International relations

My travels have provided me ample opportunity to study the field of international relations first hand. And when I say international relations, I don’t mean the kind that involve diplomats and high-level meetings, although that would be nice. I’m more referring to the kind that line my suitcase with stories of sometimes humorous, often awkward encounters between myself and other men. 

Scene 1: Awkward dates

One time during an internship in Accra, I was asked out by a Ghanaian colleague. He picked me up and took me to a cafe where we sat and talked for a while. He was engaging, smart and gentlemanly. Or so I thought. Until he suggested we go to a dance club. Where there would be strippers. And in the course of that same conversation mentioned that he had a girlfriend. But that it wasn’t her business to be jealous about his being out with another girl. Needless to say, the date ended sooner than he’d been expecting. 

Another occasion, this time during a trip to Sarajevo, saw me being taken on a tour of the city by motorcycle. A man I’d met on a previous trip wanted to take me out, and since I fancied him I agreed. He was older, worldly, accomplished, intelligent, and smooth enough to make me feel flattered but not uncomfortable with his frank interest. We spent a very enjoyable evening conversing and seeing the sights, and he briefly alluded to a sort-of girlfriend with whom he had hit a rough patch. I remained relatively guarded throughout the evening and deflected his two attempts at kissing me, all the while feeling positively giddy because I couldn’t believe a man of this calibre would be interested in me. 

Upon return home, I googled him and found several article interviews in which he mentioned his children. So this sort-of girlfriend was actually his wife. And they had three children together. This isn’t a detail one simply forgets to mention. Needless to say, I felt tricked and a little mortified. 

I don’t like to think of myself as a naive person, but sometimes I can be a little ingenuous….okay fine, those mean the same thing. Whatever. But what can I say? I’ve never had a reason to expect men to lie to me. And when it does happen, it takes me by surprise. Hopefully now I’ve learned my lesson…? 

Scene 2: Unwanted attention

This is the most exasperating. I really don’t know why it keeps happening, but I’ve had several of these types of encounters. You know, that guy who is either drunk, high, lacking in social skills or simply under the impression that he is God’s gift to women. I could tell you about the guy at Budapest airport who started talking to me, then wouldn’t leave me alone, to the point that he actually missed his flight (he was high). Or the Greek guy working as a tour guide in NYC’s Financial District who wanted to follow me back to my office (he thought he was God’s gift to women). Or the guy who started following me down the street, asking me if I wanted to go grab a pizza. It took several minutes until he understood that I wasn't interested (he didn’t have social skills). I could go on. 

I suspect this keeps happening because I’m just not rude enough. I don’t like hurting people’s feelings and I don’t like to brush people off, so I'll try to let them down easy.... and in the mean time, it's just awkward. 

Scene 3: Feminine wiles 

Just recently I went to Rome for a conference and since I arrived late at night, I had to get a taxi to the hotel because public transport wasn’t an option. Having been to Italy before, I knew to do my research and was informed by the hotel that taxi fare from the airport was €65. Armed with the email in my phone, I walked out to the taxi drivers and braced myself for intense negotiation. The first guy quoted me €75 and when I, in my rudimentary Italian, informed him that I wasn’t going to fall for that one he insisted that there was no way he could go lower. The next guy was a bit more willing to reduce his price, but when I told him I would be paying in plastic he shook his head. Same with the third guy. So I went back in to get cash out of the ATM, and when I returned we haggled a bit more and I finally got him down to €65, though he muttered several times during the ride that the price is normally higher, etc etc. His utterances fell on deaf ears - I had held my ground and I had triumphed. I felt pleased with myself.

When I got to the hotel I asked the receptionist about the price again, just to confirm that I had done right. She informed me that €65 was the price for a taxi arranged by the hotel. Grabbing just any taxi from the airport cost €75. 

Oops. 

When I told the receptionist, somewhat guiltily, that I’d negotiated the price down, she was impressed and said, “Good for you,” with a knowing wink. I do it sparingly, but sometimes it really helps to play the poor-attractive-female-in-need-of-assistance card. In South America and the Mediterranean, that card is gold. 

Scene 4: Fatherly concern 

In my interaction with Africans through the years, it’s become clear to me that it’s very important for them to suss out my marital status. If a young woman is single, then they will by all means feel compelled to help find her a suitable husband. I find this hilarious and endearing, but it can catch you off guard if you’re not prepared for it. At the aforementioned conference in Rome, I spent the first morning’s breakfast next to a very dignified and fatherly Sierra Leonine man who, as we engaged in conversation, asked me about my family, if I was single and engaged or single and available, etc. When I told him how it is, literally his first question was “So why aren’t the guys coming around? You’re attractive and intelligent.” As we proceeded to jointly discuss and lament my marital status, along with the broader phenomenon of strong, accomplished women having a hard time finding someone to marry, he said, “I’m going to pray that you will find a husband.” And he did. Right there at the table. 

