There’s an old joke that we Dukies tell about NC state fans that goes something like, an NC state student was walking through an aquarium and he saw a guy locked in eye contact with a fish. Every time the man did something, the fish mimicked him. The State student says, “That’s incredible! How do you do that?” The man looked at him and said, “The weaker mind always copies the stronger mind.” The state student decided to try it, and a few minutes later, he was opening and closing his mouth every time the fish did. Hah!
So the question I’ve been thinking about these last few days is: does where we are determine who we are? Or can we force a place to adapt to us if we try hard enough? I like the saying: “the reasonable man adapts to his environment. The unreasonable man expects his environment to adapt to him. Although progress, therefore, rests on the actions of unreasonable men (and women!).” No one has ever accused me of being reasonable, that’s for sure.
I had forgotten how lonely the NYC subway is. Everyone comes armed with their headphones and smart phones. Eye contact is a forgotten concept. Incidental social interactions are virtually eliminated—we can text or email people in other places instead of talking to people around us. And granted, if you’ve ever spent time on the NYC subway, you know that there are plenty of people riding that you’d prefer not to talk to! But the old-fashioned part of me misses the casual conversations that you can strike up with strangers in these situations. In an America that at first pass seems like its polarizing day by day, maybe there’s something to be said for talking to people with whom you wouldn’t normally meet in your social circle to remember the range of experiences that occur in a given context (I think the Help illustrates this rather beautifully in a southern town).
I don’t carry a headset. I used to not listen to music in these types of situations deliberately, now that I’ve lost my ipod and am too disorganized to carry headphones, it’s less principled and more pragmatic. Sometimes I’ll read (most recently “Cutting for Stone,” which was disappointing, and “Bossypants,” which was hysterical), but I get distracted by people and shiny things pretty easily. New York City is a sociologist’s dream—because everyone lives in tiny, tiny boxes, they become accustomed to doing what are traditionally private activities in public. Lovers’ quarrels (and amorous make ups), philosophical debates, diary writing……you name it, it happens on the streets, and even better, in the subway. There are entire websites dedicating to the weird things that are observed in New York’s public spaces. Dhaka takes this private-gone-public phenomenon ten steps further, but I can’t eavesdrop with such stealth yet.
Last night I went out to dinner with a friend in New Jersey (how he got me out of the city, I’m still unclear. Something about good food and beer). When I hopped in the cab to go back to the train, bachata was playing, and the melody sounded so familiar—I’d definitely heard this is Frankie’s car in Boston many times. “Is this Aventura?” I asked, a bit too quietly, “Digame mi amor?” (tell me, my love?) he responded. And off we went in Spanish—a nice test to see if Bangla will ruin my other lingual abilities. He was from Honduras, and loved the place, but found it hard to survive economically there, and preferred NJ as a result. Though clearly English is my “first” language, Spanish pulls on my heart strings too—for the first couple years of my life, I spoke as much Spanish as I did English, so it feels native in a fun way.
I get back to 14th street and walk over to Union Square. It’s inching on midnight, and the street is quintessential New York. Many homeless individuals have turned in for the night, sleeping away as girls in short shorts and guys in everything from full suits to gym shorts walk by obliviously, some homebound and others heading out for a party. The summer air is still warm and from the busyness of the sidewalks, you’d think it was still early in the evening. The city that never sleeps. I get to the station entrance, pausing to take in one final look around Manhattan, because while others dream about Paris, New York remains the city of my heart, and head on down to the platform to hop on the Q train. There’s a guy with a guitar playing, “You’ve got a friend,” to a couple girls who look less than thrilled at the attention (they thaw though, eventually singing along with him to “Let it be”). I’m humming along when a cute guy asks me if I’ve been waiting long. “No.” “How often does the train come at this time of night?” I consider the question, then say, “It’s hit or miss.” As if I know. “Are you waiting for the Q?” “Yes” “Where are you going?” “Park Slope.” “Where in Park Slope?” “7th Ave.” “This makes me feel like a tourist, but I was born in Park Slope.” “I feel like a tourist too, because I am one.” “Where are you from?” “North Carolina.” “North Carolina? I hate North Carolina!” “Duke or Carolina?” Total look of confusion. “Oh, do you just hate us indiscriminately?” “Yeah, my ex-girlfriend is from North Carolina and now she’s engaged to my best friend.” Ouch. “Well it’s a great state. We have amazing beaches, fantastic food, good people.” “I’ve never been there.” “Way to invest yourself in that relationship.” Yeah, I can be a bit touchy when people judge my whole state based on one person! We continue in the banter while waiting for the train. Joe went to law school in “Boston” (I ask if he means “Boston” or “Cambridge” to determine whether I’ve somehow ended up talking to another Harvard person. “Boston.” Then I judge him harshly for living in Beacon Hill—real men live in Central or JP. Maybe Davis.), hasn’t found a job since graduating, and is still struggling with the big questions of his purpose and the meaning of life (Sounds like a Harvard kid!). It’s the meaningless, fun interaction that I’ve been craving. Once the finally comes and we each find a seat, we both drift off to sleep to only be rudely woken as we pull to a halt at each stop. I wake up for the ride over the bridge into Brooklyn and admire the downtown skyline. Seriously, this city is just amazing. Before I get off the train, I urge him to reconsider his position on North Carolina. “Give us a second chance.” Since he says that it’s probably time to become slightly less bitter about it, I also invite him to come visit me in Dhaka. “Just ask for Maria; everyone knows who I am.” Only a slight exaggeration. And at the rate I’m going, it becomes truer every day!
