5.

BISHEK 

part 2

I changed benches. The previous occupant of the bench I had been on was an enthusiastic spitter and the evidence of his enthusiasm was making me nauseous. I don’t know why, but Asians spit, a lot. Look down and you’ll see white, viscous globs all over the sidewalk. Men, women, young, old, rich, poor all spit. I have felt the need to spit only a few times in my life, in Asia it seems to be as physiologically imperative as breathing.

I was in Dubovy Park, a popular spot in Bishkek with shady paths, fountains, outdoor cafes and busts of the great players in Kyrgyz history. Kyrgyz and Russian boys zipped back and forth on skateboards, yelling out challenges and trying to impress each other with their skills, just like boys the world over.

Seated next to me on the bench was Honey. She initiated a conversation, telling me that she was a shop manager and came to the park every day at lunchtime. She asked me if I had any children. No, but I had a niece and two nephews and showed her their pictures. Honey pulled out photos of her two daughters, aged three and four. The older girl had blue eyes, like her father Honey said. That turned out to be about the only thing he had given his daughter. He was a complete ass as a husband and a father.

When the younger daughter was two months old she got very sick. The doctor told Honey that the girl would never be normal, never walk or talk, and advised Honey to give her up for adoption. Honey’s husband agreed, and complained about wasting so much money on a girl.

Honey ignored both the doctor and her husband, and today the girl is fine and healthy and loves to dance.

Honey’s husband left her soon after saying he wanted boys, not girls, and he wanted nothing more to do with any of them. He remarried and his new wife was pregnant. Both Honey and I hoped that they have a girl.

I left Honey and wandered over to a wedding party that was being photographed in front of a fountain. They were a jolly group, well lubricated despite it being before noon. The bride was Russian and the groom, Korean.

There were Russian and Koreans among the revelers, but were there any Kyrgyz I asked. A young man with languid almond eyes was pointed out. He quickly refuted the claim, “ I am half Korean and half pure Tatar!”

“What is that?” I asked pointing to the bottle of coppery liquid that the groom, a large man with eyes already half-closed from alcohol, held in his meaty hand.

 “Cognac,” he replied and then asked, “Do you like it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried Kyrgyz cognac.”

At that remark, Ivan, a Russian fireplug with a buzz cut, dumped out his glass and the groom filled it with cognac.

"According to Russian tradition,” the groom informed me, “the glass should be filled to the rim and downed in one go.

“I’m not Russian,” I reminded him, but threw down the (thankfully) smooth liquor in the requisite one gulp. I didn’t want to gag or choke and give away my lightweight status.

I drank the glass of pineapple juice I had been given as a chaser, thanked the group, wished the happy couple good luck, and moved on.

✢

In my twenties and early thirties, I wasn’t so much a traveler as a seeker. I wasn’t out to experience and learn about new cultures and return home. I was location scouting, looking for a home, a place where I fit in, driven by a restless longing for a life that I never figured out how to live. Every place I moved I was sure it was there that my brilliant career would begin. But I was diffident, relying too much on chance, waiting for life to discover me. Life, however, had other places to go, other people to see, people who knew how to put themselves forward and attract its attention. The problem was that I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin and no country or city was going to magically change that. 

Always moving, starting over, making new friends was exhausting. In the span of twelve years I had lived in London, Palo Alto, Washington, D.C., Santa Fe, Albuquerque, Tokyo, Santiago, and Cuzco, spent several months working in a ski resort, three months in the Caribbean, a couple of months in Southeast Asia, a couple of months in France and a few more months traveling around South America.

I reached a point where I wanted to relax and not worry about where I was going to go next, and the next place after that. I chose to settle in the last place I ever thought I would be happy: Taos, New Mexico. My family started taking ski vacations there when I was twelve and my parents had moved there in 1985. I hated it as a kid, dusty and nothing to do, but I had met Mark when I was there visiting in 1998. I thought he was the home I had been searching for. I went back to Cuzco, where I had been living, bid my boyfriend there goodbye, and moved to Taos.

Mark was an architect, he had ambitions, he spoke English and he had a nice life that I saw myself being part of. For a year and a half I ignored the obvious: I was the only one in the relationship. Everything would be great for a few weeks then he would break it off only to come back a week later, a cycle that repeated itself numerous times. I thought he was scared, having recently come out of a four-year relationship when we met.

When he left me for another woman I was devastated, but instead of running away I stood still and tried to figure out what had happened. I had wanted to feel settled, to feel that I belonged somewhere and to someone, and I had wanted it right away. Mark had been a means to those ends. I had convinced myself that Mark was the man I was looking for rather than being the type of man I wanted. I realized that I wasn’t in love with him, there were some things about him that really irritated me, and he turned out to be a coward, not telling me himself about the other woman but letting two of my friends do it. I was grateful to him for leaving me. I turned my attention to what kind of life I wanted to live and to make it happen. I had opened my shop six months after my arrival and that gave me some freedom – meaning that I must have been doing something wrong because it seems most shop owners are tied tightly to their businesses – especially when I joined forces with Michelle who began as a friend, became an employee and eventually my partner in a unique business partnership.

Then I really started traveling, usually alone. I wasn’t running away. I wasn’t looking for a home; I had friends and a home to come back to. I went to Tibet, Turkey, Cuba, Inner Mongolia, Spain, Morocco, Laos, Bhutan, Czech Republic.

I am a good traveler. I can figure out exchange rates and subway maps. I can handle long bus and train rides. I am open to other cultures and ways of life. I never make negative comparisons of other countries to the United States. I am not afraid to eat something, even when I’m not sure what it is (except for the fried chicken feet and the pond scum I was offered in Laos).

But for all my travels, I have never mastered packing. I never pack the right clothes or shoes. I always end up looking frumpy or dumpy; my look cannot even aspire to be described as “backpacker chic.” I see other women travelers in cute, wrinkle-free skirts and dresses and I wonder how they do it and how do I, who dress fashionably at home, fail so miserably at being stylish when abroad?