International Potluck
In addition to the responsibilities, there are some perks to being the YEO (Youth Exchange Officer) of one's local Rotary Club. I don't have a lot of responsibilities, but one of them is finding families willing to host exchange students for several months at a time. I have to convince people to accept a stranger into their home who basically becomes an additional member of their family. Most people have enough difficulty keeping their own families and homes intact nowadays...and I'm asking them to take on this additional family member, a teenager with a very different culture and language. This means a lot of inconvenience and extra expense to the host family, but also numerous, priceless rewards. Many host families have a wonderful, enriching experience with their student and become lifelong friends. In my role, I really don't interact with the students that much, but I do have the pleasure of getting to know them a little.
So yesterday I got to go to an exchange student potluck. All the students, host families, youth exchange officers and club counselors in the district (most of southern Illinois) were invited. The students brought international dishes they had prepared and each gave a presentation on their country (except for the young man from Argentina, who just did a magic act instead...a very skillful and entertaining performance, however). There were also students from the Philippines, Germany, Mexico, Taiwan, Finland, and China. Our Salem student from Indonesia had a very elaborate costume and performed a dance based on some kind of Indonesian legend. So all in all, an interesting afternoon, and quite gluttonous on my part as I had helpings of almost all the dishes and some dessert.
Afterwards, in keeping with the international theme, I stopped at the World Market store in search of a 50-pound bag of teff. Unfortunately, none was to be found so I bought some Swiss dark chocolate, some of which was derived from Ecuadorian cocoa.
Back at my car with over an hour's drive to get back home, nature called, and so I entered Tarzhay, striding briskly and purposefully into the store. Glancing studily about as is my custom, I determined that there was not a restroom in the vicinity of the entrance. Undaunted, I strode boldly into the main portion of the store, surveying the perimeter where in my previous experience with large department stores, the restroom was most likely to be found. I must have walked some two miles along one wall to a corner, then perhaps another mile when I realized this was a really boring xanga entry. I chuckled, sensing that my readers probably came to that conclusion a long time ago. Still, responding to a sense of urgency, I pressed onward. Suddenly, to my left was a large set of double doors. Aha! I paused briefly to note the sign, then forged ahead through the doors into a large hallway akin to a warehouse, with various and sundry items stacked on pallets. Was this the restroom?
"Excuse me, sir," said a young man in Tarzhay attire, materializing from the edge of my vision.
"No, thanks...I will excuse you at a time of my own choosing. For now, I require your assistance in locating the restroom."
He stared dumbly at me a moment and said, "This area is for Team Members ONLY."
"Why yes, thank you. I saw your sign and I do appreciate the courtesy. You will recognize me, of course, as a member of the World Series-winning St. Louis Cardinals. So kind of you to provide special perks for athletes such as myself. This place is a whole new world. Unpolished, but so much earthier and organic than the rest of the store. But haste, now, pray tell where is your restroom?"
"Listen, Mr...Dan, I don't mean to be rude but 'Team Member' means Tarzhay Team Member. You need to go back the way you came or I'll have to call security."
"Whoa, easy there young man! How--how do you know my name?"
"Oh, you just look like a Dan," he said, grinning. "The restroom is up front, by the entrance."
"Wha-? Liar! There's no such thing!"
The insolence! Flabbergasted that some ignorant little peon would dare treat a World Series winner with such disrespect, I stormed away through the double doors and strode with renewed purpose toward the front of the store. Two miles and twenty minutes later I arrived and looked upon the area with amazement. There was indeed a restroom here now. They had somehow built it during my circumnavigation of the store or perhaps while that smug little punk was distracting me.
Upon answering nature's call, I washed my hands and peered into the mirror. Blast! My nametag from the international potluck was there on the front of my shirt, plain as day. It had evidently leaped from the trash, unscrunched itself and reapplied itself to my clothing, for ne'er have I forgotten to remove a nametag at the proper time. The deceitful nature of that lying punk was confirmed as it dawned on me how he had truly known my name. Seething with rage, I noted that some sort of food particle apparently adorned my face as well, an eminently rare occurrence which caused me to wonder how long it had been there and why no one else had mentioned it. Perhaps it was a magical particle, visible only to me. Nevertheless, it was a matter quickly remedied. I promptly removed the offending particle and nametag, tossing them in the abyss of the nearby trashcan, never to adhere to my person again. Remembering the nametag's previous treachery, I double-checked the mirror to ensure its removal was indeed permanent.
Mission accomplished, I went back to my car, vowing not to return to Tarzhay until I could orchestrate a proper vengeance.
By the way, "gal" is an archaic term that many chicks find offensive.
Perhaps not.
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