We Are Not in the United States

Liz Here:

I’m currently reading a nonfiction book from the library called “Lunch in Paris,” about a young American woman who moves to Paris. For how different New Zealand is from France, it’s amazing how much many of her experiences mirror ours here.

Before coming here, I’d never appreciated the infinite conveniences that come from living in the United States: the variety of stores, the fact that you can get something to eat after ten pm, the amount of gas stations, Meijers. The ability to drive to a place that is open 24/7 and pick up some potting soil, potato chips, organic couscous, DVDs, and lingerie all in one go? That is distinctly American, it turns out. Especially if you can get all of those things without breaking the bank, or even a hundred dollar bill. (Depending on the lingerie, maybe not even a fifty.)

There’s this part of the book where the author, Elizabeth Bard, is talking about how her friends and family just don’t get the difficulties of being in this other country. Her mom is visiting, back when she’s living in England, and comments on how horrible the curtains are. “Why don’t we just go get some new ones?” she says. This is Elizabeth’s response:

I looked at my clock; it was nine pm on a Sunday. The comment made me instantly and disproportionately furious. It was as if my mother didn’t realize she’d gotten on a plane at all. There are exactly three stores in central London that sell curtains, all of them are on the other side of the city, and none of them is even close to being open at nine pm on a Sunday night. Do you see a car? Do you see a shopping mall? Is there a Bed, Bath, and Beyond between here and the tube station? No, no, and no, we CAN’T just go buy some new curtains.

I know everyone at home means well, the very best, in fact, but back in the U.S. I imagine it’s hard to grasp the realities of Paihia, or a place where we lack access to both a car and public transportation. (There is no such thing as “city buses”; the only buses are massive tour ones that run twice a day between the biggest cities.)

“How could I make [my mom] understand that just going to post office…was sometimes an all-day project?” Bard writes. “My friend Amanda asked…’So, when do you think you’ll be going back to work?’ I didn’t know how to say it any other way: ‘Honey, this IS work.’”

In the beginning, Jen and I got so many suggestions about how to make our time more fulfilling: “Why don’t you just find a clinic to volunteer at? A park to work for? Go see more places?” It sounds so easy, I know. But here, you don’t “just do.” We don’t have internet. We don’t have cars. Our phones often run out of credit, and we can’t get anywhere open to top them up for maybe a day, or longer. When you want to go somewhere, it’s probably closed, even if it’s supposed to be business hours. And there are no nature centers or clinics needing volunteers in Paihia. The biggest grocery store here doesn’t even sell coffee filters, for god’s sake.

I’ve stopped holding a grudge against this little town; at least, pretty much. I just know that I’m appreciating our big country of convenience stores, buses, and opportunities way, way more than I ever did before. Here is my homework for everybody: Drive to a Meijer this week, or a Whole Foods, or even just your local GAS station. You don’t need to buy anything. Just revel at the huge array of choices spread before you.