Yes, and … Islamabad (and Beyond)

I’m here (can you be anywhere else?) (a shaming question, ultimately).  Bill Bryson said this of foreign travel: “Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses.”  Not sure if my guesses have been interesting (“we have those kind of trees at home, I think”), but Islamabad has been fascinating, all 16 hours of it.  So, without any real understanding of what’s going on, here’s what I’ve done:

I found my way to the Fulbright House with the help of Sikandar, the night driver and a really engaging tour guide.  I like arriving in the middle of the night (3:00 am) because the morning is such a revelation.  Here’s what I woke up to, along with wonderful birdsong and the faint scent of smoke: 

Not bad, ya think? (Hello, Heather Meyer).  For the foreseeable future I’m the only resident in the Fulbright House, along with a cook, two drivers, and three guards.  Javed, the cook, has made me two delicious meals (including yellow dahl,  an okra and eggplant dish, and rice that seemed like it could float if gravity were different).  It’s strange to be sitting alone at a huge table with three English-language Pakistani newspapers.  I feel like Orson Welles in “Citizen Kane,” although I’ll be more like the Orson Welles of the Paul Masson wine commercials if I keep eating like this.  To distract from that image, here’s what the outside of the house looks like:

It’s odd having this many people devoted to my well-being.  An imbalance, to say the least.  The day driver (Ali, also very nice) took Ahsan (from the Fulbright office) and me out to do some errands, all of which would have been mundane at home but were fascinating here in Pakistan.  I got a SIM card for the cell phone and actually figured out how to add a contact on a Pakistani device.  I should go home now because this is the achievement of the century (for me).  There are armed guards and metal detectors everywhere, and the phone outlet was no exception.  Same thing with the super market (called Super Market) where Javed, who joined us, took me to get some shampoo, tooth paste, and corn flakes.  As a vegetarian I didn’t buy the delicacy in the photo below, although I have to say they sound tempting:

Before dinner Sikandar took me on a tour of the Red Zone which is where all the governmental buildings are.  Photography is forbidden, so I can’t post any photos of the beautiful, stark, angular, glowing-white supreme court building or the turreted office of the prime minister.  Islamabad is a concocted city; it only became the capital in 1961 and was built specifically for that purpose.  I read in some travel blog that parts of it look like a wealthy Southern California suburb.  That’s kind of true.  The architecture is all very horizontal and angular with gleaming white surfaces flecked with quartz, but the crazy vegetation and the brash neon signs undercut the Mission Viejo-ness of it all.  (No offense, Mission Viejo) (well, a little offense, actually).

(Imagine a photo of a government building here)

After dinner Sikandar took me to Saeed Book Bank (“Book Sellers to the Nation: Making Books Accessible and Knowledge Affordable”) where I bought two more Mohsin Hamid books.  Truly wonderful to amble around this enormous, three-story bookstore.  If they called it a Book Emporium I would applaud that choice.  The Barnes and Noble in my neighborhood (“Book Sellers to the Ambivalent: Making Independent Bookstores Vanish and Coffee-Drinks Unaffordable”) was replaced by a mini-Target and so I’ve missed wandering about the stacks and coming across something I didn’t know I needed.  Here’s something I didn’t even know existed until tonight, which is a consequence of ambling without a target/Target (sorry):

Tomorrow I meet with someone from Theatre Wallay, the organization that is hosting me here in Pakistan.  I’m looking forward to getting started.  I also realize how incredibly lucky I am to be here.  All day I kept thinking, “I’m in Pakistan.”  How weird.  I do like feeling unmoored and uncertain.  Everything feels like it’s slightly beyond my control.  This morning I poured honey into my lap instead of on for the toast.  For instance.

Sweating and dehydrated in the Abu Dabhi airport, but happy to be on my way. I like long flights, mostly because I’m accomplishing something tangible through patience and passivity.  Not sure if this reflects well.  Read “Exit West” by Mohsin Hamid (thanks, Barbara) and felt a lot of sorrow for our disrupted world, and yet the way he described displacement–both by geography and by time–was moving.  Also watched “Phantom Thread” and appreciated both my sister who is not creepy and my wardrobe that is not punishingly impeccable. The airplane food was hot and soft and salty and I realized, again, that I do better in situations where people observe lines.  Those who travel with kids are brave.

And, since this blog is about improv, I think I had a call-back of sorts today (we called them “lotuses” when I started in the Monday Company at the Brave New Workshop; a scene or a character or a single line would keep reappearing throughout the show, gaining traction with each iteration).   Here it is: when I moved to Minnesota in 1992 I arrived by way of Fargo; the Mall of America was opening that weekend (dang) and every hotel room from Alexandria to Rochester was booked.  This was frustrating, and when I found out that the high-pitched screaming sound that was blaring whenever I got out of the car was a tornado siren I was unnerved (I asked a guy at a gas station what I should do; he said, “go inside,” and then drove off).  However, in Annandale, MN  a man overheard me talking to a check-in clerk and said, “stay the night in our church.  We have a cot and a music room.”  And so I did, along with a Vietnamese couple and their 3-month-old child.  It was perfect.  I’m not one for supernatural signs, but I did feel like Minnesota was going to take care of me, and it has for over 26 years.  I love my adopted state; for all the frigidity it has been kind and gracious and welcoming.   I know this isn’t always the case (do read “Exit West”), but sometimes, for all sorts of reasons, it is.

And then today, at Heathrow Airport, I heard my name over the loud speaker (it wasn’t a tornado warning) (see: a call-back) (or a lotus) and went to the Etihad desk where the gate agent wanted to see if I had a proper visa for Pakistan.

After I showed it to her she said, “you look disoriented!  Let’s get you on the plane right away.”  Now, I am sweaty and dehydrated, but apparently I also looked dazed (that “Phantom Thread” movie was unsettling), and so she ushered me onto the plane before boarding began.  I felt weird and kind of guilty that I was singled out for this special treatment (and I do wonder if my American-going-to-Pakistan status makes me unusual or suspect), but it also felt humbling to have people I don’t even know watching out for me.  Just like the guy in Annandale.

I’m also humbled at how  much of the world speaks English.  We big, sweaty Americans take up a lot of room. Just ask my latest seat mate.  He could answer because his English is perfect.

 

 

When I was a teenager I used to harangue my mother with questions about hypothetical situations, many of them involving Eleanor Roosevelt (“would you rather have dinner with Eleanor Roosevelt or be able to breathe under water?”). Eleanor Roosevelt impressed me; she was a fearful kid who grew up to be the most powerful woman of her day.  “Do one thing every day that scares you,”  she wrote.  I’m leaving tomorrow and I’m really excited and, well, kind of scared because I don’t know what’s going to happen.  Like in improv.  Here’s a picture of the young Eleanor Roosevelt, whose maiden name and married name were exactly the same.  More when I arrive in Islamabad.

Leaving for Islamabad in eight days; sitting at Dennis’ house trying to figure out how to post a blog.  No pronouns but lots of gerunds.  More soon!