Go Ask Alice

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here? That depends a good deal on where you want to get to. Said the Cat.”

It has always amused me mightily that people are, forever and a day, stopping me on the street to ask for directions — even way back during my hearing days. I’ve been stopped by tourists, fellow tourists mind you, in Galway, Prague, Berlin and Rome, in addition to here at home in Boston. I must emit some sort of a vibe, a she-knows-the-right-way beacon, a tractor beam for the map challenged.

I really thought this would change when I lost my hearing. How could I help? The language barrier would be all barrier-sh. Right?

The other night's funny happened when I pulled into a parking spot in Kendall Square in Cambridge. A place where parking spots are as rare as ocelots in Maine (or Cambridge for that matter). As I was rifling my wallet for quarters I noticed a man standing by the parking meters — he looked at me and I quickly went back to purse excavation. He didn’t appear to be a predator but I’ve been wrong before — more than once.

He appeared to be waiting. Waiting for a friend? Waiting for a fast train? Waiting to rob me blind? Waiting to witness to me of his faith in Rush (the band, not the fat man), the little baby Zeus (wait, I might have meant Jesus or maybe Kali — I get them all confused) and Gold Bond Foot Powder?  Couldn't know until I took the next step, could I?

So, I got out of my car, Horace the Silver Beetle, and plunked my two bit pieces into the meter. Out of the corner of my eye it looked like he was speaking to me (remember, deaf here — had to see him speak in order to ‘hear’ him). I used my handy dandy first line of defense — always employed when I’m feeling nervous, insecure or anti-social — ‘sorry, I’m deaf. I don’t know what you’re saying.’ Hey, convenient but true!

The poor guy responded by looking even more lost than before and NOW he even had a forlorn thing going on. It occurred to me, only then, that my poor lost amico wasn’t from around these parts. Like not even from this continent. So I asked, ‘are ya lost — s’up? Speak slowly and maybe I can lipread you.’ Yeah, I’m a real helpful soul like that.

Turns out he couldn’t sort out the parking meter. Which coin should he put in and how many for what period of time and all. His heavily accented English was so strong that I could see it even as I lipread him but funnily enough, hilariously even, I COULD lipread him!

So there I am, deaf old me, a cold night on a dark Cambridge street corner, chatting with a man who barely spoke English and needed a bit of assistance. AND we understood each other!

God, I love my life!