Yesterday, she had
- a boring and interesting time,
- been gawked at,
- Iranian food,
- been caught in a marvellous traffic jam,
- perpetual sneezing and a spanking headache,
- the longest night’s sleep ever since the holidays,
all in that order.
Just a typical day after taking Ata, Raheleh and Vafal grocery shopping at a hypermarket. Oh, and a featured appearance by their visiting Iranian friend, Aziz who has a Ph.D in linguistics, and who also has this, um, in-te-res-ting idea of exporting massage products here to Iran and open his own massage parlour (absolutely fixated with it the way he yapped her ear off).
But what is a typical day grocery shopping with a blind Iranian man, his Iranian wife and their month-old Iranian baby?
First, you must take a whole day off just to take them grocery shopping. Then, be prepared to wait for everything they do – preparing themselves to go grocery shopping, getting a special trolley for their infant, deciding to buy a multi-cooker, returning the special trolley to get back the deposit paid, making home-cooked Iranian food (she was forced to stay because they felt so grateful for her ferrying them around). Also, attempt to dress in a manner that if you were stared at, you would at least not be ashamed of your clothing if there were anything else God-given you might feel conscious about. Setting up Vafal in the trolley while Aziz and her hovered about before setting off into a grocery adventure, we were given a “hero’s farewell” – you know, audience to be gawked at as if the four of us were blind (Vafal not counted) rather than one. Finally, do not expect to make a quick getaway after helping them unloading groceries because they will do anything bar manhandling to keep you in the poky little hostel they are living to have lunch of Iranian food as a token of their gratitude. She had some wonderfully cooked tender-fleshed chicken curry with carrots, some dahl-like thingy, mint leaves (blech, never again), and some Iranian salad of onions, cucumbers and tomatoes (which smell reminded her of the vomit stench that one unfortunate time she took the LRT and had some Bangladeshi next to her throw up – no offense intended against the dish just very bad memories it reminded her of). Conversation by then was not interesting anymore, she was just waiting for it to be over and done with, like a gynaecologist’s appointment.
Oh, and prepare for your car to suffer under the weight of four heavily grown adults. Poor Satria. 😦
p.s. You don’t think she got sick because of Iranian food, do you?