I Hope I Never Need Him

A ballroom filled with stylish crafts, expensive handmade jewelry, and organic soaps: not exactly my cup of tea, but I was curious enough to step in. I listened to a lady try to sell Moroccan oils to me just to hear her French accent; I perused the more-than-I-could-afford leather purses, and eyed the beaded jewelry from a distance. I sampled some chocolate cranberry candy and thought about buying some, but when I read the price chart, I opted to hope my taste buds had a good memory, because that’s the only way I’d be enjoying that flavor again.

Finally I found a booth with some creative pictures made out of flowers and leaves. They were intricately designed patterns and a decent price too. I couldn’t seem to pass it up, so I stood there, admiring each design. I noticed a lady beside me who also appreciated the pictures.

“Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Yes!” She agreed in a heavy accent. “They are just wonderful. I can’t decide which design I should buy. Do you think I should buy the framed picture or the ones without a frame?”

“Hmmmm,” I began.

“I think without the frame. I don’t really like the frame, do you? I think I can buy a frame myself. Which of these do you think I should buy?”

And the conversation continued like this as I pretended to help her choose the pictures she would purchase. Really she seemed to have her own confident opinion. I mostly just agreed with her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my name is Paree,” the woman stopped shopping and held her hand out in greeting. “Like ‘Paris’ without the ‘s’.”

“My name is Jana, so nice to meet you.” We shook hands and it was then that I stopped to examine my new friend. She was an older lady, heavy set and tan, sophisticated, and carried a kind expression on her face.

“Your accent is lovely, where are you from?”

Now I have never been accused of having a lovely accent, so I was appreciating this lady more and more. “I’m from the United States.”

“Oh! There are so many accents in the United States, and not all of them are nice, sorry to say. Take Texas for example…oh!” She brushed the ugly thought away with a sweep of her hand. “What state you from?”

Well, this is going to be awkward.

“Texas.”

“Oh! But you don’t sound like it.”

“Well, I haven’t really lived there that much. So where are you from?”

“Iran.”

“Wow, really? Why are you in Penang?”

“My husband works here. And you?”

“Because of my husband’s job as well. My children attend school at DIS.”

“Oh! All three of my children went to DIS.” She grabbed my arm. “DIS is a very good  school. You know, we are Muslim, and everyone wanted to know why we sent our children to a Christian school. But it was no problem, it is such a good school. You know, it’s the cheapest American school in Southeast Asia.”

“So they were kind and accepting of your family?”

“Oh yes. And you know, they don’t have a lot of facilities, but they teach the children the value of money. And the students, they are not spoiled American children…sorry…like in other American schools. They are a very good school. Don’t worry, your children will be fine!”

I asked more about her children, who graduated in the 90s. They attended universities and found employment in the United States and in Australia. Paree continued to rave about DIS and encourage me that it was such a good school.

When we parted ways, she handed me a business card. “This is my husband’s card, I hope you never need it.”

What a curious thing to say. I looked down at the card. Neurosurgeon. Paree is right, I hope I never need him.