When Dreams are Calling (7 page)

11
A Chinese Roommate, the Philosophy of a Nation

Your
house is your castle,

Some
might wisely say,

But
how to find the right one

Nobody
can say!

Moving in with a
roommate is like buying a lottery ticket. You never know how it will
turn out.

However, no matter the outcome, I’ve always
found it to be an
opportunity to grow.

I learned new habits, new smells, like curry,
and sometimes I even
made new friends, like Simrin. Having roommates of different
nationalities opened
my eyes to new cultures, stirred my curiosity, immersed me into others’
ways of
being, and exposed me to experiences I couldn’t get as a tourist. It
taught me
to respect every person, each story, and every culture, and to realize
how much
we can all learn from each other.

For an Eastern European girl like me, Chinese
and Indians were
particularly interesting, so different and so exotic. I had never used
chopsticks, never heard of dumplings or curry, and all I knew about
them was
from books.

After my pleasant experience with Simrin, I
found a room for rent
with a Chinese lady, Ning.

Ning was what we may call a woman with a
mission. She worked around
the clock and everything she did followed a strict plan. She did not
let her
feelings, assuming she had any, stand in her way, and getting pregnant
was not
an exception to the rule.

“Why you cannot come over tonight?” she said to
her boyfriend over
the phone, one Monday night “You don’t understand. Saturday will be too
late. I’m
ovulating. You must come now. It won’t take long,” she assured him.

And she was right. It never took long. He went
to her bedroom and
before I knew it, he was out the door.

“Time is money,” Ning used to say to me.

“Is it anything else, other than money, Ning?”

“What else? There is nothing else.”

And for her, there wasn’t.

She saved each penny, spared none, and
monitored each deal on the
market, whether it was for elastic bands or for rice. Money was her
only and
constant obsession and if having lots of it meant working day and
night, she
was ready to do it.

Wearing the same sturdy pair of shoes on all
seasons, she was the
retail business nightmare and the shame of all the women on the planet.
No
dapper wardrobe for her. All her clothes, including the underwear, were
self-made in her room each night after work.

But, to really know Ning, you had to go with
her for a drive.

“Ning, you’re driving like a true Chinese,” I
told her, seeing her
facial muscles tighten, her steady look, and her hands grabbing the
steering
wheel as if it was a lifesaving device.

“What do you mean like a Chinese?”

“It means bad, terribly bad.”

“Chinese not good at driving cars, Chinese good
at driving people,”
she said in her broken English.

“If by driving people you mean driving them
insane, then you are
right, very right,” I teased her.

Although it was hidden deep enough for anyone
to have a chance to
find it, Ning had her unique sense of humor. She exercised it on my
birthday card:
“Do not keep bags full of garbage inside the house, keep the fridge
clean, wash
off the bread from kitchen table. I bought you a hair product. Do not
color
anything else than your hair. And please, do not leave me turned on,
Ning.” Knowing
what an electricity hog Ning was, I assumed she referred to the lights.
Who
could ask for more from a birthday card?

But Ning was a good-hearted lady. At midnight,
when I was back from work, frozen, exhausted, and hungry, she used to
wait for me with a bowl of
rice and a cup of hot tea. On Christmas, as a present, she made pajamas
for me.

Like Simrin, Ning was there for me when I
needed a shoulder to cry
on, which, truth be told, was often the case. Her advice was always the
same: work
hard and have patience. She was not an emotional woman, but a practical
one.
With her, you knew what you got. She meant every word she said and kept
every
promise she made. She was a friend whom you could count on.

What I liked the most about Ning was that she
never pretended to be
more than what she was: a simple, hardworking Chinese immigrant in
search for a
simple, but better life, forged by her and her only, without taking
advantage
of anyone. For these reasons, in my eyes, she was much more of a lady
than my
mom’s cousin would ever be.

I lived with Ning and her quirky habits until,
after multiple,
carefully timed, trial and error “experiments,” she got pregnant, moved
in with
her boyfriend, and decided to sell her apartment.

