Today was my first men's clothing room. It seems totally strange to me that the women on the team should be present at a men's clothing day because it was so gender separate in Athens, but it's different here. It's a small team so everyone has to muck in where they can.
My job today was to fold and pack clothes into plastic bags, to fit people for flip flops and to make sure no one was taking more items than allowed. While I’m not great at folding clothes with one hand, I’m even worse at telling impoverished refugees that they're only allowed to take one T-shirt, not two and one pair of shorts or trousers, not both. We don't have enough stock to let people take as much as they want, which is what I think all of our hearts is, so we have to be quite strict in enforcing the rules.
I used my Farsi today, and wished I’d spent some time revising the wardrobe section of my book before coming here. But I managed hold my own, and even proved to be quite useful as the other team members don't speak any Farsi. I also used my French. We've had an influx or North African refugees this past week so it's been a good opportunity to get some practice in. Again, I’m the only one on the team who speaks French, so I’m feeling quite useful at the moment. Most of the refugees are Russian speakers, which has left me feeling linguistically redundant. I’m appreciating the change. Not that my Russian hasn't vastly improved since I’ve been here. I know at least three words, not including vodka, and my accent is uncanny.
Since we finished at the Oasis quite early today, Claire and I decided to cycle home together and take some photos in the sunflower fields. On the way, my bike started making a loud clonking sound. Not going very fast and eager to know what it was, I looked down to see if I could see the cause. The next thing I knew, the door of a white Volvo was pressed up against my face and there was a sharp pain shooting through my ego. I had crashed my bike! Into a car I might add. Now before you all get too worried and start flooding my mailbox with Get Well Cards and flowers, I should provide one minor detail. The car I crashed into was stationary.
Now those of you who have seen me ride a bike before, or indeed operate any kind of vehicle or machinery, will no doubt, not be particularly surprised at this announcement. It was pretty much inevitable. Like Agent Smith killing Neo. But as in the Matrix, my story also developed a nail-biting twist. But we'll get to that later. First the story of the detour of my Monday afternoon.
The owner of the car was nowhere to be seen, so I wrote a little note in German and tucked it under the windscreen wiper. It contained an apology and my contact details. Surely this would be enough to discharge my responsibility as a good cyclist? Apparently my moral compass didn't think so, which is why it marched me to the local police station so that I could formally log the accident. In German I might add. That's the test of your language skills, when you spend the afternoon at a foreign police station explaining how rubbish your spatial awareness is. I of course started off by trying the old schoolboy trick, “kanst du English sprechen?”, but was forced to stumble on when the reply came “nein”.
I explained what had happened to the officer at the desk, who apparently found it so funny that he called over one of his mates and made me tell the story again. Stifling laughter, the second officer grabbed his friend and asked me to take them to the car I had crashed into so they could survey the damage. It's worth mentioning that the car was parked right in front of the Lager, and a group of Afghan women whom I’d befriended were sitting outside chatting. “Salam,” I said as I passed by. “Khoubi?” They nodded, eyes wide and eyebrows lifted high. I was so embarrassed. And I didn't know how to explain what had happened in Farsi, so I’m sure a few rumours were started that day.
Two deep scratches and a basket sized dent in the panel were the sum of the damage, and it looked pretty bad. We went back to the station to try and contact the owner, and that's where the twist comes in. We couldn't get hold of him because he's currently in prison doing time. Yes, I crashed into the car of a convicted felon. But don't worry, he gets out in a month, so we'll be able to sort it all out then. That's just super! And he knows where I live because my address in on the police report. Joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.
My job today was to fold and pack clothes into plastic bags, to fit people for flip flops and to make sure no one was taking more items than allowed. While I’m not great at folding clothes with one hand, I’m even worse at telling impoverished refugees that they're only allowed to take one T-shirt, not two and one pair of shorts or trousers, not both. We don't have enough stock to let people take as much as they want, which is what I think all of our hearts is, so we have to be quite strict in enforcing the rules.
I used my Farsi today, and wished I’d spent some time revising the wardrobe section of my book before coming here. But I managed hold my own, and even proved to be quite useful as the other team members don't speak any Farsi. I also used my French. We've had an influx or North African refugees this past week so it's been a good opportunity to get some practice in. Again, I’m the only one on the team who speaks French, so I’m feeling quite useful at the moment. Most of the refugees are Russian speakers, which has left me feeling linguistically redundant. I’m appreciating the change. Not that my Russian hasn't vastly improved since I’ve been here. I know at least three words, not including vodka, and my accent is uncanny.
Since we finished at the Oasis quite early today, Claire and I decided to cycle home together and take some photos in the sunflower fields. On the way, my bike started making a loud clonking sound. Not going very fast and eager to know what it was, I looked down to see if I could see the cause. The next thing I knew, the door of a white Volvo was pressed up against my face and there was a sharp pain shooting through my ego. I had crashed my bike! Into a car I might add. Now before you all get too worried and start flooding my mailbox with Get Well Cards and flowers, I should provide one minor detail. The car I crashed into was stationary.
Now those of you who have seen me ride a bike before, or indeed operate any kind of vehicle or machinery, will no doubt, not be particularly surprised at this announcement. It was pretty much inevitable. Like Agent Smith killing Neo. But as in the Matrix, my story also developed a nail-biting twist. But we'll get to that later. First the story of the detour of my Monday afternoon.
The owner of the car was nowhere to be seen, so I wrote a little note in German and tucked it under the windscreen wiper. It contained an apology and my contact details. Surely this would be enough to discharge my responsibility as a good cyclist? Apparently my moral compass didn't think so, which is why it marched me to the local police station so that I could formally log the accident. In German I might add. That's the test of your language skills, when you spend the afternoon at a foreign police station explaining how rubbish your spatial awareness is. I of course started off by trying the old schoolboy trick, “kanst du English sprechen?”, but was forced to stumble on when the reply came “nein”.
I explained what had happened to the officer at the desk, who apparently found it so funny that he called over one of his mates and made me tell the story again. Stifling laughter, the second officer grabbed his friend and asked me to take them to the car I had crashed into so they could survey the damage. It's worth mentioning that the car was parked right in front of the Lager, and a group of Afghan women whom I’d befriended were sitting outside chatting. “Salam,” I said as I passed by. “Khoubi?” They nodded, eyes wide and eyebrows lifted high. I was so embarrassed. And I didn't know how to explain what had happened in Farsi, so I’m sure a few rumours were started that day.
Two deep scratches and a basket sized dent in the panel were the sum of the damage, and it looked pretty bad. We went back to the station to try and contact the owner, and that's where the twist comes in. We couldn't get hold of him because he's currently in prison doing time. Yes, I crashed into the car of a convicted felon. But don't worry, he gets out in a month, so we'll be able to sort it all out then. That's just super! And he knows where I live because my address in on the police report. Joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.
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