Blind Travel

I did, in fact, hear from Omar.  He called the other day and confirmed that, yes, he was looking for an assistant, and that he would explain the ins and outs and the what-have-yous of the job once we met in person.  He also found it necessary to mention that he was a “hard-nosed, no-nonsense entrepreneur” and that he only did business face-to-face, that it was a travesty how much of it these days was done over the phone and on the computer, that—could you believe it—people were actually “working from home” nowadays.  Desperate to avoid a telephonic debate concerning the pros and cons of remote work with this dinosaur who made a living pestering passersby and slinging shitty jewelry and Hello Kitty phone cases, I asked when and where I should meet him, to which he responded tomorrow at noon at the Barnes & Noble in the shopping center across the street from the mall. 

So, I went there the next day, as instructed.  An interesting spot to spend your lunch break, I’d thought, but perhaps this Omar was a rather learned fellow, a busy businessman eager to utilize his limited free time expanding his mind with books rather than his stomach with Panda Express and Auntie Anne’s Pretzels.  I could appreciate that in a boss, especially after having so recently been surrounded by the imbeciles at Little Caesars.  This hope was only strengthened when I found him tucked away in the foreign language aisle with an Italian for Dummies in his hand.  Sure, I’d been expecting to meet him somewhere more conspicuous, but it wasn’t difficult tracking down the only short, bearded brown guy in the store.  It also helped that the harsh, overhead lighting reflected off his bald head and the gold chains around his neck like the Bat-Signal—plus, he was talking to someone in quick, thunderous bursts through an obnoxiously large Bluetooth earpiece.  He saw me, and I noticed him press the device to (presumably) hang up on whoever was on the other end, but if you’ve ever ridden in a cab, then you know that you can never be sure.  Well, after some brief hellos and handshakes, Omar got right down to it, strictly business: he wasn’t looking for a full-time hire, just a temporary assistant.  He was going away for a bit—just a little trip, he’d said, about a week or so, and he needed someone to run the kiosk in the meantime.  Putting two and two together, I said, yeah, sure, I’ve heard Italy is beautiful, you’ll have a wonderful time—Bellissima!—and I wished him a wonderful vacation. 

“No, no vacation,” he said.  “It’s my sister.” 

Turned out, Omar’s sister, Nadia, was blind—like totally blind—and it was Nadia who wanted to see (or travel to?) Italy.  Yes, the obvious question you’re now asking, I asked it, as earnestly as I could, but, nevertheless, Omar was offended and went on the offensive.  He launched into a philosophical and physiological diatribe on the human senses—like, just because my dear Nadia can’t see, you also assume that she can’t hear the calls of the lion-tailed macaques on the forest beaches of southwestern India? or that she can’t taste the creamy deliciousness of moussaka while dining on the patio of a whitewashed and cliffside villa of Santorini? or that she can’t run her fingers along and feel the coarseness of the lime mortar holding together the stones of the Great Wall of China? or that she can’t smell the toasted barley as it wafts over from St. James’s Gate and blends with the funk of Dublin’s River Liffey?

Wow, I said, adopting a placatory tone, your Nadia sure is a well-traveled woman.  I couldn’t believe she’d been to all of these places, and I sincerely admired Omar for his commitment to his sister. 

“Ah, well,” he said, backing down a bit.  “Here’s the thing: she hasn’t actually ever been to any of these places.”

Again, I asked the obvious question, and Omar told me that it had started out as an honest venture.  Simple, yet real, acts of sibling love: a trip down to Florida’s gulf coast so she could feel the sand between her toes; a drive over to St. Louis so she could stand in the shadow of the Gateway Arch—Omar planned and accompanied Nadia on these sensory escapes. 

“But then Nadia wanted to see ‘the world.’”  Omar said this last part with finger quotes.  A trip to Hong Kong was really just a week-long stay at a Chinatown hostel down the road (“Omar, this is amazing, but I do hear plenty of English speakers?” “Yes, Nadia, my dear, unfortunately it seems we’re here at the peak of tourist season.”); the Australian outback five days of bad, fake accents and pretending that the neighbor’s dog was a kangaroo (“How wonderful, Omar, this kangaroo is so sweet and slobbery.” “Of course, my sweet sister.  As they say, kangaroos are known for their gentleness.”); the geothermal pools of Iceland a pricey few days at a secluded and private spa on the outskirts of town (“These waters are doing wonders for me, Omar, though I never would’ve thought they’d smell of chlorine and lavender?” “Yes, yes.  After all, my dear sister, sulfur and chlorine are neighbors on the periodic table.”).  Omar threw the instructional book down onto the ground.  “I just wish she would stick to the continental United States,” he said.  “I can’t keep going on like this.” 

This was all becoming very interesting.  I had several questions, so I asked him how he handled the “traveling” to these foreign destinations?  That, he said, requires a large van with a loud engine, irresponsibly fast driving, and plenty of Benadryl.  He must’ve sensed my skepticism, because he found it appropriate to add that, while the whole business can be stressful, you do have a handful of liberties—like, think about it, he said, she has no idea what an airplane is.  Alright, but still…

Anyways, I told him that I took it he was not going to Italy?  No, no he was not.  The plan this time was to learn enough of the elementary basics—Ciao!  Buongiorno!  Arrivederci!  Grazie!—just enough to set the tone, enough so that Nadia would suppose that, being in Italy, her brother simply couldn’t help but consume and pick up some of the wonderful culture and language himself.  Omar also planned to hire someone who actually spoke Italian to serve as their guide, their cab driver, their hotelier, their waiter, Random Man on the Street #1 and #2, etc. etc., and he’d already made reservations at Olive Garden for each night, with the special request that they be seated in the restaurant’s quietest booth.  The real Italian experience, he said.  Sure, I thought, what’s more Italian than unlimited bread sticks?  But I sensed he was quite proud of the latest plan he’d devised, so I asked him, with all of this planning, wouldn’t it be just as easy to, I don’t know, go to Italy, like for real?  

“I’m not made of money, Mr. McDowell,” he responded, and, before I could correct him, he continued: “Plus, I’m deathly afraid of flying.”

Fair enough, I said.  He then told me I was a good fit and asked if I wanted the gig—the temporary gig, he made sure to add.  To be honest, I’d completely forgotten why I was talking to this oddball in the first place, forgotten that I’d met him for a job interview, so to speak.  I figured what the hell and said sure, which pleased him immensely.  He told me that Meelod would be there at 9 a.m. sharp to get me situated.  Before I could ask for clarification on who the hell was Meelod, or what the hell was a Meelod, Omar had picked up where he’d left off, tapping to life his Bluetooth earpiece and roaring at an invisible person in the foreign language aisle of Barnes & Noble.