Apparently I’m an Arab prince. At least, that’s what my friends used to call me when I first moved to Vancouver.
I wish I could say it was because I walked around trailed by my own private-security entourage‐but no. What prompted the nickname was the look of total confusion and panic on my face when I had to do my own chores.
Allow me to give you an example: It was about three weeks into September and I was down to my last pair of fresh…uh…trousers.
Evidently, my clothes weren’t going to wash themselves.
At this point I knew I had to instill the help of a friend. There was no way I was confronting a communal washing machine alone. I stood there in front of the foreboding thing, my eyebrows bunched together and my hands crossed tightly across my chest. Zelius (my helpful friend) stood by my side. “The card goes here,” he said slowly and pointed.
“Okay,” I said “and where do these go?”
I was holding up items other friends helped me buy when they became concerned at how dazed I looked at the grocery store.
Zelius stared at me. A second passed. Then three.
He took a deep breath and finally said, “You pour that here and those scented-sheets are for the dryer.”
Dryer? It seemed that the adventure just kept getting more complicated. A spin, tumble and fold later I had finally learned how to do my own laundry. I guess this could come across like I’m “pampered.” I’m not. Or more accurately, it depends how you look at it.
In Bahrain, we had a live-in housekeeper. Almost everyone I know there does. I can understand why some people here would think I’m rich and privileged. However, this is totally a matter of perspective and isn’t necessarily accurate.
Markers of wealth differ from culture to culture. Having household help in Bahrain is not one of them. Well, let’s just say it was difficult adapting to living outside my “comfort” zone (pun intended); but I have come a long way.
When I recently decided to move off of campus, I had to clean my room before inspection. My regular routine had consisted almost exclusively of vacuuming. That was just not going to cut it if I was looking to get my security deposit back. Thus started an exercise in finding the most random places that could accumulate dust and polishing like crazy.
‘Battlefield: Bathroom’ was about to begin.
I definitely didn’t feel like royalty when I was down on my knees, scrubbing the back of my toilet-seat. Though, I was proud of myself. It felt like a tremendous amount of growth.
Next, was the bathroom mirror. How on earth do people ever get them to sparkle and shine anyway? The more I tried to clean it, the worse it got. I ended up sheepishly knocking on my neighbour’s door for the Windex 101 mini-course.
I guess I still have some prince left in me after all.