It was Wednesday and I was free after school. My watch band had given out, so I asked Hasmig where I might find a replacement. She described a shop "just up the road from the Plaza Pharmacy". Oh, those directions! It's always a challenge to follow them. You see, street names hardly exist, especially on all the tiny side streets. We use landmarks to describe destinations. For example, just today I asked Lucy if The Backyard restaurant we visited last night was up the road from "Bubbles". She knew exactly what I was talking about, because we pass a sign that says Bubbles on our way home from morning walks. "Is it past the Hummus guy?", further refining the search. Yes, she answered; "same block".
Well, I found the Plaza pharmacy and stopped in to get a prescription filled. From there, on to the jewelry shop. What I did find, was a very small shop, a hole in the wall, you'd say. The man there, working at his counter, came to the door to let me in. "No English" he said. I showed him my broken watch band. "Oh, know good man," and described to me in English and Arabic the name of a shop that was next to a perfume shop, and pointed toward Hamra. Smarter than usual, I asked him to write the name of the shop for me, which he did, in Arabic. Off I went with my paper. I got to Hamra and walked in the direction he'd indicated. I showed my paper to a shop keeper standing in her doorway. She pointed to the corner and waved a left turn. A ways down that street I showed my paper to another shopkeeper, who waved ahead, "See blue? (a dumpster) There!" I walked another 20 yards, and sure enough, "Daoud"was printed on the window. The jeweler buzzed me in. (Jewelers keep their doors locked until they size up the customer.) I showed him my watch band. He pulled out a box and I pointed, "black one, please!" "That'll be 10 dollars." (= to 15,000 Lebanese Lira). Lira notes are small and easily get lost in your bag or purse. As I pulled out bill after bill, up to 12,000 or $8 worth, the shop keeper said "Good! Enough!" "Shukleen! (Thank you!) I said, surprised, and out I went, happy to wear my watch again. I was feeling pretty successful!
On my way home, I decided to stop at a vendor's cart and get some apples. They looked like golden delicious; fresh from the tree. "6 apples, please" I said. The vendor carefully chose six nice ones. "2,500" ($1.50) he said. As I was searching through my bag, a young girl was suddenly beside me, body space of no consequence, speaking Arabic and pointing to my purse; a street beggar. My instincts were saying don't do it. She was persistent, and shockingly so. I scrambled around in my bag for the apple money, for the smallest bill I could find, feeling that I didn't want her to see anything larger. I handed a 5,000 note to the vendor, who handed me change; 2-1,000 notes and a 500 coin. The girl by now had her hand on my wrist. I dropped the coin into her hand, but that's not what she wanted. She proceeded to follow my hand back to my bag. As I pulled away, the vendor came to my rescue: "La La La! (*&(^%*" he shouted, (No, no, no! Scram!) She darted off, joined by another young girl, no more than 12 or 13. She flashed me a naughty grin. I said to the vendor, "Hard times", and started away.
A ways down the street, still feeling shaken, a hand was held in front of me holding a bag of apples! "Your apples, Miss..." said the vendor. I smiled my thanks, and then continued home. It was the first time I've cried in a while. I cried about the kind vendor who had looked out for me. I cried for the young girl who had learned to be so aggressive for reasons I could only imagine, and I cried, feeling lucky that given a situation like that, nothing worse had happened. I had been a traitor to my instinct, which told me to refuse that girl. What I had done was reinforce the very behavior I detested. I reviewed my lesson that day: Trust yourself, and stand firm. Be clear about your intentions and communicate them. I'll know better next time.
Well, I found the Plaza pharmacy and stopped in to get a prescription filled. From there, on to the jewelry shop. What I did find, was a very small shop, a hole in the wall, you'd say. The man there, working at his counter, came to the door to let me in. "No English" he said. I showed him my broken watch band. "Oh, know good man," and described to me in English and Arabic the name of a shop that was next to a perfume shop, and pointed toward Hamra. Smarter than usual, I asked him to write the name of the shop for me, which he did, in Arabic. Off I went with my paper. I got to Hamra and walked in the direction he'd indicated. I showed my paper to a shop keeper standing in her doorway. She pointed to the corner and waved a left turn. A ways down that street I showed my paper to another shopkeeper, who waved ahead, "See blue? (a dumpster) There!" I walked another 20 yards, and sure enough, "Daoud"was printed on the window. The jeweler buzzed me in. (Jewelers keep their doors locked until they size up the customer.) I showed him my watch band. He pulled out a box and I pointed, "black one, please!" "That'll be 10 dollars." (= to 15,000 Lebanese Lira). Lira notes are small and easily get lost in your bag or purse. As I pulled out bill after bill, up to 12,000 or $8 worth, the shop keeper said "Good! Enough!" "Shukleen! (Thank you!) I said, surprised, and out I went, happy to wear my watch again. I was feeling pretty successful!
On my way home, I decided to stop at a vendor's cart and get some apples. They looked like golden delicious; fresh from the tree. "6 apples, please" I said. The vendor carefully chose six nice ones. "2,500" ($1.50) he said. As I was searching through my bag, a young girl was suddenly beside me, body space of no consequence, speaking Arabic and pointing to my purse; a street beggar. My instincts were saying don't do it. She was persistent, and shockingly so. I scrambled around in my bag for the apple money, for the smallest bill I could find, feeling that I didn't want her to see anything larger. I handed a 5,000 note to the vendor, who handed me change; 2-1,000 notes and a 500 coin. The girl by now had her hand on my wrist. I dropped the coin into her hand, but that's not what she wanted. She proceeded to follow my hand back to my bag. As I pulled away, the vendor came to my rescue: "La La La! (*&(^%*" he shouted, (No, no, no! Scram!) She darted off, joined by another young girl, no more than 12 or 13. She flashed me a naughty grin. I said to the vendor, "Hard times", and started away.
A ways down the street, still feeling shaken, a hand was held in front of me holding a bag of apples! "Your apples, Miss..." said the vendor. I smiled my thanks, and then continued home. It was the first time I've cried in a while. I cried about the kind vendor who had looked out for me. I cried for the young girl who had learned to be so aggressive for reasons I could only imagine, and I cried, feeling lucky that given a situation like that, nothing worse had happened. I had been a traitor to my instinct, which told me to refuse that girl. What I had done was reinforce the very behavior I detested. I reviewed my lesson that day: Trust yourself, and stand firm. Be clear about your intentions and communicate them. I'll know better next time.
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