to go ahead and eat vegetables if they were cooked and served hot. The soup was a yogurt based cold soup with vegetables. Uh-oh. As soon as it was place in front of me Nigina's friend, who was sitting beside me, smiled shyly and said, "I made the soup. I hope you like it." I caved to social pressure. I ate the soup. After praying, of course. I must have looked quite holy that day! (By the way, I remain - as far as I know - healthy.)

I was truly on display that afternoon. The neighbors dropped in to see the American. Long lost relatives(no kidding) dropped in to see the American. And everyone wanted their picture taken with the American. It was touching. I told them that I remember when I was young, my sister brought home a foreign exchange student from Germany. I remember watching every move she made. What will she eat? What is she wearing? Is she looking at me? And I loved hearing her talk with her accent.

Nigina asked me if I wanted to see her bedroom. So I got the tour of the apartment. It was much larger than I expected. She shared a room with her younger sister so there were bunk beds in it. There were also notes stuck to a wall with English words and phrases. She showed me the few English language books she had won at the Embassy (Moby Dick and a collection of short stories are the two I can recall). They had a walk in linen closet which was full of what I would call comforters. They weren't quilts, but they were as thick and soft as quilts. When they have guests, they pull out a few to pile up for the guest to sleep on. They were colorful and looked very inviting. Her mother's room had, next to the bed, a crib where her youngest sister (about six years of age) slept.

When we returned to the living room, her mother brought out a huge plate piled high with the Uzbek national dish of plov (pronounced with a long O).
Plov is spiced rice and meat with raisins or currants, chickpeas and, depending on who makes it, a variety of other ingredients including a slice of horse meat (delicious, I'm sorry to say) or a hard boiled quail's egg. Spoons were laid out and we all ate off the same plate. It was very tasty. I, unfortunately, had already eaten lunch much to Nigina's disappointment. I ate lunch for two reasons. 1. I was hungry after my music lesson which ends at 12:30. 2. I was uncertain as to what would be offered to me that I could safely eat. Perhaps in time I'll relax more with food, but I'd rather be safe than have to deal with a tape worm living in me.

The final awkward moment was the serving of the tea. Everyone in Uzbekistan drinks tea except me. It turned out to not be a big deal, I just didn't touch the tea and no one said anything. I was told that it was considered impolite to not drink it. I was also told that, if I did drink some, to be sure to not finish it or they would refill it.

When I left, the girls helped me get a cab and set a fare. I was glad I went. I was mentally drained between trying to speak as much Russian as I could (Nigina's mother doesn't speak English), politely navigating the food selections, smiling and trying to remember names. I hope I can visit another home and manage to relax a little more.

A week later, Yulia and I went shopping with her friend and her friend's husband. They picked me up at the Embassy. We had a miscommunication. We were supposed to meet at 1PM, but they didn't show up until 1:30. I had decided to give them until 1:15 then leave. I stopped at Doug's office to tell him I was going home (with some relief) instead of shopping. He quickly checked my e-mail which said they'd see me at 1:30. I can't say exactly why I was upset. I think it was just my level of discomfort in these new situations. So back I went to meet them. She had told me all these places she wanted to take me. I let her know that I'd only have an hour or two. She was so disappointed, but I wsnted some sort of limit on the situation.

I'm not a big shopper. When we go to the bazaar there were rows and rows of clothes and shoes shops. They all looked alike to me. The clothes were, let's just say, not my style. Not that I actually have any style. But these clothes had bows and fabric flowers decorating them, they were made of fabrics with huge prints in loud colors, or they looked, frankly, whorish - all of which I found interesting considering the fact that all the young Uzbeks I see on the streets are wearing black. The older women wear skirts of one print, blouses of another print and contrasting socks with sandals. Maybe that's the look these girls were going for for me. I could not even feign interest.

The awkwardness came when they kept asking me what I wanted to look at.

"I've never been here." I said. "I just want to see what's here."

That, apparently was no answer.

"We came here for you. Do you want to go in this store? In this store? In this store?"

Truth: No, no and no. What I actually said, "It's not really my style."

"What is your style?"

Now, I should mention that, for some reason, I chose to wear a pair of capri pants that were about 19 years old with a sleeveless blouse that tied around the waist. I looked like Laura Petrie. So I tried to explain the concept of window shopping to them. No good. I gave in and said I like skirts. From that point on every skirt came off the rack to be displayed for me.

"Do you like this one? This one? This one?"

I felt a headache coming on.

I tried to change the subject.

"Are you able to try on clothes?"

I asked this because I saw nowhere in any of these shops to do this. It turned out if was just hidden. Imagine this: You are standing in front of a rack of clothes that is against a wall. There is a curtain hanging between the wall and the rack. THAT'S where you could change clothes. You have about a foot a space between the wall and the rack.

I then asked if you could return clothing you decided you didn't like or want. No.

Then I thought I got smart. I had just dropped and broken my sunglasses that morning. Sunglasses! We could shop for sunglasses! Okay. Off we went in search of (easy to find) sunglasses. I started trying them on. Everyone kept handing my pairs to try on. The problem is that I'm fussy. I don't think I look good in glasses. I'd see a pair that I thought were okay, then when I pulled them out saw that the sides of the frames (the bows) were covered in sequins. No thank you.

I really wanted to buy a pair from the last man whose shop we stopped at. Why? Because he really was helpful. First, when I pulled off a pair of glasses to try on, he took them from me and cleaned them. Customer service is pretty rare here. I don't want to insult the Uzbeks. Remember: it's not right or wrong; it's different. Typical service is like my encounter with a young man behind the meat counter. He was half standing, leaning on the counter with his head down on his hands. I was trying to him for a particular kind of meat. Without moving he tried to understand me and answer me. We had several exchanges until he finally signed deeply and managed to stand up and get someone else to try to talk to me. So this man who cleaned the glasses and polished the lenses really impressed me. I tried on lots of pairs. I almost bought a brown tortoise shell framed pair but I couldn't handle the faux mother of pearl bows.

I had told them that I had to be back at the Embassy by 3:00 so it was time to leave. Yulia was so disappointed. Then came the invitation to her house. She wants to have Doug and I over for a real Uzbek dinner. She wants us to meet her family. She wants to know - RIGHT NOW! - when we can come. I try to explain to her that with Doug in charge of the Fourth of July festivities and his boss out of town for about two months along with other directors he is quite busy and won't be able to for at least two months. Again, disappointment.

"Can't you come over after work? On the weekend?" It turns out that she lives outside Tashkent near the mountains, no small drive. I didn't feel like explaining our concept of down time right then so I just said no. I felt rude, though. I have since written her an e-mail (I declined to give her my phone number, again feeling rude) telling her that I appreciated her invitation and that, in time, I'd let her know when we were available.

I hope that I adjust to all these feelings. I don't think I did anything wrong that afternoon with Yulia, but I walked away feeling selfish and mean.