Look For the Helpers
We’re off on a road trip of the Hebrides—the western isles of Scotland. Today we’re on Islay, famous for its smoky, peaty whisky.
Look For the Helpers
The other day I sat in the breakfast room and watched an older Asian man struggle with a fork. The small croissant was easy enough—poke the fork in the middle and nibble off each end until it’s gone. Then he tried the same technique on a fried egg: stab it in the middle, lift it up, and nibble the edges until it’s gone.
That didn’t work as well. Fried eggs are floppy and slippery and heavy. They want to fall off the fork. He was visibly frustrated, stabbing at the egg and dropping it, only getting the occasional small bite.
Eventually his wife returned to the table with a plate of pastries, and he gave up on the egg, forked up a small danish, and continued his breakfast.
When I told Lee about the situation playing out behind his back, he asked, very logically, if there was anything I needed to do to help.
I said no—his wife was there, and they’d figure it out together, they were managing with the bready items, there was probably a language barrier, I didn’t want to treat him like a child—all the excuses.
Traveling in the UK—or anywhere English-speaking—lulls us into complacency. It’s easy. We get off the plane and instantly we can read the signs and the labels and the menus. We know how to pay, the food is familiar, the rhythms of life and traffic and commerce slot into our minds and bodies and we don’t even notice. We understand the culture on a visceral level, because it is fundamentally the culture we come from.
It’s almost imperceptible; we relax into the familiarity of it all.
I’ve been thinking about the man with the fork ever since, though, and about all the people who’ve ever stepped in to help me when I was trying to make my way in a language or culture or system that felt alien. None of them asked if I needed help; they just stepped in, and by doing so made me feel welcome.
The elderly Vietnamese gentleman who took my arm and walked me through traffic.
The Thai woman who took the fork from my hand and mixed up my salad properly.
The Saudi woman who pinned my hijab so it would stop slipping over my eyes.
The Malaysian food guide who patiently showed me how to pinch just enough rice between my fingers to make a little pouch that I could use to scoop up curry.
I’ve been helped so many times, but sometimes I forget how often I’ve been the helper. Back before Lee and I started traveling full time, we had an apartment on Miami Beach. We frequented a coffee shop that had the most impenetrable ordering system—the menu was basically hidden from the casual guest, and it was always crowded.
Once we had figured it out, we both got into a deliberate habit of behaving like the welcome committee: out-of-towners (mostly foreign tourists) would come in looking for breakfast or coffee, and whichever of us was there would step up and show them how to find the menu and place an order. We took it upon ourselves to improve the experience for anyone and everyone, while making Miami Beach feel (hopefully) a little kinder and friendlier.
I do it all the time, without thinking twice—show the person in line behind me how the coffee machine works, point out what’s persnickety about the elevator buttons, explain the quirks of bus schedule.
I keep putting myself in that Asian man’s place, and remembering what it’s like to learn how to eat slippery noodle soup with chopsticks, or how to break down a whole crab that’s covered in spicy sauce, or how to order in a place that has no menu. Should we seat ourselves, or wait for a host? Do we pay at the table, or at the counter? How can I get another bottle of water, or a napkin? Tip or no tip? Are the wet wipes for before or after the meal? What’s in the kettle and is it for drinking?
Learning to eat with my hands in Malaysia, I wasn’t embarrassed—on the contrary, I was quite proud of myself for mastering a new challenge. It’s not easy, in middle age, to overcome a lifetime of habits and messaging about what constitutes appropriate table behavior.
I keep thinking of that man and his fork. What kind of gumption did it take for him to get on a plane and fly to an alien part of the world? How lost and confused did he feel, facing down the two-handed challenge of a knife and fork?
Why didn’t I help?