new connections

Shan asks good questions and has insightful responses. I have indeed come to the right place, he opines, and that I will find what I need once I have reconnected to my higher wisdom.

I can see that full recovery from my chronic insomnia will take quite a few more nights like this. My mind is muddled. I don’t know how to make practical use of Lovisa’s advice except to just go out and try to strike up conversation with people.

I deal with mundanities until my tension becomes too much, and then head over to the public beach.

So far everyone has been very friendly. No one passes without a “bon jour”, wave or a smile. My green beard earns me a lot of thumbs-ups. I may be the most colorful character in town, but there seems to be room for me, regardless of what the Turkish flight attendant said.

Footpaths seem an afterthought here. They disappear suddenly, leaving you walking warily at the edge of the road, and you quickly learn to prefer the right-hand side of the road so you can see the traffic coming, but then the footpath may reappear on the opposite side so you dash over for a bit of relative safety. There may or not be iron fencing between you and the traffic, and if you are lucky, the incidence of a traffic light may coincide with the start of such a stretch. But motorists drive slowly enough, mindfully and deferential to pedestrians, and there are plenty of breaks in the flow of motorbikes, cars and busses, so you never have to wait long to zip across the road. The highway around the coast is only two lanes wide. I’ve stayed in Cairo; this is nothing at all.

What cats are to Istanbul, dogs are to Mauritius. Strays are everywhere, strolling in the streets, lazing on the beach. Pails and bottles of water are left out for them. Amazingly, I have come across no poop; people are obviously cleaning up after them diligently.

The beach is fairly busy but quiet enough. Again, I am too tired for more than a couple of quick dips, and then I fall asleep.

---

When I awake, I feel a new sense of connection to the environment. Who here feels the same, and will connect with me? The cute Asian woman by my side won’t return my glances. I find the shower, get dressed and walk shoes in hand to the benches, asking my intuition who amongst these people might grant this green genie a wish.

I find a local man writing in a notebook on a bench. Leaning on the bench, I put on my shoes and comment out loud that silly me seems to have lost a sock. The man laughs and conversation begins.

Shan’s English is fluent, he asks good questions and has insightful responses to whatever I say. I have indeed come to the right place, he opines, and that I will find what I need once I have reconnected to my higher wisdom. He thinks Lovisa’s housing advice is good and promises to keep an eye out for me.

He thinks I should return to massage therapy. I explain why I no longer wish to try to earn a living this way, though I miss the work itself and have even included my precious old table and chair in my shipped possessions.

Why not work by donation, then, he asks? Offer a low introductory price and then only give followups to people who either offer me a worthwhile price or find me a client who can afford to.

I feel inspired and more importantly, I seem to have made my first friend here. We exchange numbers and, determined not to let connections evaporate the way they always have in Philly, I offer to take him out to dinner soon.

---

I’m eager to try this trip to Goodlands. Google Maps knows almost nothing about public transport here, and the government transportation Web site consists of confusing timetables without a single map. Far more helpful is a site some individual geek from Berlin has laboriously made of this data, though it’s admittedly of mixed accuracy and it’s unclear when it was last updated.

As the surprise drizzle turns to heavy rain, I realize that it would be a fool’s errand to continue. I stop by the fruit stand Lovisa recommended and buy much better fruit than the supermarket had, and trade stories with the man there.

He is in a similar position to the one I was in in NYC eight years ago: living with his ailing mother. Worse, she is addicted to cannabis and steals from him and his siblings to support her habit.

The fruit is pricey, though, and to my embarrassment I find I must make a second trip to the ATM today to pay for it. I’m still pathetically confused by the local currency and have already forgotten the few words of Creole I learned before leaving.

I return home and find more nuisances related to my ties to the USA; since I am abroad, my bank is treating me like a Nigerian hacker, blocking me from their site and app. When I call them they actually advise me to try using a VPN to get around their own security.

I still have things to do that got postponed in my last-minute packing: in order to get a local bank account, I must find international health insurance and write up a resume. But my brain has had enough.

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