The Simplicity of Middle-Age: It’s Complicated
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in Constantine, Algeria—we just finished two full days with a guide and driver, touring two of the spectacularly preserved Roman cities that are scattered across this part of North Africa. Today we intend to lounge around our hotel and avoid the rain that moved in overnight. Some days are like that.
The Simplicity of Middle-Age: It’s Complicated
The joy of growing older—and of being a fairly experienced traveler—is that I believe myself to be comfortable saying, This is what I need, and I would like you to help me in this way.
Usually that works for me.
On Wednesday, our first morning in the Constantine Marriott (where we were among only a small handful of guests), I ordered black tea, with milk on the side. It’s my standard order; I don’t want to go searching for breakfast until my first cup of tea has been secured.
I knew, from the look on the waiter’s face, that things were not going to go smoothly. Before we arrived in Algeria, I had convinced myself that it would be a lot like Tunisia, and everyone would speak French, and everything would be charming, and we’d chat about the weather and the swimming pool all the other useful words I learned in high school French, and I’d feel like a master of the universe. Pro tip: preconceived notions about what a country is going to be like are rarely helpful. (Apparently I’m going to have to learn this lesson at least 150 times in order for it to sink in.)
When the mug arrived, it was only half-filled with hot water, but the tea bag was a brand I actually like, so I was optimistic. The waiter set the mug on the table, and immediately began to pour in hot milk from a large carafe he was holding. I stopped him almost instantly, because I only want a splash.
When I finished that first cup (which only took a few minutes, because it was only half-full), I decided I might as well take the bull by the horns. We’re going to be here for five nights, and we had two full days planned with a guide and an early start, and I didn’t want to do the bumbling-gesticulating-lost-in-translation routine for every cup of tea. I found a man in a suit who seemed to be a manager-type, and also seemed to speak English, or at least enough French that we could cobble together some communication.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the waiter watching our conversation. He could see me pointing to the tea he had served. I told myself I wasn’t being a total Princess. Besides, the manager seemed—seemed—to understand what I wanted: a full mug of hot water, a tea bag, and a small pitcher of hot milk on the side. Before I left breakfast, I’d want a final tea in a take-away cup. (No, I don’t know how to say ‘one for the road’ in French—might be worth learning.*)
To no avail: the second cup was exactly like the first. Fine—less tea per cup just means we do this every five minutes. That first morning, I chugged down half-cups of tea until it was time to race out the door for our tour of Djemila (the spectacular ruin of a 1st century Roman town; highly recommend).** At the end of the day, though, I had a splitting headache and was falling-down tired. Clearly, things would have to go differently on day two.
Day two: the day-one waiter avoids me, avoids our table, avoids eye contact. A different waiter takes my order—black tea with milk on the side (I haven’t figured out how to say fill it to the rim, please in French, or Arabic, or Berber, or any mix thereof)—and I catch the eye of manager-man across the room. Good—this is going to be better.
I get a mug of hot milk with a tea bag floating in it. Okay—that’s my limit, so I go over to the coffee station and ask manager-man directly. He sends a cup of tea and a small pitcher of milk to the table. For the rest of Day Two breakfast, I just go straight to him.
So, by the end of our second day in this hotel, I have alienated the entire breakfast waitstaff with my tea fussiness.
Mercifully, I’m writing this on Friday morning, and it’s the weekend. The hotel is now full of families, and the breakfast restaurant has brought in the A-team for today’s service. The tea keeps coming, and it’s perfect. We have no tour today, so I can relax and re-caffeinate and catch up on everything that got lost in this week’s busyness, which was considerable.
I think, perhaps, the key to middle-aged joy is less about my willingness to ask for what I want, and more about reminding myself to see the humor in what I have. More often than not, that’s enough—as long as I’ve had my morning tea.
*Our guide to the archaeological sites here was mildly obsessed with English-language idioms, and I spent a big chunk of our many hours in the car together helping him understand the list of phrases he has collected. It was a long list. Idioms are challenging. My brain got very tired; French equivalents of American idioms are perhaps above my pay grade.
**In keeping with the theme of this email—asking for what I need—on that first day’s tour, there were no bathroom stops, no beverages, no snacks, no coffee/tea break, and lunch didn’t happen until 4pm. Day two, needless to say, began on a very different note—Princess has needs. Did the day go down differently? Well, not really, if I’m being honest—except that I had my first ever Nescafé 3-in-1, and when we got back to the hotel at 6:30pm, I bolted out of the car, barely saying good-bye, because I was bursting for a pee. So much for my middle-aged clarity and assertiveness.
Take care,
Lisa
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