FRIDAY NIGHT OUT
FRIDAY NIGHT OUT
I was on my way to the office having been summoned the day before by my boss.
I had almost arrived when my driver suggested that I call someone to check to see if the Ministry was open. He’d been talking about the king being dead and I’d had no idea what he’d been talking about because Kuwait doesn’t have Kings, it has Emirs. My driver, a nice Indian fellow, uses male, female, personal and subject pronouns without distinction or relation to the subject. With a limited vocabulary he manages to communicate in English while driving, no mean feat. I can’t say that I could do the same. (He once told me the story of an Indian movie soundtrack we were listening to. I wish I’d had a tape recorder. It was a testament to how a person can communicate with a limited vocabulary.) Anyway, I called a colleague. The Emir was dead. No one from the office had thought to call me. We had the next three days off. All government offices were closed as well as all other businesses, except food stores. My driver said there was a fine of 1500 KD ($4,950) per day for establishments that remained open during this time.
Thus began 40 days of mourning. Every commercial radio station broadcasts recitations of the Koran 24/7 or a moderated talk show enumerating the many accomplishments of the great leader (with the exception of one that played Hindi pop music circa 1940.)
One is not expected to enjoy oneself during this mourning period. Nighttime soap operas are broadcast during the day, and one is not expected to listen to music, dance or bar-b-q. (If one ever did.) Billboards have appeared with images of the Sheik in better days. There followed a tussle for power until the new Emir was voted in.
I was stood up for the third time in a row by a teacher who’s been trying to meet with me. At first he wanted to come to my house. This seemed presumptuous to me; I said no.
He called during the vacation and said he would meet me after my class. I texted him the address. When he didn’t show up I called him. He was en route and needed directions. Mind you, I’ve been in this country for four months. He has lived here for years. While it’s true I’ve been all over the city and metropolitan area, I don’t drive so I know where I am, I‘d be hard pressed to tell someone how to get there. This is why man created maps. He didn’t make our appointment. After a hellacious teaching day, I was tired, so we agreed to meet the next day. Naturally he didn’t turn up. I called. He said he’d been sleeping. But he’d found out where the meeting place was. Why hadn’t I told him it was off Restaurant Street? It was easy to get to. All he’d had to do was turn right and then left. I should have told him this! So it’s all my fault he couldn’t get here. I should have told him the school was off Restaurant Street. This attitude is far more common than one could possibly imagine. Some people (men in particular) don’t take responsibility for their actions. Not wanting to act like the cold hearted, time-obsessed westerner that I am, I agreed to meet him the next day. This time I waited only two minutes for him. Then I went back inside the school and checked my email. (There was a fire in Kuwait Tower and ISPs were not working for home dial-up service.) This is how it came to be that I had a free Friday (Wednesday) night, money in my pocket and nothing to do. I hit the streets. I decided it was time I discovered Restaurant Street.
As the name implies, the street is full of restaurants. I would have gone mad if I’d returned to my hovel, having worked from home most of the day. Also I couldn’t bear the thought of eating my own cooking again. I looked for a Chinese restaurant. I walked for a while, dodging cars that really tried to run me over. It was dark and there is no sidewalk so you have to be careful. I came to a traffic circle where there was GAD restaurant. It was popular—busy, but I kept walking. I looked up the road and couldn’t see any Chinese restaurant. By now I was hungry and wanted to eat. A car runner gave me a menu. (A car runner comes to your car, takes your order, runs into the restaurant gives the order, brings the food out to you, takes your money.) You never have to leave your car.) After looking over the menu I decided to eat there, because the menu was just too much fun.
So you think you know English?