I tell this next story with slight reluctance, as I’m worried that it will make all readers doubt my good judgment (maybe I give myself too much credit in terms of your level of faith in me). I get up at 6AM this morning to finish packing. I stocked up on creature comforts at Union market (an expensive but very high quality grocery store in Park Slope) and Target. This time the goods included chili powder, lipton tea, razor blades, coffee (counter culture, mudd, and gorilla), and travel size contact lens solution. And some coconut scented body scrub from Bath and Body Works (it was on sale. Don’t judge me). My bags are busting at the seams—all in all, I’ve probably got close to 100 lbs of loot that I’m transporting with me. Taking the train to JFK airport seems infeasible, so I decide to take a cab. But as I head out, I realize I’m in Brooklyn, where hailing a cab on the street is slightly harder than Manhattan. I stand on Flatbush Ave. while searching for cab numbers on my smart phone. A black van with a “we can help with your taxes!” sign pulls up. “Hey,” the driver says, “you need a ride?” I look at him skeptically and say, “I need a taxi.” “I drive a taxi a few days a week.” “It doesn’t look like today is one of those days.” I retort. “Where you going?” he asks. “The airport.” “Which one?” “Kennedy.” “I can take you.” “How much?” “30 bucks.” Next thing I know I’m opening the van door, and a guy who’s sitting in one of the back rows hops out to help me with my bags. Hmmmmm, I think to myself, on what basis are you deciding that this is a good idea? But off we go. Turns out that this van is usually used as a “dollar van,” so a private (unregulated) collectivo of sorts. I didn’t know that they had those in NYC, but I’m not particularly surprised. Globalization creeps in like that. This is a casualty of too much travel; you lose the gauge of what’s weird here because you’ve done this before somewhere else. In China, Colombia, and many other places I've been, a lot of the taxis are unregulated. I need to tune my alarms to be context specific. Or, go back to where my sensors are accurately tuned!
The guys haven’t heard of Bangladesh but have a lot of questions about what life is like there. My driver is from Haiti, and his name is Dan. “People sometimes call me ‘Dan the Man.’” I say that I used to call a former roommate of mine named Dan the “Danimal” and the other guy comes to life. “That is an awesome nickname! Wasn’t there a yogurt called Danimal? I’m calling you that from now on!” “Dan the man” does not really like this, which only makes it stick. It turns out that the other guy’s name is Ryan but he goes by Spillz (It might be Spills but I like Spillz better). He tends to get a little sloppy when he’s drunk, hence the nickname. They ask if I have a nickname and I say no, but that on the football pitch the guys call me “Apa.” They like that. Danimal keeps calling Bangladesh “Bandabang,” but we manage to correct this by the time we get to the airport. Other than the one time we made a U-turn in a small-ish alley (Danimal said he forgot to turn on Atlantic because he was distracted talking to me), the ride is quite pleasant. And few things irk me more than the ticking of a taxi meter (especially in a country where you can’t negotiate about it at the end of the ride). I have my buddy Dave on standby to call and check in once just because “you can trust in Allah and still tie up your camel.” As the radio warns of the impending hurricane, Danimal says he wants to come visit me in Bandabang. I tell him he’s welcome anytime—I have an air mattress and a guest bedroom. The nice thing about going to a home 10,000 miles away is that you don’t really have to worry about most of these invitations ever leading to any obligations. Having shared that I’m not on Facebook and getting the response “how are you not on facebook? My grandmother in Haiti is on Facebook!”( OK, it turns out that his grandmother is not actually on Facebook, but point well taken), I hand both Danimal and Spillz my business card as I get out of the van. As I go to check in, I muse over what I’d do if a twenty-year-old Haitian-American dollar van driver actually came to see me in Dhaka. Probably enjoy it. Until one of my invitations materializes, I’m going to keep handing them out! In fact, I invite all y’all to come any time!
Turns out, life doesn’t have to be boring or predictable in the developed world. I’m surprisingly capable of finding adventures without any help at all. Forget Duke and NC State, do you know how Harvard students screw in a lightbulb? They hold it in place and the world revolves around them. That’s right, I’m beginning to believe that I can turn the whole world into a funhouse aquarium with new experiences around every turn.
Dhaka, I hope you’re ready for me because I have big plans for you. And if you thought that vacation would make me more reasonable, you’re in trouble.
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