Sitting in the back of the candy store, 53 year-old Samir was waiting for my response. He looked at me with an inquisitive, slightly concerned gaze that a silent-film actor would use to convey, “What do you want to do with your life young man?” But this was not what he was asking. You don’t have to be fluent in Arabic to realize that when a man simulates copulation with his fingers, he’s asking you something very different.
Always a fan of the random situational humor, my heart was immediately filled with joy over this horribly awkward and confusing moment. “What the fuck did he just say?” Any time you find yourself in a real-life situation you would only suspect in a poorly written movie, stay there. They make for good replies to “How was your day,” or for good filler on your poorly written blog. The game is to not let-on to yourself, or your company that you may be accidentally re-enacting a deleted scene from Seinfeld or David Hasselhoff’s Nightrider. Composure is a must. Take a deep breath… don’t look at his pulsing hands… “I don’t know,” I calmly responded. “No you idiot, look at my hands,” he inferred by firmly bobbing his head toward his lap, as if I hadn’t noticed he was giving his left-hand a hand job. I was impressed at my ability to keep a straight face.
So how did I find myself in the back of a Syrian candy store trying to decipher this man’s Arabic and sign language? Well, of all the God-related phrases I’ve learned in Arabic since my arrival (“God is great,” “God willing,” “Thank God”) “God only knows” has yet to make it to my wordbank. But that would certainly be a fitting answer to the question. But lets assume God has more important things to do than to explain his demented creation, and back-track in the story a bit in order to figure it out ourselves.
I had just finished practicing Arabic with my conversation partner in one of the many mosques of my neighborhood. On the way out, I repeated what is becoming a pattern; I stopped into the nearby candy store. It’s owned by a family whose 19 year-old son has taken an interest in sitting me down in the shop and stuffing me full of sugar and caffeine while he asks me about America. Naturally, I cooperate.
With his little English, and my pitiful Arabic, I quickly accomplished my first three goals of every “what’s America like?” conversation: we all don’t like George Bush, American is nothing like Hollywood movies, and we aren’t all rich. The reason for distancing myself from my President in this region is obvious. But let me explain the other two. Based upon the questions I get, and the odd way people occasionally treat me, I get the impression that there is a great deal of larger-than-life perceptions of the American lifestyle. Either you’re a celebrity, a hardened and violent criminal, or, at the very least, a very rich dude who loves Bon Jovee. As you can imagine, when people suspect this of you, they give you a lot of attention which I’d prefer to avoid by distancing myself from such misconceptions (Bon Jovee sucks). Often this attention includes a lot of questions (e.g. “What’s the Mafia like? Was JFK killed because he said Palestine was an Arab state? Are there places in the U.S. that go weeks without day light?… I’m assuming this last one was inspired by the recent vampire movie “30 Days of Night,”… staring Josh Hartnett… rated R). They also like to give you instructions of how to improve yourself by adopting some of their own behavior and beliefs.
So this is the best context I can provide in order to explain the man in the candy shop who’s serious gaze didn’t match his 6th-grader’s imitation of sex. [This is a hand gesture you can re-create at home; make a peace sign with your left hand, now penetrate the “V” with your right-hand’s pointer finger, and vigorously saw it against the rim of your palm like you’re trying to cut towards your elbow.] It turns out that there is no transition necessary between questions of Texan geography to sexual promiscuity. I had just finished explaining how far Dallas was from Chicago when he dropped this bomb on me. But it was all the same topic to him. He wanted to know about America; and as I’ve mentioned earlier, the U.S. is less known for democracy promotion around here than it is for its loose women. According to his son’s translation, the pious Samir wanted to save me from the debaucherous life he assumed I led (I was flattered).
“Not good,” he said. “Wife, that’s it.”
I practiced my Arabic: “Yes. Of course. I agree. No women. Not possible. Now, in Damascus, I study. That’s it. No problem.”
“You’re a good man,” he tells me.
“Thanks.”
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