Let's Do Lunch

It has been too long since I have had lunch with my coworkers, so, after six hours of straight teaching, I agree to join an expedition.

I am hungry. To emphasize this in the most Javanese way possible, I stand really close to one of the women we are waiting on. Really close. And watch her. I do not speak. She looks up and says, “Alright, I’m coming.”

We must wait for one teacher to finish praying. Sadly, she is not menstruating. When menstruating, she excitedly announces upon occasion that she does not have to pray. I love her for it. Her pride at being a woman. Her English. All of it. I am still hungry.

I settle onto a bench and pull up an article by I Fucking Love Science about drug addiction. It is a fascinating read, and I am engrossed to the point that I momentarily forget my hunger.

Here is the article, if you’re curious: http://www.iflscience.com/health-and-medicine/many-people-use-drugs-here-s-why-most-don-t-become-addicts

One of the vice principals sits next to me. Ibu Tuti is a true gem, but she is conservative. During my first week, we had a botched conversation about the inappropriateness of me lifting my skirt above my ankles to fan myself in the Indonesian heat.

As is usual in Indonesia, she looks over my shoulder onto my screen. There is a large picture of what is presumably meant to be cocaine alongside a hand holding the tools to snort the line of said powder. She looks down, then back up at me and smiles. I quickly switch tabs and return the smile. At least there were no ankles showing, right?

We drive what I would estimate to be about ½ mile to lunch—entirely walkable by my standards, but it is more than the Indonesian walking tolerance of 50 feet. (At the beginning of the year, I was asked to please wait for someone to drive me to my dance class each week. My dance class is right behind my school. For Ohio University readers, imagine driving from Morton to Shively. For Sandusky readers, imagine driving from the grocery end of Target to the swimsuit end.)

We arrive at the pecel restaurant. My colleagues order for me, and as a result, my food is not spicy. I eat without crying. My nose does not become stuffy, and I do not have to excuse myself periodically to do some deep breathing. The crazy part, though, is that I miss it. I do not like my pecel without pain.

I have become a masochist. To quote Ashlee Simpson, “I like it better when it hurts.” Based on life experiences, I have to assume she was talking about eating pecel.

And, lunch continues.