Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Sunday Hangovers
In Tashkent, there is nothing to on a Sunday. Everything is closed but the bazaars. People do their marketing for the week. They stay home with their families and watch boring TV. The wealthy go to the pools in the summer, or eat brunch at one of the five-star international hotels. Usually, I sleep off my hangover from the night before.
This week, though, like the good church-going folk of the world, I forced myself up at 9AM and put on my slacks and a clean, starched shirt. I decided that this would be my little adventure and no heavy face, no throbbing brain, no red eye would stop me from seeing daylight on a Sunday in Tashkent, seeing the church, and finding the mysterious writer of emails to me the week before.
I really had no sense of when mass began, and I was late – when I arrived at the church, all the cars, most of which had diplomatic or foreign license plates were parked in the quiet lot out front. I tried to enter inconspicuously into the church, stepping softly on the floors which echoed my every step in the dark, cool, cave-like cathedral. The congregation was not large – perhaps 70 people in total. After all, there were probably not many Catholics in Tashkent to minister to -- this is a Muslim country. In the back row pew, I saw Jean-Michel, an avuncular French expatriate I knew from work, with his wife and five young children. He smiled as I walked in, with a slight look of astonishment, making room for me to sit beside him.
“What are you doing here,” he whispered mockingly. “Trying to save your soul?”
I smiled at Jean-Michel’s sardonic wit. Ah, if he only knew. He suspected the irony of my appearance in the church.
“I didn’t realize you were a Catholic.”
“I’m not,” I explained. “I was just curious. I was in the neighborhood, just passing by.”
“From where,” he asked archly. “A bar?”
The priest spoke in a language I could not follow. “What language is this?” I whispered to Jean-Michel.
“Polish,” Jean Michel handed me a hymnal from one of his children. Feeling a bit like an impostor, I tried to follow along, not knowing the melody, mouthing out the words, trying to look as though I knew what I was doing. I took in the music, the singing, the organ, the solemnity, the morbid, naked figure, the body of Jesus in pain, his kind eyes looking down upon us. I surveyed the singing congregants: some familiar clean-cut and fresh American faces from the business and diplomatic community, their golden families, a scrubbed clean young Uzbek couple, old wretched babushkas. Looking around, no one seemed to meet my gaze, or notice me, or look back at me with that look of recognition I expected to find here. I sought the author of those messages, but I did not find him.
The service ended and observing the others, I followed suit, saying peace be with you to Jean Michel on the left and to the person in front of me and to the person on the right in the pew across the aisle. Some churchgoers were chatting in their pews after the service ended, but slowly, people piled out.
Jean-Michel asked why I came. I repeated that I was curious. That even though I am Jewish, I like churches, I always have. Jean-Michel proceded to tell me the history of the church, which I already knew. I would look at him as he talked, occasionally looking behind him at the people walking out, had I overlooked someone?
But soon, there was no one left in the church but the clergy, standing by the pulpit and I walked out with Jean-Michel who got into his jeep with his wife and children and drove off. For a moment, I stood outside the church alone, in an empty parking lot, I looked around and saw that no one was waiting for me. I headed to the street, feeling my hangover headache grow, ready to spend the rest of the day, like my usual Sunday, nursing it in bed. ¶ 10:40 PM
In Tashkent, there is nothing to on a Sunday. Everything is closed but the bazaars. People do their marketing for the week. They stay home with their families and watch boring TV. The wealthy go to the pools in the summer, or eat brunch at one of the five-star international hotels. Usually, I sleep off my hangover from the night before.
This week, though, like the good church-going folk of the world, I forced myself up at 9AM and put on my slacks and a clean, starched shirt. I decided that this would be my little adventure and no heavy face, no throbbing brain, no red eye would stop me from seeing daylight on a Sunday in Tashkent, seeing the church, and finding the mysterious writer of emails to me the week before.
I really had no sense of when mass began, and I was late – when I arrived at the church, all the cars, most of which had diplomatic or foreign license plates were parked in the quiet lot out front. I tried to enter inconspicuously into the church, stepping softly on the floors which echoed my every step in the dark, cool, cave-like cathedral. The congregation was not large – perhaps 70 people in total. After all, there were probably not many Catholics in Tashkent to minister to -- this is a Muslim country. In the back row pew, I saw Jean-Michel, an avuncular French expatriate I knew from work, with his wife and five young children. He smiled as I walked in, with a slight look of astonishment, making room for me to sit beside him.
“What are you doing here,” he whispered mockingly. “Trying to save your soul?”
I smiled at Jean-Michel’s sardonic wit. Ah, if he only knew. He suspected the irony of my appearance in the church.
“I didn’t realize you were a Catholic.”
“I’m not,” I explained. “I was just curious. I was in the neighborhood, just passing by.”
“From where,” he asked archly. “A bar?”
The priest spoke in a language I could not follow. “What language is this?” I whispered to Jean-Michel.
“Polish,” Jean Michel handed me a hymnal from one of his children. Feeling a bit like an impostor, I tried to follow along, not knowing the melody, mouthing out the words, trying to look as though I knew what I was doing. I took in the music, the singing, the organ, the solemnity, the morbid, naked figure, the body of Jesus in pain, his kind eyes looking down upon us. I surveyed the singing congregants: some familiar clean-cut and fresh American faces from the business and diplomatic community, their golden families, a scrubbed clean young Uzbek couple, old wretched babushkas. Looking around, no one seemed to meet my gaze, or notice me, or look back at me with that look of recognition I expected to find here. I sought the author of those messages, but I did not find him.
The service ended and observing the others, I followed suit, saying peace be with you to Jean Michel on the left and to the person in front of me and to the person on the right in the pew across the aisle. Some churchgoers were chatting in their pews after the service ended, but slowly, people piled out.
Jean-Michel asked why I came. I repeated that I was curious. That even though I am Jewish, I like churches, I always have. Jean-Michel proceded to tell me the history of the church, which I already knew. I would look at him as he talked, occasionally looking behind him at the people walking out, had I overlooked someone?
But soon, there was no one left in the church but the clergy, standing by the pulpit and I walked out with Jean-Michel who got into his jeep with his wife and children and drove off. For a moment, I stood outside the church alone, in an empty parking lot, I looked around and saw that no one was waiting for me. I headed to the street, feeling my hangover headache grow, ready to spend the rest of the day, like my usual Sunday, nursing it in bed. ¶ 10:40 PM
