Is It My Turn Yet?

Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.

Where we are: Reykjavik, Iceland, where I am getting cranky and impatient.

Is it my turn yet?

I have not, at all, adjusted to waiting in line in the rest of the world. As a matter of fact, I’ve struggled with waiting-in-line behavior my entire life. Nothing (nothing) agitates me more than people who cut in line in front of me. I need everyone to stand quietly, wait their turn, and stay out of my personal space (and that was pre-pandemic). It’s complicated and deep-seated and it turns out there’s a whole lot of baggage and symbolism attached to the basic, daily act of waiting in line.

The problem is, the way people wait in line (or queue, in most of the world) is very cultural. Different countries, different cultures: different lines.

At a bakery in a nowheresville fishing village in Ecuador: I’m one of two people waiting in line. Other people randomly walk up to the counter and demand—and receive—service. Steam starts coming out of my ears, but still I wait. I’m in line, damnit, and waiting in line is supposed to work.

When we were at the big market in Jerusalem, late on Thursday afternoon, we saw a particularly long line, so I got in it. I was curious—what, in this market full of delicacies (seriously—it’s one of the best markets I’ve ever been to) was so special that all these people were willing to wait, so late in the day? After a few minutes, I realized the two Russian guys in front of me were speaking English, so I asked them what we were waiting for. Bread, they told me. Really good bread, on sale. “You got in line without knowing?” one of them asked. “Are you sure you’re not Russian?”

It begs the question: who am I? Am I the kind of person who demands service, and gets it, no matter the inconvenience to the people who have been waiting their turn? Or do I wait? My polite southern instincts do pitched battle with the nascent hard-boiled traveler inside me. 

When we got stuck in an immigration line in The Gambia, Lee had to maintain a constant patter of talking me off the ledge. He reminded me that we were there for the experience, we weren’t in a hurry, and we didn’t understand enough about what was going on to be difficult. Here’s the thing, though: every step of that border crossing, up until that point, had been finessed by our guide. Using a large wad of cash, and building on his relationships with every uniform we encountered, he had sped us through all the stamps and checks, until that last line, which we had to get through on our own. It was a free-for-all, with people ducking in and out of line, more people randomly wandering up to the window, and one white guy with dreadlocks who had come on the public bus (whereas we had come in a nice SUV with a guide and a driver) and kept bursting into song. Plus I really had to pee.

Interestingly, lines were never a problem for me in Beijing; I had fully expected to be constantly irritated by crowds and chaos and total disregard for orderly queues. I’m not sure why my expectations were so vividly negative—deep-seated assumptions about another culture perhaps? [Is that really just a euphemism for racism? I’m not sure.]  The citizens of Beijing were nothing but polite and—to my American sensibilities—orderly. When there was a line at the grocery store check-out, everyone patiently waited their turn. One of the longest lines I’ve ever waited in was to get into the National Museum of China, and it was a model of order and efficiency. It was a good reminder: I shouldn’t make assumptions.

In India, though? All bets are off.  At airport security in Mumbai, after two months of finding myself at the back of the line and steadily slipping further back, I finally learned to throw elbows like an ice hockey player. I put my backpack on the conveyor belt and stepped into the line for the x-ray machine. Over in the men’s line, Lee and his backpack sailed through without a hitch, and he was waiting for me on the other side. I waited. A woman in a gorgeous pink sari stepped in front of me. My head nearly exploded. I tapped her politely on the shoulder, and pointed to the line of women behind me. She ignored me. So I stepped in front of her, elbows out. At the time, it felt like one of the most uncharacteristic things I’d ever done.

I’m not sure, though. Was it really out of character? Was it my true character, unmasked? Or was it just that I’ve never learned to fight for my turn, because I’ve never had to? My passport, my skin, the privilege of my birth have always bumped me to the front of the line, whether that line is literal or figurative.

And sometimes the figurative lines matter a great deal more than the literal ones.

Last Friday, I had an MRI on my ankle. I’m writing this on Wednesday, and I still haven’t gotten the results. I’m frustrated and anxious and oh-so-tired of wearing this infernal boot. I feel like all our plans are in limbo, until we know if I need surgery, or physical therapy, or another month of resting and hobbling. I’m beyond sick of not being able to go for a walk.

I’ve been waiting for a call from the doctor since late Friday. The radiologist told me that if I hadn’t heard anything in a week, I should call the doctor who ordered the test. I just assumed she was exaggerating, but I’m beginning to wonder. Now, just to be clear, the entire country of Iceland has a population of about 330,000. Wake County, where we lived for all those years, has more than a million people. I just assume everyone here knows everyone else, which was confirmed by our hotel host last week. She has the prime minister’s number in her cell phone.

So I don’t want to be that American. I don’t want to get a reputation as that rude woman who thinks she’s above the rules. I want to wait my turn. But I’m getting impatient. I want to throw my privilege around, and demand the kind of service to which I am accustomed.

At the same time, we’re on the list to get vaccinated (courtesy of the same doctor who ordered the MRI), and we’re waiting anxiously for the call. The case numbers are very low here—much, much lower than the US, even when you account for the population difference—so we feel quite safe, but still. Everyone we know in the US has been vaccinated, and it’s difficult not to feel like it ought to be our turn. Our twenty-four-year-old has been vaccinated. Our nieces and nephews have been vaccinated.

But Toby, who lives in Thailand, has not been vaccinated. I’m struggling with the temptation to tell him to find a way to get vaccinated—fly to the US. Pay to get jabbed at a private hospital. But is that fair? He’s young and obscenely healthy. Thailand hasn’t even been able to get all their healthcare workers vaccinated yet. Shouldn’t he wait his turn?

Some parts of the world will, I fear, be waiting for a VERY long time.

Take care,

Lisa

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