While traveling to Norway earlier this month, I received an email saying that I won 1st place in the adult non-fiction category for the annual Z-Arts writing contest. Z-Arts is the local arts and humanities organization serving the Zion Canyon communities of Springdale, Rockville, and Virgin, Utah.
The Nefarious
Passport of Bliss
International
travel is one of those things which can easily take a person from her comfort
zone to something far from it in an instant. It is a crucible of intense growth
and understanding of personal capacity, especially when one is actively
involved in the process. In the moment a situation may be the worst thing
imaginable, but as time passes one may be able to realize the humor in the
situation. Moreover, based on the individuals involved in a situation, the same
event could be viewed as great or just plain awful.
Many
times during my time traveling abroad and living abroad, I cursed my situation
and often holding an American passport because of the ideas people held about
Americans based largely on whatever American TV show was currently being dubbed
and played there. Sadly, many of these shows are from TLC, which shows perhaps
the worst of what America has to offer. However, many times my passport got me
to the front of a border crossing, especially on days when it was so humid that
it would start to suck any remnant of life from you.
For
two years I lived in a post-Soviet country where my marital status, or I should
say lack there-of, was a constant source of concern and distress for people. I
was in my early thirties –gasp!- not married. Having lived in Utah for most of
the 11 years prior I was accustom to this, but I was not accustom to serious
offers of men or potential engagements minutes (literally) after meeting
someone.
For
the first few weeks this concern held a sort of endearing quality, but quickly
it became downright obnoxious. Soon I learned all the proper responses in the
local language, and played along. It was hard to articulate, however, that 1) I
know they felt I was a failure because I wasn’t married and 2) that I would
never marry a man from that country because I knew how men there treated women.
My
time abroad also introduced me to many new and exciting forms of
“transportation,” a term I use loosely. Most modes were levels of hell that not
even Dante could have conceived of. Being American, trains are a mode of
transport most people have not experienced much beyond the commuter realm.
Moreover, my idea of train travel had been highly influenced by Wes Anderson’s The Darjeeling Limited, which conjured
images of train travel in its heyday. (Adrian Brody was an added bonus.) Sadly,
trains in a post-Soviet country are leftovers from the past and held together
with something intangible like hopes and dreams. Consequently, the prospect of
travel within the country lost a lot of appeal quickly based on simply getting there.
The lesser of two evils didn’t exist.
Considering
my increasing displeasure over the constant discussion of getting me married
off to a “kai bitchi” (a nice local man), and the fact I grew to loathe
in-country travel, it is ironic that one of my favorite memories eventually
came out of a combination of the two. Years later I smile when I reminisce
about it, but in the moment I did anything but.
One
cold February, my host brother, a government official, and I both had business
trips to attend to in the capital at the same time. I was meeting with the
Minister of Education who became mesmerized when I said I lived in a little
mountain village outside of Las Vegas, which is true in a sense, but mainly I
said it that way because I actually knew those words in the local language. For
reasons I never fully understood, Las Vegas holds some mystical power over the
local population. Our return trip involved the infamous night train. Because
our employers were footing the bill for the transportation, we were able to
stay in a cabin. Most of the other passengers could only afford the seats that
only imperceptibly reclined for a long 9 hour train ride to the coast.
For
several days my host brother could think of only one thing, and discussed it
excitedly, perhaps too excitedly, to the point where I was becoming concerned.
“Chemi
da (My sister)…I hope that our cabin mate on the train is a hot woman…that
would be great.”
My
host brother was 38.
I looked at him
with a considerable amount of skepticism, and slowly replied, “Really? That is
all you want?” I had half expected him to say he wanted our cabin mate to be a
guy that I could marry as that answer would have not been unusual in the least.
As our 10 p.m.
departure time grew closer Zviadi became increasingly giddy at the prospect of
the fourth person in our cabin, with the third being his work colleague. The
stars did not align for Zviadi that night. Perhaps things would have worked out
better if he had lit some candles at one of the Orthodox churches before our
departure.
Instead, we got
Marcel.
Marcel spoke no
English, which made conversing with him difficult, as my language abilities
were limited and I spoke with the coastal region accent. Marcel had two notable
qualities. First, he was single and looking…hard. Two, he was from Dmanisi. Dmanisi
is the site where one of the oldest humanoid skeletons has been unearthed.
Judging from his size and stature, I would venture a guess that Marcel was a
direct descendent of that man.
We quickly learned
that Marcel was going on vacation to the coast, though later admitted to be
moving there. Within minutes he was entranced by me, despite the fact I felt I
could not look any worse than I did right then. Hair askew. Dark circles under
my eyes. Old work shirt made to look even worse by poor local washing powders
and washing machines. Zviadi would translate Marcel’s earnest inquires about
me. He went from “Would she like to go get dinner?” to “Would she like to get
married?” with a furious speed that I was even unaccustomed to and I was from
Utah the move quick to marriage capital of the United States! Apparently,
answering affirmatively to whether I liked certain local cuisine made me a more
than sufficient prospect for marriage. My host brother and his colleague reveled
at my situation. At one point, I realized he said he was going to live on
Chavchavadze Street, which meant down the street from my host brother and me.
“Do not tell him
where we live,” I said through almost clenched teeth while wearing a smile so
as not to arouse suspicion on Marcel’s part. As we disembarked from the train I
fervently prayed not to run into Marcel. I didn’t want the family to know I had
turned down a serious marriage proposal from someone who might provide my
children with very ancient DNA. They would be crushed, and I would bring them a
great shame.
I never ran into
Marcel after alighting from the train. I’m okay with not knowing what bliss
might have come of that.
