Despite what the school you’re headed to has told you, how thorough your research has been, nor how many people you’ve talked to, you never know what you’ll encounter at your first or next international school post.
My first ever professional stint overseas didn’t happen until I was 40. My chaperoning that singular Caribbean cruise doesn’t count. On my way to teach in Kuwait, I had a six-hour layover in Frankfurt. The one in Germany, not the one in Kain-tuck. I don’t mind admitting that I was naïve and inexperienced as Hell, scared to death since I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
As I walked into my first foreign airport, I was further unsettled because the PA announcement was in German as were the several signs that first greeted me. Only two thoughts ran through my mind at that point.
“I’m not in Kansas anymore,” although I had not yet been to that shoeboxed wheat field of a state. And, “Nowhere to go now except forward,” which gave me a sense of determination and purpose. This gave me no confidence at that point, but I knew my determination and sense of adventure would suffice. They were all I had left.
That and about 300 US greenbacks in my pocket—all the cash I had in the world. I knew no one, understood nothing, and I was dying for a cup of coffee and some real breakfast. Sure, it was late afternoon, but that’s what I craved.
Some relief came once the PA announcer repeated (I assume) her same message in English; still she told me nothing pertinent. I spotted a McDonald’s but I wanted something more akin to actual victuals; besides, all the prices everywhere were in Deutschmarks. I had no idea of the costs and wasn’t even sure if US dollars were accepted. I stood and watched the cashiers long enough to learn that dollars were okay, with any change returned in DM. But I didn’t want to eat at Micky-D’s and walked on to seek more substantial fare.
I spotted a German-style Pub still serving breakfast. The smell of sizzling sausages and bacon, of baked bread seriously set my salivaries flowing, but I was too tempted to explore some more before pausing for breakfast. Besides, I had time to waste, so I wandered on to discover the usual airport duty free shopping and kiosks that later became mere backdrops during my travels. An hour later, I settled down at a table in the Pub.
Breakfast was good, the coffee was exceptional. But this was my introduction to un-American bacon. You know, theirs is more like fried ham slices than our own crispy, fatty bacon. The sausages were great; and once I had calmed down a bit, figuring out costs and prices, I felt better. I knew I was moving forward. I even had a beer, burger and fries for dinner in that same pub before my boarding call.
The flight to Kuwait was better. I felt good, sated, and discovered that half the passengers onboard were Canadian and American teachers also headed to Kuwait. Fate had seated me among only Arabs; yet, I sat quietly eavesdropping on the English conversations around.
Three hours into the flight, a younger Arab woman nearby who was wearing way too much make-up and dressed way too sexy got up, grabbed her carry-on and headed to the bathroom. Returning to her seat, she was completely covered from head to toe in her hijab—couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Oh, her face still showed, but with her make-up gone, sex was indiscernible. So, I learned during that flight before touching down. It was just after midnight local time.
The airport in Kuwait City is a madhouse when not busy.
Apparently, two other flights of foreign teachers landed about the same time we did, leaving a hundred plus educators trying to get through customs simultaneously. Since alcohol, any nearly suggestive sensual videos or books—I saw them confiscate a copy of Gone with the Wind, and pork products are illegal, the inspectors went through every bag thoroughly. It was taking forever, so I went to sit on a bench against the wall, smoke a cigarette and wait for a while. By the time I’d finished, the admin who were waiting to greet us on the other side were holding up signs to direct the different schools into different lines. I got in the AIS line, getting through in some order.
I found Naomi, the woman who had hired me, and she handed me off to Will, the primary school principal. Will looked just like Johnny Carson and had a good sense of humor; remind me to tell you about his traditional Christmas Eve dinner of sardines that December. We later became good friends, but that night he was my ride home. It was almost three in the morning, and the outside temp was a crisp 40C; that’s 104 degress to my Fahrenheit scale and body. Will dropped us off at our apartment building at about four in the morning. Receiving my keys, Will told me that my “flat is on the first floor, one flight up.” Yeah, a Brit. Our luggage would be delivered sometime before noon. Not good news.
I badly needed a shower and fresh clothes. Those now had to wait. The good news while trekking home was that my roommate had backed out at the last minute, so I’d be rooming alone. Cool, until I saw my quarters.
The place was supposed to be clean, completely furnished, and the ‘fridge should be stocked with food for the first week. Nope. It was Spartan.
Nightmarishly roach infested, the only furniture in the living room was a beaten up wooden table for six that had five accompanying chairs, only four of which still sported all four legs. Beds and new pillows were provided but no bedclothes. The bathroom needed more than a cursory cleaning. It offered one cheap towel plus a small bar of soap and zero toilet paper. Thank God I’d stuffed leftover napkins from the pub and flights into my backpack. And in the ‘fridge?
A pack of baloney, a small loaf of bread, three pieces of fruit, an off-brand box of rice krispies, and a quart of boxed milk had been left as my weeklong food fare–with no plates, bowls, glasses, nor eating utensils to help feed myself.
I ate the banana and slapped together a dry baloney sandwich, washing it down drinking straight outta the milk carton.
To top it all off, my apartment was right next to a Kuwaiti hotel. The Palm Springs Resort had no spring within 40 miles, but it did have a huge outdoor restaurant open ‘til dawn. The irritating “ting-ta-ta-pling” music supporting the wailing voices and ululations was loudly invasive and incessant in my “first floor flat” on the second floor.
All I could think was, “They lied to me,” as I sat at the lone wooden table staring at the filthy curtains that well complemented my well-furnished apartment.
Snippet: Shoe sizes vary throughout the world, making shoe shopping challenging for the traveler. In the United States, the United Kingdom and a few other former British colonies shoes are measured according to the size of a particular grain, barley. That is, the length of three barleycorns is equal to one shoe size, which is almost exactly one inch. So, if you wear a size eight shoe, you wear a size 24 in barleycorn. Almost. In the UK, this is 24 barleycorns; yet shoemakers in the US start counting from one, not zero. Therefore, a US size eight is 25 barleycorns. Women’s sizes are different because they are measured beginning by counting from one full shoe size instead of zero; a size eight men’s shoe is the same as a size nine for women.
Global English Tutor - Paul Cuadrado 