Before this November, my life was a fairly ordinary American existence. However, over Thanksgiving break, I visited my parents' new house in Oregon for the first time, and there my entire world was instantly shattered.
As I drove into a gas station, I picked up my debit card, stepped from my car and inserted it into the slot that says, "Insert here." Logical, right? Five seconds later, my card was jerked from my hand, and I was deliberately and firmly pushed back into the car.
In Oregon, you're not allowed to pump your own gas. Rather, this task is the domain of high school guys whom I am apparently supposed to trust with my vehicle while I submissively sit inside and do a Sudoku puzzle or twirl my hair. In hindsight, this crack in the veneer of my self-service world was fortunate.
In the United States, it is generally assumed that you can help yourself and if someone is trailing after you like a small puppy they either work on commission or are hoping to earn a fat tip.
This is not the case in Egypt.
Day two of my abroad experience I walked into Costa Coffee, the local Starbucks look-alike, desperate for a huge, foamy cappuccino. I placed my order; you know, "one medium skim cappuccino and a croissant." I'm good at this, right? Wrong. I was led by the hand to a nearby table and instructed to sit. Apparently I was supposed to have ordered at the table and have the drink brought to me in a gargantuan ceramic cup. Oops.
Fast-forward one week: I was on a meandering and accidental tour of Cairo's Christian cemeteries. Mind you, I wasn't trying to tour the cemeteries, but one Greek Orthodox and two Coptic later, I was standing in front of a literal city of the dead, composed of tiny marble houses and chapels for the city's Catholic French and Italian communities. Naturally, I went in to wander about - except people also aren't allowed to move by themselves at cemeteries either. After two minutes inside, the caretaker had an unrelenting and painfully tight grip on my arm and pulled me into a small mausoleum. I was marched around the cemetery before being given a genuine religious relic (think large, painted, 3-D crucifix) from the stone alter in the tomb of an Italian woman who was the caretaker's grandmother. There's nothing like personal religious servicing.
Two days into school, I noticed that my Egyptian classmates really wear designer brands. There are a lot of Gucci handbags flapping about. Now, with that little two-bag limit rule to airplane flights, I arrived in Cairo with a serious shortage of flip-flops and jeans - two serious problems in my American college fashion world. So, I went shopping.
I haven't been back since. I arrived at my jeans store of choice and immediately picked up a saleswoman so intent on helping me I begin to question my magnetic attraction. I stuttered out the appropriate jean size in Arabic and was gently guided away from the racks of clothing so that two women could find jeans for me.
Six pairs later, I gestured to the minute fitting rooms, where my little hell began. A few pairs in, I found a pair I liked in the wrong size. Within seconds, the jeans were unzipped at my lower hipbone, three women trying to find the size tag, with the curtain fully pulled back. I helplessly thought, "I knew I should have worn boy-short underwear today," while the male store manager coerced middle-aged women into looking at the half-naked American girl.
Jeans accomplished, I proceeded to shirts, but yet again I was apparently incapable of putting on and then deciding upon this garment of clothing on my own. Instead, in my airplane-bathroom sized fitting room, a series of elderly women opened the curtains, said, "Nice, very nice," and (in one case) actually attempted to help me put my shirt on.
So no, I haven't been clothes shopping since that scarring day. But Costa Coffee and I have become bosom friends. Thank you, Oregon, for teaching self-service Americans how to let other people do the dirty work.