Have dinner with me at GAD. Let’s look at the menu. You could start off with Bird’s tongue soup, followed with Macaroni in Oven or the ever popular ‘Spagetti Macaroni’. What would you like to drink? How about ‘bombgrinade’ juice? Oh, you don’t like pomegranate. Why don’t you try the Banana with milk juice and I’ll have the ‘Gskgskins’. Let’s look at the list of ‘Snadwiches’: There’s the ‘Dinamit’ Sandwich, which frankly, sounds dangerous. There’s Eggs with ‘Basterma’ or Steak ‘Bewafer’. How my imagination reels wondering just what could be put between two slices of bread. Maybe an ‘Escalop Panne’ Sandwich would hit the spot. Though that panne might be hard to digest. You could go for the classic ‘Kloob’ Sandwich GAD. There is one sandwich I’d like to try- -The Alexandrian Liver Sandwich. And the special for today is Turkish in Oven. You nationality, your liver and your language are in peril at GAD! An applied linguist goes out to dinner in Kuwait! This is her idea of fun! God help me. I sat on the deserted terrace facing the traffic circle. The cars went round and round. From time to time someone would try to traverse the circle. Fool.
I ordered by pointing. Internationally understood, I thought it the best way. After some time a basket of small, hot pitas was put on my table. They looked like they’d encountered a bicycle pump, they were so puffed with air. A plate of pickled carrots, peppers, and turnips appeared, salty as all get out. As far as I’m concerned, this is the best way to eat a turnip. I don’t mind them in Aunt Tice’s greens but I don’t jump up and shout over turnips, unless they’re pickled. The cars go ‘round and ‘round. There is an edge to the night air so I keep my jacket on but I unzip it.
I watch the car runners work. It reminds me of a scene from American Graffiti, in which the waitresses at the burger joint take orders on rollerskates. There are no women in this restaurant. All the workers are men. All the customers are men. The women, if there are any, stay in the car. Two girls under the age of ten appear and try to get my attention. I ignore them. I’m trying to enjoy myself in Kuwait. Most of my friends are on vacation. This is a good opportunity to discover something about Kuwait and myself.
In addition to teaching, I’m reworking my trainings for the next semester. I can’t leave the country because I’m waiting for my contract and visa. (more about this later.)
A waiter brings mango juice. It’s fresh and the consistency of jam. There are chunks of mango at the bottom of the cup. The shrimp arrive. They are sitting on a plate looking, for all the world, like fish filet. They’re that big. Brandishing the menu, pointing at the photo I hassle the waiter in my non-Arabic “Is this shrimp?” He assures me in his non-English that they are. I taste one. They are indeed shrimp and they’re good.
A thin, grizzled man walks into the restaurant wearing a grey and burgundy checked bathrobe tired tightly at the waist. Underneath he wore purple sweatpants, socks and plastic slippers. He greets the waiters with familiarity. All heads turn and stare.
GAD doesn’t serve coffee or tea, so I head out in search of a café. Down Restaurant Street I find Toot and (Mish)2, pronounced Toot and Mish-Mish. It’s a juice bar and café. Their tagline is “Be the best mixer in your crowd.” The place is empty except for a man in the corner writing. He’s actually crunching numbers for the business. Close enough. The menu is a masterpiece of engineering, one long piece of paper folded in such a way that the top is an index so you can open it up to the section you want to order from. Printed in full color on both sides, it must have cost a fortune to produce. I order a mochacino, choose a table and start writing.
Thee mochacino arrives in a white ceramic cup and saucer, with a white plastic spoon.
It is milky with very little coffee taste and I decide to let is get cold. It is honestly the worst mochacino I’ve ever tasted. But this is a good place to write, so I look out of the big glass windows and I see by the light of the streetlamps dust, smoke and exhaust swirling in the air. Here too there are car runners. I talk to the number cruncher, the manager. He’s Lebanese and he’s been running the café for two years, business is good. This is something different for Kuwait he tells me. He asks me how I like the café. I look around--the fruit colored walls, the big windows, the good music. It’s nice, but you need a disco in the back I tell him. Maybe in a couple of years he says. I say maybe fifty years. No, he says, the new Emir is a man who believes in progress; Kuwait is going to change. I leave the café filled with hope.
