Midwinter, pt. 2

A delightful surprise: today an Ecuadorian came in for tutoring. I helped him with his grammar and then we talked about the Homeland. It turns out, we both cheer for Barcelona Sporting Club, and his family lives in my parents’ neighborhood in Guayaquil.

“Do you like South Bend?” I asked him.

“I do,” he said. “I go everywhere on foot. Compared to Guayaquil, this place feels very safe.”

In South Bend he’s found two other people who’ve lived in Ecuador: another IUSB student (I met her, too, last semester) and, of course, the Pedro.

But the winter displeases him.

It displeases me less and less. As I walked home along the East Bank Trail, the frozen river looked lovely; the trail itself had recently been cleared of snow. And yet I noticed just one other pedestrian. I had the city to myself.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

My Kenyan friend brought food four times last week. Four times! Some of her dishes are elaborate, some are not. One day, she’ll bring over a complicated chicken dinner; another day, a tuna sandwich. I don’t know how to react. Kenny charmed her in Swahili pretty well, but I think he’s out of phrases.

The bleak midwinter

It’s Martin Luther King Junior Day. No school.

Temperature: 12 °F.

Wind speed: approx. 20 m.p.h.

Wind chill: 5 °F.

Snowy.

I go running.

Clothing: 3 shirt layers; 3 pant layers; shoes; spikes (thanks, Cristian); stockings; a stocking cap; 2 pairs of gloves.

Attempted distance: 7 miles.

Completed distance: 5.95 miles.

I knock off early because my hands are more numb than they’ve ever been. After I return to my building, I must wait several minutes until I can grasp the key firmly enough to unlock the door.

When feeling returns, the pain in my hand is so severe, I nearly faint. I collapse onto my couch; my head swims. Hours later, my nose still stings.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Hours and hours and hours later, indoors, it’s beautifully cozy — you see, we’ve been turning on the heat. (We kept it off until last week. I was always under a blanket.) I glance up from my computer: outside, snow is swirling in all directions. Kenny emerges from his room, dressed from head to foot. He’ll try his luck running on the trail. … Some short minutes later, he returns. He brushes the snow off his cap; I feel cozier.

These days, Kenny and I watch a lot of Peep Show. Flatmates watching flatmates. Males watching other males who can’t help but compete against one another. Which of us is Jez, and which is Mark? Alas, I’m Mark (the anxious one). Or is Kenny Mark? (Kenny is definitely more of a capitalist.) But why must one of us be Mark? Or Jez for that matter? Why must we be either of those twerps? Why couldn’t we both be Super Hans? Super Hans is the cool one. Kenny and I are both cool, aren’t we? I’m definitely Super Hans, without the drugs.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The 49ers and Ravens will play each other in the Super Bowl. Coach Harbaugh vs. Coach Harbaugh: brother vs. brother. Goodness that’s rough.

Gratitude

At Bethel in 2002 I tutored a woman from Kenya; I helped her to pass her Spanish class. We keep in touch. Every few years, she takes me out for coffee.

Last week, she took me out for lunch along with Andrew, her grown son. When I explained how I’d moved back to South Bend, she offered to cook for me every week. I laughed. She could cook for me two or three times in a year, I told her.

Well, I seem to have lost that argument.

A Facebook message:

I want you to know that you are my son according to our culture. So please do not let me miss my rewards for being a servant. … Remember I said when I cook I shall cook for three. … I shall cook again this Saturday. Andrew would like to know the best time to bring the food and the drink. I wait to hear from you soon.

Another:

Son, depending on when I shall be done cooking Andrew will drop the food and the drink but we shall call. … You will need to keep the drink in the fridge and drink through the week as you write, study or make it a breakfast meal. It is my hope you shall like the drink.

Tonight they brought over the food and the drink. And I do like the drink.

Lame

Foot pain has been preventing me from running. I’ve ordered a new pair of shoes: until they arrive, I’ll sit back and rest. Which is to say, I won’t get any rest, because all the while I’ll feel antsy.

Because of the foot pain, whenever I go on errands I walk with a ridiculous limp.

On Sunday I was jaywalking with Stephen. “Let’s cross here,” he said. “All right,” I said. And when we were halfway across the road, a car loomed up and I had to limp with double speed.

Yesterday I rode the bus to Walmart and then limped over to Great Clips for a haircut. The stylist had plenty of piercings and tattoos, and her manner was aggressive. I felt obliged to pretend to be a badass.

“Cut it very short,” I said.

“You do realize,” she said, “when it grows out, it’ll stick up in the back.”

“Honestly I don’t even care,” I said.

“You don’t like to get your hair cut, do you,” she said.

“No, I don’t,” I said.

“When was the last time — eight months ago?” she said.

“Five and a half,” I said. Bam.

Admiringly she said: “Your hair grows really fast. You’re really healthy.” I said: “You mean, like, I don’t have cancer.”

She was amused by that.

When it was done she said I looked like a different person. I asked whether that was a good or a bad thing. “Well, I enjoy the shock value,” she said. “I will, too,” I said.

“See you in six months,” she said. “If I come back at all,” I said. Bam.

I have no idea how to do nice, normal smalltalk.

Kenny asked which stylist it was. He knew her. I told him about the conversation. He said I should ask her for a date. Kenny is always telling me to ask people for a date. But I don’t want to go on a date.

Kenny’s mom told me I need to drive a car: if I won’t drive a car, I won’t get a wife. You make a good point, I said. Kenny’s mom told me she’d pray for me to get a wife. I told her I’d appreciate that prayer. I’d appreciate any prayer on my behalf, including that one.