Akaila in Charlotte

My dad isn't a very sentimental person, or at least not admittedly so. When I was young, on the rare occasions that we would go to Pakistan, we as in my mom, sisters and myself, would go first and then dad would join us later when he had time off work. Usually when this happened, he'd write us a letter or during a phone call he'd express his loneliness in a rather avuncular way, saying Abba akiala Jedday may, which means Dad alone in Jeddah. And today, I feel that way in Charlotte.

It's not often I've been lonely on this trip. I've been seeing a lot of old friends and meeting random people. But every so often, in a crummy motel room, like now, or even in a gallery at a museum I feel like it would be nice to have someone else around that I already know. I feel a bit stuck in Charlotte and a little bit plagued by bad luck as regards places to stay. Hoping that my Baltimore connection pans out because I'd like to see DC on this trip. Of course, partly this is the way I planned things, just dropping in on people and then playing it by ear. It is more fun and organic that way. I shouldn't complain. And there's always the bartender.

Sreeja

Sreeja and I had a good time catching up. It has been a long time since that first day of college as she sat nearby Rehan and I listening in on our conversation in a class where the teacher failed to show. We didn't become friends instantly but later on we did, and rather good ones at that. We both ended up at Oklahoma State together too, although we didn't see each other that often. I've always somehow felt a real kinship with her. I do wish she was better at keeping in touch but oh well, I've tailed off in that regard in the past too.

I looked up this quiet little neighbourhood bar called Alexander Michael's (Al Mike's familiarly). It is a Monday night, and that after Easter, so it's pretty quiet but there are some regulars here. I'm still in the South but it's getting more cosmopolitan. It doesn't seem like Charlotte is a very happening place but they do have a free paper called Creative Loafing that has a liberal bent and isn't too bad. Sreeja doesn't like it here much but it's where work is for both her and her husband.

The two girls next to me are discussing the boyfriend of one of them. I think she's trying to get rid of him and that he's the jealous type. The bartender, Milt, comes over and offers some sage advice: Life's too short. I'm eating fried pickles. Something I believe one is supposed to do around these parts.

The bar closes a bit early, 10 pm, and I chat with Milt about the economy, considering Charlotte is the second largest financial center in the US after New York. Then it's back to the motel. The Days Inn isn't too far from downtown and is cheap. It's run by a Pakistani family. Odd to walk in to see one of the TV shows my mom used to watch. I have a hard time knowing what to say when confronted with my compatriots sometimes, and I'm always unsure which language I should use or how friendly I should be. They weren't very friendly to me so I just asked them where they were from and they didn't volunteer much more than just Pakistan. I told them I was born in Lahore. Maybe they don't like Punjabis. It would be ironic if the only prejudice I came across in the south was from my own kind.


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