bad metaphor

I’ve always been a wee bit jealous of my beautiful and accomplished friends Stacey and Josh, especially so ever since he got a glamorous assignment in the distant land of Xingovia. As part of his job, he and Stacey get to move to a new country every two years. I’m not entirely sure what it is that Josh actually does, but I like to think it involves dramatic espionage hijinx and sultry poker games. Yes, like the poor girl in my Acting 1 course who did not know the difference between an actor and a character, I assume real life is like the movies. Anyway, the pair got married and shipped off for the distant shores of Xingovia, and I recall at the time they were pretty excited about the opportunity. Xingovia was pretty stable these days, according to Stacey, and she had a job lined up there as well. I hadn’t heard much from them until yesterday, when Stacey gave me a call – the two were in town for a couple of days and wanted to catch their Kansas friends. So Eli and I met up with them and their friends for a few drinks.

Everybody in their circle is bright, multilingual, and either accomplished or getting there. One friend suggested that the couple try to get an assignment in Kyrgyzstan, which, though impoverished, is as scenically beautiful as Switzerland. I think I overheard someone else talking about learning Quechua and how difficult that was. Okay…now I’ve heard of Kyrgyzstan and could identify it as a country, and after a few seconds of processing I recognize “Quechua” as a language, not a hippie food you eat with kale and swiss chard. I think we’re probably more aware then like 75% of the American populace, but still, Eli and I were definitely the dunces at that particular table. Well, bright lights need dim backdrops to shine against, right?

“So, tell us about Xingovia,” I said to Stacey.

“Well..” she said, her face kind of forming this resigned grimace. Xingovia, which I knew not a thing about beforehand, is a country rich in oil reserves and poor in just about everything else. “Everyone has cars there,” she said, as the risk of muggings is far too high for walking about on the street. Also, credit cards are no good in Xingovia, so everyone walking about is likely carrying a big wad of cash.

Everyone in the wealthier sector of the capital where they live, that is. Outside the enclave of wealthy oil moguls and Texas businessmen, where a pina colada costs $25 (USD), the majority of the population struggles with affording food, health care, clean water, etc. The oil wealth has obviously not “trickled down,” reports Stacey – all it seems to have done is drive up the costs. “It got so expensive here, the Red Cross had to leave,” she said. Oof. The myriad of societal ills, like most places in Africa, appears pretty much impenetrable for the time being. She told me about a home for girls which is filled to the brim with daughters thrown out of their houses, accused of witchcraft and bringing calamity upon their families. Untreated polio and other easily curable diseases, not to mention the rampant AIDS epidemic. Where does one even begin?

She says she misses coffee shops the most – there aren’t really hangout spots in Xingovia, where one can really kind of just meet people and converse with them. Just nightclubs with dancing and loud music, the aforementioned ridiculously expensive drinks, and skinny, impossibly beautiful and artfully made-up women who aren’t interested in getting an education (what for?), just in landing a decent husband. Frustrating, for someone as whip-smart as Stacey.

I went over to Josh’s side of the table to get his side. “So, Stacey sure doesn’t seem to be all that thrilled with Xingovia,” I said.

The look on Josh’s face obviated the need for him to say this: “Xingovia is miserable, it’s a shithole.” Ouch. Hopefully their next assignment is somewhere more to their liking.

On the ride home, I remarked to Eli that, though I was still kinda jealous of this couple and their international travels, maybe I wouldn’t be cut out for that lifestyle (even if I were, ya know, qualified). I have often bitched and moaned to my friends and whomever will listen about how boring I find this little town, how I want to escape, and not be a secretary for the rest of my life. And that’s true, of course.

Maybe, though, I don’t actually want to go on these amazing international hot-shot superstar experiences, but to say that I have gone on these experience. The bragging rights. I do like travel and experiencing new things, but if I am honest with myself, I’m a homebody. I like travel and all, but I’m a “there-and-back” type, not a globetrotter. I have a comfort zone that is getting a little more rigid as I get older. Sad, but true.

Plus I would hate to be stuck in a place where I couldn’t ride my bike at night, rushing down the street with no brakes, inhaling the lilac breath in the night air. I’d miss the absurdly cheap drink specials (glug glug), the random array of parades on Mass St., and knowing the town crazies on a first name basis. Sure, this little town has its flaws, but there are times when I do still appreciate my little home on the prairie.

* Since there are no countries with names beginning in X, I was going to use “Xanadu” as the fake name, but thought that might evoke different, less bleak and more sparkly roller-skating imagery than is merited.

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