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Feb. 24th, 2006 11:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jfbOn a whim and a dare, you go to Uzbekistan for dinner.
When you arrive, a stout man with a salt-and-pepper mustache is speaking into a microphone. You can't understand the words, but everyone else seems appreciative. They all have an Eastern Bloc look about them. You may be the only foreigner in the room.
Two of the walls are mostly windows. The curtains are open, but the shades are down, so you get only a hazy view of the outside world. Another wall is a mural of people eating, people making music, people enjoying the hospitality of their hosts.
The man with the mustache begins playing what must be Uzbeki folk songs on a badly amplified violin, with prerecorded and heavily synthesized background music. The wall behind him is covered with robes and rugs, swords and scimitars. The ceiling is slightly domed, painted a partly cloudy sky, with a mirrorball hanging from the center. When you go to wash your hands, the decor is cheap art prints, taped to the wall.
In time, the man with the violin is replaced by a thin, reserved man whose grey hair has begun to disappear. He sings another song from another country, and then adult contemporary hits by Sting and Lionel Ritchie. He's singing in English now, but you aren't certain at first because his accent makes everything sound exotic. His voice, though drenched in karaoke reverb, is a beautiful lonely tenor. He leans back and sways slightly when he's not singing. "Hello," he asks, "is it me you're looking for?"
As you leave Uzbekistan, the thin man is singing a folk song again, and couples are starting to dance. Nothing will ever be like this again, you think, and you open the door.
When you arrive, a stout man with a salt-and-pepper mustache is speaking into a microphone. You can't understand the words, but everyone else seems appreciative. They all have an Eastern Bloc look about them. You may be the only foreigner in the room.
Two of the walls are mostly windows. The curtains are open, but the shades are down, so you get only a hazy view of the outside world. Another wall is a mural of people eating, people making music, people enjoying the hospitality of their hosts.
The man with the mustache begins playing what must be Uzbeki folk songs on a badly amplified violin, with prerecorded and heavily synthesized background music. The wall behind him is covered with robes and rugs, swords and scimitars. The ceiling is slightly domed, painted a partly cloudy sky, with a mirrorball hanging from the center. When you go to wash your hands, the decor is cheap art prints, taped to the wall.
In time, the man with the violin is replaced by a thin, reserved man whose grey hair has begun to disappear. He sings another song from another country, and then adult contemporary hits by Sting and Lionel Ritchie. He's singing in English now, but you aren't certain at first because his accent makes everything sound exotic. His voice, though drenched in karaoke reverb, is a beautiful lonely tenor. He leans back and sways slightly when he's not singing. "Hello," he asks, "is it me you're looking for?"
As you leave Uzbekistan, the thin man is singing a folk song again, and couples are starting to dance. Nothing will ever be like this again, you think, and you open the door.
