The village

Maybe I am just terribly and needlessly iconoclastic, but I hate all the pretentious fucking labels people give themselves. Frankly, I hereby promise to beat to death with their very own original 18th century Baedeker the next asshole who gives me the schtick about ‘being a traveler, not a tourist’. I am probably the worst tourist in the world, having frighteningly little curiosity about whatever the fuck place I am in, preferring the comfort of hotel room and it’s wifi, and largely only being interested int he coming meal. And yet, I still don the tourist title with pride, because that’s just how fucking language works, and I don’t get away from a reality by changing the fucking label. If I have to put on sandals over my socks to be more tourist like, so help god I will, just to piss the hipsters off.

But worse yet are the ‘expats’. As far as I can tell, expats are merely first world assholes to snobbish to call themselves what they are – immigrants. This makes sense, for as far as the first world is concerned, immigrants are people who don’t speak English. Perhaps a better distinction is that immigrants more in the direction of developed countries, and ‘expats’ move towards developing countries. I am sure this can be proven wrong.

Whatever.

I get why people don’t want to be called tourists. After all, there are fat assholes like me around giving them all a bad names. But expat I don’t get. That I can figure out,expats are those of us who failed elsewhere, so we picked up anchor and moved to a place where we would get some undeserved respect for the accident of being born in a place with a greater GDP. In these other places, expats do inferior jobs of things that respectable people do well back home. Can’t cook eggs? You’re now a professional chef in a backward Cambodian hotel. If you once made your girlfriend dinner, congratulations, you are now executive chef.

But what I really cannot stand is the fucking incest.

Ok, so tonight I was meant to meet with a friend at an Indian restaurant.   I was about five hours through work when my boss mentioned that she was going to an Indian restaurant as well. I didn’t need to clarify that it was the same Indian  restaurant; this shithole of a town only has the one. And this troubled me greatly. Part of it was that the last time frankly the last me and my boss went out she complained so fucking much that I was completly sick of her shit by the end of the night. The three of you reading this blog must know that if -I- am complaining about someone complaining to much, it must have seriously been a problem. I couldn’t handle my boss tonight, and so I cancelled on my friend, got a shitty pizza, and went home to watch youtube videos instead.

What are the odds, one might ask, that some people wanting to go out would plan something at the same place at the same time, to my accidental determent.

EXTREMELY FUCKING LIKELY. Mostly because this city only has five restaurants eligible for a good god damned meal. And two of those are too far away.

But this isn’t the only occurrence. There is a lady in this town named J, and I have met her four times. I don’t mean ‘meet’ in the sense of encounter, I mean it in the sense of ‘to be acquainted with for the first time’. Admittedly, every time I have met she has been so shit pants drunk she never remembers me, but none the less I have met (as in, introduced to) this person on four different occasions. I want you to stop and think about that; I met the same person, randomly, four times in one year. In a city of 8 million people. I met her through three different people and once just by being at the same bar.

Nor is this some kind of isolated case. Everyone in this town seems to know each other, and constantly run into each other. It’s two degrees of Kevin Bacon here, and the implications are kind of horrifying. Everyone knows each other, and everyone is in everyone else’s business. If you sleep with someone, the community will know about it. If you get involved with someone, they have already been involved with someone you know. Got a secret? Tell anyone and everyone else will know.

I have so far thankfully avoided this myself, but have sat through a thousand conversation where other people talk about this exact phenomenon. I cannot help but feel like I have moved to some sort of cousin fucking village off in the middle of nowhere.

I need to move to a real place.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s