Deny Cynicism

ginmar:

Every time we get out, there's something about seeing the countryside and the people that seems to refresh everyone's spirits. When I go home, I know there will be some part of me that will miss the palm trees, the sound of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer, the heat and even the dust. I've lived in other cultures before, and in less segregated circumstances than here, but somehow, it's this one that has left some lasting mark. Maybe it's just that everything I was told was so wrong. The secret pleasure of cynicism, after all, is being proven wrong.

I keep seeing the Internet cafe guy hanging up lights because he thought it was a nice gesture. I keep remembering the mini-riot we got stuck in in another city, where the person who waded in to to shout down the shouters was a Catholic schoolmaster who taught at a Muslim madrassah. There are the truck drivers who beam at me like I'm their grand daughter, the grumpy postal NCO who teases me about my boxes and DVD addiction, and the Poles who---when they're fully dressed----try out their English on us. If it were up to the little people, we'd probably be roasting a lamb and figuring out a way to combine Ramadan, Christmas, and Chanukah into one maximum-gift-giving frenzy. Plus mashed potatoes. Because when it comes down it, the more I have to do with all the different nationalities here, it boils down to a bunch of very simple things: Heat. Hot water. Electricity and good books. Bad books. Good conversation----and bad conversation, to give one some perspective. Being seen as one's self, not as one's country or religion. Finding out that other people have good points, after all. And, finally, a good year-ending holiday that involves presents and hope and mashed potatoes and good friends.