It’s my first class on the university’s evening course. Apart from the fact that I’ve had to buy my own marker pens, I’m impressed by the modern buildings and, more importantly, with my hourly wage compared to what I get at Berlitz. While the students are coming in, I greet them and shake hands. Everyone smiles broadly and I try to remember as many names as possible: Özlem, Zsofia, Agi, Sunita, Fuat, Ahmed and so on.
‘Julia,’ I say, putting out my hand to the slightly older couple who’ve just come in. They are both quite short and the woman is wearing a veil.
Shyly, the woman mumbles something that sounds like ‘Bahar’, and shakes my hand quickly and weakly.
When I turn to the man he smiles and says: ‘Rahim.’
I continue to hold my hand out and think Rahim might not have seen it.
‘I’m a Muslim,’ Rahim explains in German.
I still don’t get it, and a few strange seconds follow, before Rahim suddenly takes out his mobile phone and I shake hands with that instead, while he holds the other end. Because I’d shaken hands with two Turkish guys a moment before, I’d completely forgotten that some Muslims don’t shake hands with members of the opposite sex or with non-Muslims. Both Rahim and I are now obviously embarrassed, but luckily, some more students come into the room, so I can turn all my attention to them.
‘My – name – is – Julia,’ I say as clearly as I can, once all the students are gathered and ticked off in the register. ‘What – is – your – name?’
Twenty-one faces look at me with broad smiles and wide eyes. The group is Level One, which means they are all beginners without previous knowledge of the subject. Their backs are straight and their body language is still full of pure enthusiasm, which I know will start declining around the third week. I walk up to the first student, a young Slovenian woman with a fringe.
‘My name is Julia. What is your name?’ I ask.
‘My name is Agi,’ she says.
I point at myself to indicate that she should ask me the same question.
‘What is your name?’ Agi asks me.
‘My name is Julia,’ I say, turning to the next student. ‘What is your name?’
Slowly, we make our way around the room, and everyone gets to say their name. Over the following two and a half hours, we go through the English alphabet, the days of the week, how old the students are, and which countries they are from. My hand starts to ache from writing on the board so much, and my feet from all the standing. At nine o’clock, the lesson is finished and everyone leaves. Most of them look visibly tired, but everyone smiles and says a friendly goodbye.
When I’ve turned the lights out and am on the way to the tram, I ring Rebecca to tell her I’ve just shaken hands with a mobile phone for the first time. But she doesn’t answer, and as I’m sitting on the half-empty tram I start to feel horribly sad that I don’t have a single person to share my story with.