I was on my way to the office having been summoned the day before by my boss.
I had almost arrived when my driver suggested that I call someone to check to see if the Ministry was open. He’d been talking about the king being dead and I’d had no idea what he’d been talking about because Kuwait doesn’t have Kings, it has Emirs. My driver, a nice Indian fellow, uses male, female, personal and subject pronouns without distinction or relation to the subject. With a limited vocabulary he manages to communicate in English while driving, no mean feat. I can’t say that I could do the same. (He once told me the story of an Indian movie soundtrack we were listening to. I wish I’d had a tape recorder. It was a testament to how a person can communicate with a limited vocabulary.) Anyway, I called a colleague. The Emir was dead. No one from the office had thought to call me. We had the next three days off. All government offices were closed as well as all other businesses, except food stores. My driver said there was a fine of 1500 KD ($4,950) per day for establishments that remained open during this time.
Thus began 40 days of mourning. Every commercial radio station broadcasts recitations of the Koran 24/7 or a moderated talk show enumerating the many accomplishments of the great leader (with the exception of one that played Hindi pop music circa 1940.)
One is not expected to enjoy oneself during this mourning period. Nighttime soap operas are broadcast during the day, and one is not expected to listen to music, dance or bar-b-q. (If one ever did.) Billboards have appeared with images of the Sheik in better days. There followed a tussle for power until the new Emir was voted in.
I was stood up for the third time in a row by a teacher who’s been trying to meet with me. At first he wanted to come to my house. This seemed presumptuous to me; I said no.
He called during the vacation and said he would meet me after my class. I texted him the address. When he didn’t show up I called him. He was en route and needed directions. Mind you, I’ve been in this country for four months. He has lived here for years. While it’s true I’ve been all over the city and metropolitan area, I don’t drive so I know where I am, I‘d be hard pressed to tell someone how to get there. This is why man created maps. He didn’t make our appointment. After a hellacious teaching day, I was tired, so we agreed to meet the next day. Naturally he didn’t turn up. I called. He said he’d been sleeping. But he’d found out where the meeting place was. Why hadn’t I told him it was off Restaurant Street? It was easy to get to. All he’d had to do was turn right and then left. I should have told him this! So it’s all my fault he couldn’t get here. I should have told him the school was off Restaurant Street. This attitude is far more common than one could possibly imagine. Some people (men in particular) don’t take responsibility for their actions. Not wanting to act like the cold hearted, time-obsessed westerner that I am, I agreed to meet him the next day. This time I waited only two minutes for him. Then I went back inside the school and checked my email. (There was a fire in Kuwait Tower and ISPs were not working for home dial-up service.) This is how it came to be that I had a free Friday (Wednesday) night, money in my pocket and nothing to do. I hit the streets. I decided it was time I discovered Restaurant Street.
As the name implies, the street is full of restaurants. I would have gone mad if I’d returned to my hovel, having worked from home most of the day. Also I couldn’t bear the thought of eating my own cooking again. I looked for a Chinese restaurant. I walked for a while, dodging cars that really tried to run me over. It was dark and there is no sidewalk so you have to be careful. I came to a traffic circle where there was GAD restaurant. It was popular—busy, but I kept walking. I looked up the road and couldn’t see any Chinese restaurant. By now I was hungry and wanted to eat. A car runner gave me a menu. (A car runner comes to your car, takes your order, runs into the restaurant gives the order, brings the food out to you, takes your money.) You never have to leave your car.) After looking over the menu I decided to eat there, because the menu was just too much fun.
So you think you know English?
