I’ve had several revelations since I moved here. Having to do with Europeans abroad and how we roll. And expect the world to roll.
We are obsessed with weekends.
“How was your weekend? What are your plans for next weekend?” we chirp merrily at whoever crosses our path.
Upon being thus questioned, people here scratch their heads and try hard. “I sit with my family” they say. More scratching. Benevolent confusion. What the hell is she expecting me to say?
“Ok, but what did you do?” we press on energetically.
The truth is not much. It’s just not that big a deal. A few hours of not having to go to work. Good. You eat and talk to your family and then eat some more.
Next weekend you do the same. What is there to talk about?
But we won’t stop. Worried that the weather is not of sufficient variety to allow for extensive chit chat, we desperately cling to weekends and holidays.
“And your last holiday?” we ask hopefully.
“I sat with my uncles”. Little changes but the tense.
I kept at it. Until one day a guy stopped me as I was forming the word “how”. “Was” never came out.
“Please”, he said. “Don’t ask me about my weekend again. When I do something I’ll tell you.”
He hasn’t yet been in touch.
Eastraveller 