I always wondered what happened to her over the
years. I could just
imagine her with kids, a husband, working harder than ever, at a huge
sewing machine,
making underwear and pajamas for her whole family.

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• When one is in
  distress, some will
  offer a bowl of rice, others a long lecture and the rest will turn
  around. Be
  the one who offers a bowl of rice.
  
• You stop living
  when you stop
  challenging yourself.
  
• Only when you will
  respect others’
  journeys, you will be ready to start your own.
  

Being
back in the workforce was always “fun,”

Knowing
I was there for the long run,

But
with little money in and lots going out

I
started to feel a little bit of a doubt.

Maybe
I should’ve been a bloody lawyer,

Pompous
and rich, rather than a penniless Tom
Sawyer!

Living with such
a penny pincher and workaholic like Ning left me with no other choice
than to
match her closely.

In no time, I found not one job, but four:
sales person for an
electronics store, dishwasher associate in a family restaurant,
receptionist at
a dental office, and sales person at a lingerie store. Yes, it was
before the
global financial crises. Before congratulating and starting to envy me,
let me
tell you that they were all located in different parts of the city, and
the
closest one was an hour away.

Greedy, I took them all and let the fun begin.

Suddenly, my week did not have enough days, my
days did not have
enough hours, and as for the hours, they too, did not have enough
minutes. I
forgot to sleep, to eat, to walk, or to talk. Despite working like
stevedores,
all I made was barely enough to pay for my rent and groceries. However,
what
mattered to me was there: I felt free, with no one to answer to except
myself,
and no other expectations to fulfill except my own.

At the electronics store, with no idea about
the products or the
slightest interest in learning about them, I was about to win the
championship
for the most clueless salesperson ever by a mile.

“Do you know what sells better?” my manager
asked me one day.

“I think some knowledge would help,” I replied.

“Maybe, but it’s your smile that will close the
deal.”

And since that day, there were only two moments
when I was fully
aware of being an employee and not a customer: firstly, when after
eight hours
of standing, my legs were all pins and needles, and secondly, when at
the end
of the day, I had to sweep the floor. The rest of the time, I was busy
chattering
away and joking with the customers coming into the store, listening to
their
stories, their worries and making some new friends. So, the smile did
work. Things
to remember: sometimes, even the boss is right.

Even at the lingerie store, I felt a bit of a
stranger. I am sure
any men could easily understand my feelings. However, I was a woman,
but
apparently not womanly enough.

“You’d think that should be easy. A bra, some
panties, sexy pajamas,
no brainer! But no. Choosing one, wearing one, taking one off, it all
gets more
and more complicated,” I told Robert over lunch.

“You tell me about it,” he replied, amused.

“First it’s the bra: front clasp or back clasp,
underwire or not,
push-up or just natural, cotton or bouncy, lacy, gels or foams, red is
hot or
black is hotter, white is boring, but pink is silly and so on. Then,
it’s the
panties: high rise, low rise or granny-panty, boy-cut, no-cut or
high-cut, cotton,
nylon or silky, firm, extra firm or loose and so on.”

“But the choice is simple: the bra, if you must
and only if you
must: front clasp, no push ups, no wires, no gels, no foams and who
cares about
the color, by the time you finish the undressing part, it gets dark
anyway.”

“So no more deceiving: what you see is what you
get,” I concluded.

“Yup. Now, the panties: for high pressure, low
rise; for low
pressure, high-rise; for no pressure, the granny ones. That cut thing
sounds
dangerous. No cut please, will ya?”

“Soon, we’ll all be in dire need of some
lingerie dictionary.”

“Preferably with full pictures attached,” he
said with a spark in
his eyes.

“Of a granny?”

“No way! Then maybe just with some of the
pictures attached.”

“Discrimination!” I shouted.

“Just basic marketing.”

