Sometimes you can just tell where someone is from.
We could “smell” his culture, and it wasn’t his body odor.
Recently, Vincent and I drove almost two hours to meet some “global” friends, an American couple who had lived most of their lives overseas in Indonesia. We met at a fun, local food joint in their small town. Over lunch, we discussed the recent, challenging cultural adjustment for our family . . . moving from an urban, international context in Europe to a rural environment in Pennsylvania with little cultural diversity.
We discussed our feelings about living in a place with the “absence of color.” Our family missed rubbing shoulders with people of other languages, cultures, races, and religions.
We ended our lunch meeting talking about strong European café, and it made Vincent’s mouth water for a good French espresso. These are hard to come by in this part of the world. I’m not a coffee drinker but prefer fine loose-leaf teas. When we got in the car to leave, we decided to find a place to stop for a hot beverage to accompany us on our drive home.
We didn’t see anything in sight for about ten minutes that screamed “coffee.” Finally, a small, corner gas station peeked its head out at us. The price for fuel was better than at home, so Vincent decided to take advantage and fill up.
I ventured inside to find a good ‘ole styrofoam cup to fill with hot water from the standard coffee machine and a bag of Lipton tea. My craving for a cup of fine loose-leaf tea would have to wait until tomorrow.
Vincent walked in and looked for the restroom. The attendant behind the cash register explained to him that he needed to take the very large wooden block, with a small key attached, to the restroom located outside on the side of the gas station.
Vincent took the key and joked with the attendant that “this one would be hard to lose.” They laughed together. I heard this man’s accent as he spoke, and so did Vincent.
It wasn’t your typical foreign accent. And, this man looked different. At the same time, he looked strangely familiar.
This man also “smelled” different, and I don’t mean his body odor. I always say that I can “smell” the people from the lands that I love. There’s something divine within that draws me to these people. It’s a strong magnetic attraction, an overwhelming love for them that isn’t just human.
The gas station store was empty, and Vincent would be gone for a few minutes. I searched my mind for a creative way to start a conversation with this man. Walking towards him from the back of the store where I had been seeping my tea bag and getting the usual fixings of cream and sugar, I asked, “What is the name of this town?”
It was that easy to start a conversation with a stranger.
The man proceeded to tell me the name of his town, with a strong accent that was all too familiar. I explained to him that we were just passing through. He went on to tell me that he wasn’t from here.
I asked the usual follow-up question, “Oh really? Where are you from?”
“France,” he said proudly.
“France!?” I screamed, loud enough for Vincent to hear outside. Quickly switching to French, I said, “My husband is French. Actually, I’m French too! Our family just arrived from France in December.”
The man couldn’t believe his ears and neither could I. He grinned from ear to ear, his face beaming. In spite of my delight to hear that he was from France, this wasn’t the response I was expecting. This dark complected man clearly did not look French, but how would I get him to tell me about his true origins?
It’s always difficult to ask people where they are REALLY from . . . if they don’t want to disclose that information. It’s hard to not offend.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to ask.
“Well,” he proceeded, “I have French nationality, but my parents are from Morocco.”
I knew it! I “smelled” Morocco, and my hunch was right!
Quickly switching to speaking in Moroccan Arabic, the look on this man’s face was priceless. His jaw dropped to the ground. I didn’t have my phone with me to capture it, but this image will remain in my mind forever. He proceeded to tell me that he hadn’t spoken French or Arabic for years since he arrived in the US in 2010. In his small town in Pennsylvania, he was the only foreigner living there.
For the next few minutes, we jumped back and forth between French and Arabic . . . the usual bi-lingual conversation of North Africans living in France. It felt so comfortable and so familiar.
The Big Surprise!
I saw Vincent through the windows, walking toward the store entrance. With my new Moroccan acquaintance, we decided to play a joke on my husband. We would be speaking Moroccan Arabic together when he walked in. I couldn’t wait to see Vincent’s reaction. Once again, priceless! It was simply unbelievable that we had found a Moroccan friend in this small rural town. How could it be?
Vincent went to grab a cup of less-than-strong coffee, while I told Abdellah (name changed to protect his identity) that I did not believe in coincidence. Knowing that my Moroccan friend undoubtedly shared my belief in God, I told him that God, alone, could have caused our paths to cross today. It was too unbelievable! Abdellah agreed.
Our new friend “bought” our coffee and tea as a token of friendship and traditional Arab hospitality. We stood at the counter for more than 30 minutes, starting and stopping our conversation occasionally as paying customers came through the door to pay for their gas and other items. All who walked into the store were typical country folks. Each of them seemed dumbfounded as they overheard us speaking another language across the counter to each other that they most likely did not recognize.
Together, we reminisced about France and Morocco and all of the things that we loved and missed about those lands.
“Real” coffee from France and mint tea, “etay,” from Morocco. There was an instant connection with Abdellah, because we knew where the other “came from.” Abdellah, a single man, went on to tell us that he was alone in his town, with all of his family back in Europe. Because family and “community” are so important to the Arab people, finding oneself alone and isolated from his or her cultural group is very difficult. He told us, however, that he has been warmly welcomed by the friendly community in his little town in Pennsylvania. Even though, he still hopes and plans to return to France one day soon.
It was time to leave. Having a hard time parting ways with our new friend, we took his phone number and promised to return to see him if we headed his way again. We also invited him to our home for a meal if he ever came out our way.
Upon leaving, Abdellah told us that we were more than friends.
We were “family” to him, as we were the closest thing to “home” that he had found.
He told us that he would be “happy” all day as a result of meeting us and speaking his two heart languages. This feeling was reciprocal. Abdellah told us that he felt in his heart that we would see each other again, “In-ch-allah” . . . “If God wills.” We shook hands in the traditional Moroccan way, placing our right hands over our hearts after extending our hands. Walking out the door to our car, we exchanged the formal Arabic expressions of blessing upon each other.
My heart swelled with joy, and I thanked God for this unexpected gift in this small, rural town.
The next time you walk into a gas station, don’t forget to open your eyes, your ears, your heart, and yes, even your noses! You just never know who you might meet . . . and “smell!”
—The Cultural Story-Weaver
Let’s Weave Cultures!
What are some ways that you can reach out and initiate a conversation and/or friendship with a foreign neighbor? Just like this Moroccan man in a small rural town in Pennsylvania, how can you welcome the foreigner in your town?
We invite you to tell us your own cultural stories and global adventures . . . as you engage with the world, breaking down barriers, building bridges, and “weaving cultures!” Write about them in the comment box below.
This evening I went to a thrift store that primarily employs former refugees. I walked in and started looking through the racks of clothes and before long, I heard a voice behind me say “bonjour!” It was a woman from Djibouti that I had met there more than 6 months ago butshe had remembered that I speak French! Obviously this interaction was less of a surprise than yours but a highlight of my day nonetheless! 🙂
Wasn’t that “bonjour” music to your ears? What a fun cultural surprise!