The thought of this triggered a great deal of panic.
"Stay calm," I told myself, "you can do this. Remember when you and Susan traveled to Paris together after foreign study? And your trip with Ashley to Germany in 2005? You can do this."
The only problem was, in neither of those cases was I alone, and in the first case, I spoke enough French to at least get by (calling back all those years of French in middle school, high school, and college), and in the second case, my sister was semi-fluent in German as we traveled together in Germany and Austria.
The one case when I was both without someone who spoke the language and traveling semi-alone was when Susan and I first left our school group in Rome at the end of our foreign study trip in college and headed towards Paris via the train. The Italian train company was having some kind of strike, so we decided to stop in Turin (Torino) that first night and spend two nights there. Problem was, we didn't have any plans or arrangements made for that visit.
We got off the train and found ourselves in the middle of a northern Italian city where English speakers were much more rare than in cosmopolitan Rome. We had a guide book with us and were trying to find a hostel listed in there, but were having trouble. We tried to ask someone on the street, and the person we flagged down didn't speak a word of English. I kept speaking to them in English and pointing at the map and waving my arms around and pointing, trying to communicate that we needed directions to this particular place. The person were talking to kept speaking in Italian and gesturing and pointing and looking at the map and pointing, but no amount of gesturing and pointing and continuing to speak in our own languages was going to help.
The feeling that came over me at that point was one of sheer panic. "Holy crap," I thought, "I'm in a foreign country where I don't speak the language, by myself, and I have no way of communicating with these people! ACK!!!!!!!!" The feeling of helplessness and isolation was overwhelming. I never wanted to repeat that experience.
But today, I did.
My worst fears were realized in my very first solo outing. I walked down the street from Naomi's apartment to go to the ATM and get some local currency so I could take taxis and pay the balance on my hostels that didn't take credit cards, and I decided to go to the grocery store next to the ATM to get some hummus and hallah bread -- the same combination I'd had at Naomi's that was delicious and I figured that could be my lunch. Grocery stores are usually a cheaper way to go for eating anyway, I figured, it's right here, and if the person at the counter doesn't speak English, well, all that buying something really requires is seeing the total on the cash register and handing them the correct money. Half the time cashiers hardly speak to you in America anyway. I figured it was a safe first try.
Unfortunately, I was wrong. The check out cashier spoke no English, and apparently there was some issue, because she kept trying to say things to me in Hebrew, and all I could do was just smile apologetically and look uneasy, feeling increasingly panicked and helpless, as I had that day on the street in Torino. (I think maybe she was trying to figure out the cost of the bread, since it came from the bakery section and didn't have a price tag on it.) Eventually she punched in a bunch of things and told me the price, rapidly, in Hebrew. I peered over to the cash register screen and saw my total: 12.57 (a little over three dollars). I gave her a 50 shekel note, waited for my change, walked out of the store, and proceeded to burst into tears.
"What was I THINKING???????" I screamed at myself internally. "This was CRAZY! I can't do this!!! I want to go home. I will never travel alone to a country where I don't speak the language again. I don't want to be here!"
After retreating to Naomi's apartment and sobbing for a while as Naomi tried to assure me everything would be ok, I finally left for the train station. I couldn't stay holed up in Naomi's apartment forever. I have three weeks to kill before my flight leaves for the U.S.
The plan was to take a train to Akko, where I would stay overnight and then get up in the morning to see the Bahá'í gardens in Akko. Naomi walked me down and hailed a cab for me in front of her apartment building, and gave instructions to the driver in Hebrew. "Ok, he's all set," she said to me as she hugged me and put me into the cab, assuring me I could call her any time.
As we took off down the road, the cab driver spoke to me in English. A wave of relief flooded over me. Disaster averted in this particular case.
After I got to the train station, I made it through the security checkpoint and then tried to figure out how to get my ticket. After observing several people walk away in exasperation from the electronic ticket machine and go over to the cashier behind the counter, I inferred that the machine must be broken. So, I got my money out and got in line. At the counter, I timidly said, "Akko?" and accepted my change and my ticket. Unfortunately, the ticket was entirely in Hebrew and I couldn't make out any of the words as being anything close to "Akko" in Hebrew script (I do know the Hebrew alphabet, thanks to a biblical Hebrew class at Furman many years ago -- thanks, Bryan Bibb!!!).
There were several different platforms, so I stood helplessly in the middle of the station looking for some indication of where I needed to go. Finally I approached a woman behind the counter of a convenience store/fast food kind of place in the station and asked if she spoke English. She did, and helped me figure out which platform to go to.
After getting on the wrong train once, getting on the right train but barely (getting squished in, standing room only), being delayed for nearly an hour due to some reason I couldn't understand since all the announcements were in Hebrew, finally getting to sit down, falling asleep and missing my stop, and getting back on the train going in the opposite direction, I finally arrived in Akko, an hour and a half later than I'd planned to arrive.
I got a cab at the train station, but the cab driver spoke only a little English and didn't know where the hostel I was going to was located. Luckily, I had their phone number handy and was able to give it to the cab driver so he could call them and ask directions in Hebrew. That worked, and so finally I arrived at my first hostel -- the Western Galilee Inn in Bustan Ha-Galil, a small village north of Akko. It is actually a series of guest houses on a small farm, in what felt like the middle of nowhere. A woman met me and showed me in to my room, which was in a completely empty guest house. Despite having eight bunk beds, I am apparently the only occupant tonight. After the day's trials and tribulations, I am more than grateful for the silence and privacy.
 |
| My home for tonight. |
No comments:
Post a Comment