“As to the pajamas, why anyone would buy one of
those silky fully see
through pinky ones, beats me. If you want to make a statement, then
you’d
better just present yourself in all your naked splendor. At least,
you’d save
some precious time,” the practical side of me said.

“It’s called teasing, my dear.”

“Teasing, but no pleasing. All show, no go.”

“You are a woman of action.”

“And satisfaction. So many choices and all this
time, no one thinks
of men. What do they want? How would they prefer spending the time?
Figuring
out how to take them off and looking like some silly nerds or diving right
into it?”

“If only all the women thought like you...”

“I know. The lingerie stores will go bankrupt.”

“But the condom ones will flourish, eh?”

“I doubt it,” I said, smiling. “Shall I start?
Extra sensitive,
ultra-sensitive, orange, blue, black, cinnamon, mint, cherry, small,
large,
extra-large, regular, thick, wet, dry, ribs, bumps, studs, and it goes
on.”

“Life is complicated.”

“We surely make it so.”

As the “dishwasher associate” at the family
restaurant, I felt … oh
well, how should I put it? Happy, content, miserable? None of it,
really, just
soaking wet while wearing oversized boots and trying to maneuver an
oversized
hose. Day after day, I was hanging on the owner’s promise that I would
get
promoted to waitress if I did a good job. However, whatever standards I
was up
against, I must have failed all of them.

The most influential one was revealed to me one
day when his male
instincts took over and he made the indecent proposal: after hours, we
could
have some fun time when his wife was not around.

“Too bad,” I said, “I quite fancy your wife.”

And so, all I ever got promoted to was manager
in charge of more and
more dirty dishes.

As a receptionist at the dental office, I would
have been bored to
death if not for the love affair between the dentist and his mistress.
Each week,
I was entertained watching a new episode from the hide-and-seek series.
I
figured it must be terribly stressful to have a mistress on the side.

So, if you get one, take my advice and make
sure she or he is very
good at whatever you miss.

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• Forget everything,
  but never forget
  your smile.
  
• No matter how
  simple a job is, you can
  always find an employee for whom it is complicated.
  
• Any team needs a
  leader, but the
  problem is that every player thinks he should be the one.
  
• Between wisdom and
  stupidity there is
  only one difference: one knows when the time is right, the other
  believes any
  time is right.
  
• Nowadays, everyone
  wants to have
  something big. I settle on the heart.
  

As I was a bit
slow or maybe just too resilient, it took me a few months to give up on
spending
two hours on the road just so I could work for four. But, better late
than never,
like they say. And so, I resigned and started to work one job only as a
parking
attendant at one of the most luxurious malls in Toronto.

This “high end” position proved to require all
sorts of skills and
talents, from being a good listener to a worldwide entertainer for
wealthy
women decrying their terrible fate, while kissing their freshly groomed
dogs.
Finding ways to cheer them up and show them life is beautiful required
a lot of
imagination, patience, and humor. I had to be good at being their clown
for as
long as they wanted, or they would transform their pathetic plight into
an
insatiable desire to see me fired.

I can vividly remember one particular scene:
she was tall, slim,
blond, with blue eyes. Alluring in her Gucci dress, Madam was walking
around on
her high heel Jimmy Choo shoes, carrying Loulou, her dear chook. But
Loulou was
not happy. The perfume was not its favorite, and the mall not its
chosen
playground. And so, Loulou escaped. And in frenzy, it started running
around
the parking lot, facing the terrible danger of being hit by a car.

“Do something!” Madam screamed at me. “Can’t
you see Loulou is in
grave danger?”

“And what would you like me to do? Run after a
chicken? Put her on a
leash,” I replied bluntly.

“A leash? On Loulou’s fragile neck? Maybe on
yours! You are a
savage!” she shouted at me, horrified by my suggestion.

“Is it organic chicken?” I went on.

“And what would be the relevance of it
now
?”
she asked with
her eyes getting bigger and bigger.

“Particularly
now
I think
it’s important. You see, I’m only
used to organic chicken,” I replied in a serious tone.