Ten minutes before I had to leave for the airport to return to Sweden, another of my new African friends came up to me and asked if he could pose a personal question, “on behalf of a friend.” He wanted to know if I was single, “on behalf of a friend.” I smiled to myself. Because it’s just sweet. I find the fatherly concern touching. 

I’m from India. Where’s my luggage?

“I’m from India. Where’s my luggage?” A lost, somewhat distraught traveler asked me this during one of my shifts at the Málaga airport a number of years ago. I don’t remember being very gracious as I impatiently pointed out that I wasn’t an information desk. I was there to rent out cars, so if he had any unrelated questions, he should go to the information desk right next door. (I didn’t say this in so many words, but I’m sure my sentiment was reflected in my tone.) I hated life at that point and I was fed up with frazzled travelers asking me questions that had nothing to do with why I was there.

Anyways. 

What recalls this particular memory is the fact that his question has kind of become my go-to example of the general disorientation and bewilderment that I myself often feel. Not so much in the sense that I’ve just arrived and don’t know where my luggage is, but in the broader sense of I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m not sure how I got here. 

I don’t say this in a negative sense. Actually, finding myself in situations I have no business being in has kind of become my thing. I feel so unqualified doing the things I’m doing, but I have the most awesome time doing them. From the outside it may look like I stumble indiscriminately into things, but really it’s a series of seemingly random connections that end up not being random at all but divinely orchestrated. I can’t explain how I got here or what the heck I’m doing. But I’m having a marvelous time. And I can’t take credit for any of it. I’m just busy living in the favor of God. 

Favor. Tremendous, unexplainable favor. (By the way, I just recently discovered that my name means favor and grace. No joke. Google it.) 

I’ll give you the short version of what I mean: Nearly three years ago, an acquaintance of mine in Málaga suggested I attend a conference for Christian business leaders to be held in Berlin. At that time I was busy not being a business leader - I was a teacher. But for some reason, he felt I should attend. So I did. I happened to be on winter break that week, so why not? It turned out to be one of the best weeks of my life. Hands down. I had no business being there, but I was absolutely in the right place. (For the full story, see previous blog post: http://annikagreco.blogspot.se/2013/02/some-personality-types-are-just-meant_20.html) 

At this conference I met a German man who worked in leadership development. For whatever reason, he saw potential in me and has since kept in touch sporadically. A year ago he emailed me just to ask how I was doing, and I told him I had recently started grad school, was looking for internship opportunities and did he have any contacts or ideas? He in fact did. He recommended me to one of the executive leaders of World Evangelical Alliance, and this exec, without knowing anything about me other than what he’d heard from my German friend, contacted me and shortly thereafter sent my inquiry to WEA’s New York office. Which is where I spent 10 fantastic weeks this fall (see previous posts “Little girl, big city”).

While at the WEA’s NYC office, I met another member of the leadership team who took an interest in what I wanted to write my master’s thesis on. He said he knew a few people who could lend me insight on the subject matter and that they would all be gathered at a global youth leaders’ conference in Rome in December. He would try to get me in. 

And now I’ve just returned from this conference with my head full of ideas and heart full of hard-to-verbalize emotions. Aside from the fact that I got to sit down and converse with some wonderful African thinkers and doers (my primary reason for going), I got to meet people who are doing some incredible work in Syria and Lebanon in the midst of war and crisis. I feel so inspired I hardly know what to do with myself.  

And this is the craziest part: Back in October, I was gripped with the idea that I wanted to go to the Middle East to see for myself what is happening there. I of course know no one in the region, have nothing to contribute really, I don’t speak Arabic and would probably feel pretty clumsy and disoriented in general (that would really be an I’m-from-India-where’s-my-luggage scenario). But I told God that I wanted to do this and that He would have to connect the dots because I certainly had no clue how to go about it. Guess who I meet at this conference? The national director of a global ministry in Lebanon who, along with his team, is doing a lot of work in the Syrian refugee camps. He told me that the outside world is not getting the accurate story of what is happening in the region and could I come visit them and tell their story? 

Mind blown. Again, I had no business being at this conference - I'm not a youth leader - but I was absolutely in the right place. 

In short, I have no idea what I’m doing or how I got here, and even though this is unsettling for a control freak like me, I’m starting to think I’d never want to live any other way. Not knowing where my luggage is is turning out to be pretty freakin’ sweet.