An Eastern European Dinner

Here's the thing about eastern European women - when they ask you to dinner, it isn't so much request or invitation or suggestion. No, the question itself is entirely rhetorical. You are coming to eat. Not only that, there will be no less than three dishes (plus vegetables) to choose from, on top of dessert.

And so it was that after dropping off my friend from the airport, I found myself making small talk and eating a curious chicken stew with her and her parents.

On the way up the walk after (politely) failing to decline her mother's invitations, I quietly checked with my friend that it wouldn't be weird if I stayed. She replied that of course it wouldn't be - it'll be nice and will help make things feel like normal.

You see, her father is dying.

My friend flew into town to stay with her family for a month, following the news that her dad's experimental chemo treatment in Florida had failed and his cancer is inoperable.

The structure of this post so far is pretty spotty. But such was my headspace for the evening.



He didn't have any hair, and I couldn't shake his hand or make any physical contact. His eyes were bright with a sharp intelligence, but were ultimately betrayed by a gaze full of exhaustion. It's strange - I've never met the man before, but I couldn't help but feel that I was almost speaking with an imposter. You got the sense that something was out of place and the person you should be talking with is in the other room.

But we did talk. I was not even remotely expecting to stay for dinner. Had I known that I might have even met her family, I certainly would not have worn my communist party shirt. It's one thing to wear around friends and peers, but it's another for people that were governed by a Dear Leader. We ended up having a casual discussion about the horrible things Stalin did.

He had a thick accent that I was slow to understand sometimes. I always feel inadequate in those situations, as if I'm not trying hard enough to understand or I'm not good enough at listening. Here's a perfectly intelligent person (perhaps moreso than I am), speaking English, and I keep asking variations of, "I'm sorry?" and "Pardon?" Very frustrating.

We all ended up talking about Canadian politics, airport security, terrorism, and the eccentricities of AirBnB users.

In a way, it was a really beautiful moment. It was a really intimate look into a recently reunited family under incredible pressure.

Yeah, sure, maybe for them I was able to help the meal feel "normal". For me... I was on edge. This situation is not a small thing. Her father's illness is not a small thing. I want to get all philosophical about a person knowingly being near the premature end of their life, but it seems like a disservice to the people I shared a meal with. After being close to my friend through her father's sickness, what I think about things seems so futile and insignificant next to the pain and fear that these people are living.

What am I supposed to say? I'm a dude in his late 20's, working his first career job, with a stupid red sports car and a gaming computer. I know nothing that compares, and even all these jumbled words just seem... like a clumsy way to wrap my head around it.

I appreciated their hospitality and openness in a vulnerable time. I wish them all the best and hope that whatever peace that can be found in such a situation will be found.

Life sucks.
-Cril

If it ain't dead
Maybe in the here after
Instead of tears
I'll learn all about laughter
But meanwhile I'm stuck out here

It just ain't fair, but I know
I said I know
Oh yes, I know
There must be a better world somewhere
There's just gotta be
Gotta be a better world somewhere

Dr. John - There Must Be a Better World Somewhere