Have dinner with me at GAD. Let’s look at the menu. You could start off with Bird’s tongue soup, followed with Macaroni in Oven or the ever popular ‘Spagetti Macaroni’. What would you like to drink? How about ‘bombgrinade’ juice? Oh, you don’t like pomegranate. Why don’t you try the Banana with milk juice and I’ll have the ‘Gskgskins’. Let’s look at the list of ‘Snadwiches’: There’s the ‘Dinamit’ Sandwich, which frankly, sounds dangerous. There’s Eggs with ‘Basterma’ or Steak ‘Bewafer’. How my imagination reels wondering just what could be put between two slices of bread. Maybe an ‘Escalop Panne’ Sandwich would hit the spot. Though that panne might be hard to digest. You could go for the classic ‘Kloob’ Sandwich GAD. There is one sandwich I’d like to try- -The Alexandrian Liver Sandwich. And the special for today is Turkish in Oven. You nationality, your liver and your language are in peril at GAD! An applied linguist goes out to dinner in Kuwait! This is her idea of fun! God help me. I sat on the deserted terrace facing the traffic circle. The cars went round and round. From time to time someone would try to traverse the circle. Fool.
I ordered by pointing. Internationally understood, I thought it the best way. After some time a basket of small, hot pitas was put on my table. They looked like they’d encountered a bicycle pump, they were so puffed with air. A plate of pickled carrots, peppers, and turnips appeared, salty as all get out. As far as I’m concerned, this is the best way to eat a turnip. I don’t mind them in Aunt Tice’s greens but I don’t jump up and shout over turnips, unless they’re pickled. The cars go ‘round and ‘round. There is an edge to the night air so I keep my jacket on but I unzip it.
I watch the car runners work. It reminds me of a scene from American Graffiti, in which the waitresses at the burger joint take orders on rollerskates. There are no women in this restaurant. All the workers are men. All the customers are men. The women, if there are any, stay in the car. Two girls under the age of ten appear and try to get my attention. I ignore them. I’m trying to enjoy myself in Kuwait. Most of my friends are on vacation. This is a good opportunity to discover something about Kuwait and myself.
In addition to teaching, I’m reworking my trainings for the next semester. I can’t leave the country because I’m waiting for my contract and visa. (more about this later.)
A waiter brings mango juice. It’s fresh and the consistency of jam. There are chunks of mango at the bottom of the cup. The shrimp arrive. They are sitting on a plate looking, for all the world, like fish filet. They’re that big. Brandishing the menu, pointing at the photo I hassle the waiter in my non-Arabic “Is this shrimp?” He assures me in his non-English that they are. I taste one. They are indeed shrimp and they’re good.
A thin, grizzled man walks into the restaurant wearing a grey and burgundy checked bathrobe tired tightly at the waist. Underneath he wore purple sweatpants, socks and plastic slippers. He greets the waiters with familiarity. All heads turn and stare.
GAD doesn’t serve coffee or tea, so I head out in search of a café. Down Restaurant Street I find Toot and (Mish)2, pronounced Toot and Mish-Mish. It’s a juice bar and café. Their tagline is “Be the best mixer in your crowd.” The place is empty except for a man in the corner writing. He’s actually crunching numbers for the business. Close enough. The menu is a masterpiece of engineering, one long piece of paper folded in such a way that the top is an index so you can open it up to the section you want to order from. Printed in full color on both sides, it must have cost a fortune to produce. I order a mochacino, choose a table and start writing.
Thee mochacino arrives in a white ceramic cup and saucer, with a white plastic spoon.
It is milky with very little coffee taste and I decide to let is get cold. It is honestly the worst mochacino I’ve ever tasted. But this is a good place to write, so I look out of the big glass windows and I see by the light of the streetlamps dust, smoke and exhaust swirling in the air. Here too there are car runners. I talk to the number cruncher, the manager. He’s Lebanese and he’s been running the café for two years, business is good. This is something different for Kuwait he tells me. He asks me how I like the café. I look around--the fruit colored walls, the big windows, the good music. It’s nice, but you need a disco in the back I tell him. Maybe in a couple of years he says. I say maybe fifty years. No, he says, the new Emir is a man who believes in progress; Kuwait is going to change. I leave the café filled with hope.
posted by Roja at 2:46 PM
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