Going home. It was weird, but only for about a day. Then it seemed like we never left. As if I had always been driving, waiting for the green arrow, as if ordering an Einstein’s Iced Chai was the most natural thing in my world, as if I had never been recycling Ziploc bags, as if the sheets had always been soft, the air always clear, the night always quiet and as if the porcelain toilet had been there all along, full of water, with no need for a post-bathroom scrape.
Years have a way of flowing into one another, especially without semesters and summers to break them up and I can just imagine, their response, those friendly folks in Willow Creek: “You’re kidding! Has it really been a year since you left? My, how time flies.” I always said that the traditional school schedule was the worst preparation for life. I still think of August as a transition month even though without kids its not all that different from September. I invent a time-exempt two weeks between Christmas and January, a reflection of the vacation we enjoyed for so many of our formative years. But I digress. And I really didn’t want to talk about America, it torments me, but here I go.
Passport control. These are always the first signs of a new country’s standard for hospitality. On our way there, it was the Brit during the London layover. He didn’t tell us a story or ask us about our trip. In fact, he said nothing unusual by Western standards. But he did greet us, smile, saying please and thank you, before wishing us well on our way. This was enough to make us feel warm, welcome, wanted. As we left him, we looked at each other and grinned with relief. When returning to Bulgaria, there was another official to let us know (in case we’d forgotten) that we were back in Bulgaria. No words. Just the usual sneer of contempt. Leaving him, we exchanged a disappointed, but familiar look of amusement mixed with futility. This wasn’t a customer service issue, this was just Bulgaria. And while we didn’t love it, we were used to it.
A few months ago, a Peace Corps staffer’s wife warned me that America is not going to be quite what I remember. That in Bulgaria, where everything seems to be a big old mess, we tend to glorify the convenience, courtesy and systematic efficiency of the States. That when I called Qwest and was put on hold for the fourth time, or was cut off by a hurried mother in the Costco parking lot, I would be reminded of America’s own issues. But that didn’t happen.
In the dressing rooms of Old Navy, in line at Chipotle, running in the green belt, driving on the Interstate, everything was, well, pleasant. Voices said hello, goodbye and how are you? Hands waved me into lanes and thanked my own highway favors. Women gave opinions on why I should purchase the low-rise pocket pants. They—the public– improved my day with the basicis, the stuff you learn when you’re six. I’m talking about a courtesy that likely stems from a basic contentment with life—one that is afforded to middle-class Americans. A life where crises are rarely livelihood-threatening and there exist several solutions before dire straits begin. (You can disagree all you want, but you haven’t lived in a developing country like me!) To those living in America, these pleasantries may seem to contribute to the sugar-coated monotony of their suburban life. Many, I personally know, will ask why I care about fake greetings and repeat “Have a Nice Day’s”. But I’m telling you, our proficiency at communication and courtesy can and does make a big difference in the quality of our lives. Most just don’t realize how powerfully another’s attitude influences their own.
The other small difference is the respect for public space. In Bulgaria, as I have previously shared with you, litter and pollution are big problems. Graffiti’d monuments, broken windows and ripped-up sidewalks are commonplace. In a society where people barely pay the bills, of course, this is understandably not a priority. But it is another example of something small that makes a big difference. And just as Malcolm Gladwell explains in “The Tipping Point”, when New York City had a serious crime problem in the early 1980s, they didn’t originally bother with graffiti or broken windows either. Why worry about that when there were drug dealers to bust? But that was before criminologists James Q. Wilson and George Kelling introduced the Broken Window theory. In short, it goes like this:
If a window is broken and left unprepared, people walking by will conclude that no one cares and no on is in charge. Soon, more windows will be broken and the sense of anarchy will spread from the building to the street on which it faces, sending a signal that anything goes. Muggers and robbers, whether opportunistic or professional, believe they reduce their changes of being caught or even identified if they operate on streets where potential victims are already intimidated by prevailing conditions.
After further discussion and documentation on the renovations made by David Gunn, the newly hired subway director, Malcolm Gladwell concluded with the proven success of such a method to directly alter the attitudes of New York’s citizens and, therefore, indirectly reduce the rate of crime.
Now, I’m not saying that Bulgaria is a country with unusually high crime. However, “anarchy” is an important word in the definition. Many Bulgarians complain that people don’t follow the rules here. They ride the tram for free if they can get away with it, speed because they know they can buy off the cop and don’t form a line at the store because no one forces them to. Companies don’t pay their taxes because the penalties aren’t threatening enough. As a result, a sense of anarchy begins. Why follow rules when you don’t have to? And their environment, the deteriorating state of public property, is only enhancing that negative, get-away-with-anything attitude.
As usual, just something to think about.