“Phew! Animal!” she yelled at me.  

“Animal indeed!” I concluded.

Then, all hell broke loose. In less than five
minutes, the entire
parking lot become a scene taken right from a comedy movie, with the
main
protagonist being nothing more than a damn restless chicken. The cars
were
honking, the chook was speeding, and Madam took her Jimmy Choo shoes
off and
started running after the chicken, while I started to chase them both.
The
security guards were alerted and more or less everyone was actively
involved in
keeping the chick safe.

“Break, break, I need a break!” I wanted to
scream at Loulou. But I
could barely breathe.

And, after we all got tired, Loulou finally got
tired too. Reluctantly,
he accepted its fate and reclaimed its prime spot in Madam’s arms, who
was
filled with joy and relief.

“Loulou, my baby. Give mama a kiss!”

And this was the true story of a rich beautiful
lady and her disobedient
pet, Loulou, the wild chicken.

Dora’s
Journal Notes

• Happiness does not
  come from what we
  have or from having what we want, but from appreciating what it is
  given to us
  in each moment.
  
• Be a good sport!
  Treat each fall as an
  opportunity: with courage, determination, and hope.
  
• Between optimism
  and pessimism, I
  choose the first. It seems to me the only logical choice as pessimism
  takes you
  nowhere while optimism takes you somewhere, the worst being back to
  nowhere.
  

Did you ever
dream of snapping a shot with some celebrity? Or maybe getting one of
those Top
Hundred World Richest people to fall in love with you, just so in the
end you
can refuse him for his lack of manners?

I did.

“What better way for all this to happen than
working in a luxury hotel?”
I said to Robert.

“Maybe just staying at one, eh?" he suggested.

“That comes after, dear.”

“As long as it comes, it’s fine with me. And
what job would you like
to have there? You have no experience in this industry.”

“Like I had a lot of it in the
electronic business, or the plumbing
one, or all the rest. I’ll find a job there.”

“As what? As a cleaning lady?”

“You sound upset. Better to be a cleaning lady
at the Ritz than a
cleaning lady at some no-name mall around the corner, don’t you think?”

“Better to be a lawyer in your own country than
a cleaner in someone
else’s.”

“So, this is what’s bothering you. I’ll get
there. You know I will.”

“You will, but only if you stop devaluing
yourself! If you stop
acting like something you’re not! You wanted to know why I’m pissed
off, now
you know,” Robert exclaimed, infuriated.

I knew he was right. But, for now, I needed the
money.

A few days later, I started to work as a
receptionist, the second
smiling or grumpy face, depending on my day, after the bellboy.

The job wouldn’t have been so bad if, on my
second week, I wouldn’t have
been “promoted” to what I hated the most: night shifts. Even worse, the
policy
of the hotel was that everyone at the front desk had to work standing
up.
During the late hours of the night, when most of the guests were sound
asleep
in their hopefully comfortable beds and only one or two were passing
by,
standing like a soldier made no sense whatsoever. Nevertheless, it was
the
rule, and the consequences were quite predictable: my back was sore and
the
pain in my legs was excruciating. My body soon started to fail me, and
I became
a ghost, barely able to drag myself to work each night. In the wee
hours of the
morning, back home, all I wanted was to lie on the hard floor and cry.
This was
my glamorous hotel job.

On Christmas Eve, when I saw the house full of
people partying,
while half-awake I was getting ready for another shift, I burst into
tears.

Maybe aspiring to be more than a cleaning lady
was a mistake. After
all, the cleaners were the only ones who were never called for an
emergency.
They worked only day shifts and could sit down, lie down, and make
themselves a
cup of tea whenever they pleased.

Or maybe Robert was right. This hunting for
jobs without having a
clear idea in my mind of what I would like to find, without giving
myself a
break to pause and to think, this continuous fight for survival, was
taking me
nowhere.

“What do you think will happen to me, Robert?”