A bitter pill.

Pauline, our recently terminated nanny, finally showed up yesterday to drop off her security badge and the keys to her quarters. Most compounds and wealthy households include rooms for the employees of the household, such as the driver, nanny or steward. These quarters are nicknamed "the BQ," short for "boys' quarters," an anachronistic term held over from colonial days (I guess) when all servants were "boys". Our driver Ade stays in one of the two rooms assigned to our flat (although he does not live there full-time; he and his family have land and a home where he spends his nights off). Pauline held the other room.

I am ashamed to say that I have never seen the quarters. I'm one-part afraid that I will be invading the privacy of the people who live there, and one-part afraid of what I will see. How bad is it? I imagine a little cell with a cot, hanging rod for clothes and some shelves for personal belongings and cooking items, plus a small bathroom. Are the showers private or shared? I know most are not air conditioned although Pauline did ask for, and receive, an a/c unit for her quarters early on (another of her many requests). I know there is a mahogany bed frame because I have seen the receipt for it. And that is about all I know. 

I guess the quarters aren't all bad because it did take Pauline almost two weeks to vacate her room. She called me every few days to extend the deadline, which I allowed since she explained her home had flooded a few weeks ago during a particularly heavy, all-day downpour. In the meantime, our household settled into a nice, comfortable routine. It was the right decision to let Pauline go, and I was convinced that the experience had given me a much-needed toughening-up. When she called to tell me she was on her way yesterday, I was certain I was finally immune to any and all feelings of guilt or awkwardness. 

I was wrong. 

There is just something about this lady ... She is obstinate and mule-headed one moment, and in the next, all appeasement and martyrdom "Madame, I do not know why you treat me this way! I am just a poor, sweet old woman. Woe is me!" (I paraphrase.) 

At any rate, when she arrived, I asked our steward Victor to go down to her quarters with her to make sure everything was in good order (A/c unit? Check. Bed frame? Check.) Thirty minutes later (Victor explained this morning that she was telling her sad, woe-is-me story to anyone who would listen), Pauline and Victor return to the flat, where I greet her cordially and ask for her security badge and the keys to her quarters. She rummaged around in her purse as if she couldn't find her badge. Hemming and hawing. She finally dug out her badge.

Me: "Ok, now I need your keys."

Pauline: "Madame, (mumble, mumble) money?"

Right. Money, I get. We did promise her one month's salary once she returned the badge and keys. 

So I hand over the wad of bills. And she counts each one. As if I was going to short-change her.  

Now she starts to spill out some story about master owing her a half-month's salary. 

Me: "Um, ok. Let me call Michael."

I called him at a bad time. He was dealing with a crisis at work and the best he could manage was, "I don't remember." So I tell Pauline I will check my purse and see what I can do. I pull out a stack of bills and put it in her hands. 

Me: "Here's what I have. Now this is settled. Give me the keys."

Pauline: "Ok, madame, I have them right here."

Me: "Then give. them. to. me."

At last she hands them over, along with our back door key and fire escape key. (Uh-huh. She knows damn good and well she should have returned those the day I let her go and asked her for the keys to our flat. Not having hired her, I had no idea she had these. Stupid, stupid, stupid.)

Seriously, I could not shut the door behind her fast enough. I was ticked. Mad at myself for getting ruffled. Mad at Michael for not being clear about what was or was not owed. Mad at Victor because he was there, bless him. Mad at the boys, because all the while I am trying to get rid of their nanny, they are in the family room acting like children who are very much in need of a nanny. 

I know this intellectually, but I am also learning this internally, emotionally, intrinsically:

"Living in a foreign culture is like playing a game you've never played before and for which the rules haven't been explained well." —L. Robert Kohls, author, "Survival Kit for Overseas Living" (1979).

Dealing with Pauline was difficult because there are a lot of cultural cues and context that I don't get. I don't know the rules. I prefer a direct approach; she hems and haws. I say what I mean; she beats around the bush, dropping hints that I am too obtuse to pick up on. Before long, we both end up frustrated. 

So, yes, there is a lot about Pauline that I just don't get due to differences in culture and communication styles. At the same time, you can't chalk it all up to culture. I mean, let's face it. She's kind of a pill ... in any culture. And I am glad she's gone. That's right. I'm glad. 

See? I am getting tougher.