Internet service provider

I realized today that our ISP is not a company but a man whose name I can’t pronounce. It begins with a “D” and has a “kh” sound (like the Scottish “loch,” as pronounciation guides are wont to describe it, but that’s not actually the sound. It’s deeper, almost like trying to cough up a popcorn kernel casing stuck on the hangy thing standing guard over your throat, or even like Larry David trying to wrestle a pube off of that same anatomical sentry.)

Samer, our landlord, told us we could choose between a 64 kilobite-per-second connection for $45 per month or a 140 kb/s connection for $53. Our ISP tried to charge $60.

“Uh, Samer said it would be $53,” I said. He paused. Thought for a few seconds.

“OK, I can do that.” Damn straight.

This exchange, however, did not take place easily. He was supposed to come the day we moved in. He said he did. Martin and I were home when he claims to have come by. Apparently he stood outside our door trying to establish a psychic connection to announce his presence, failed and left.

The next day Samer came by to address the lack of a desk (which will be resolved next weekend) and the useless refrigerator (we were asked to wait a few days to see if the problem fixed itself, which it did not). He called ISP (from my phone because he was out of minutes but at least I have his number now) and it was agreed he’d come within half an hour.

He arrived around 2 ½ hours later. I’d given up hope.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Yesterday, I came. Today, I didn’t.”

In an effort to prevent the rampant theft of wire-based services in Lebanon, each computer using a line has to have its IP address registered (or something).

(Our Internet wire goes out our wall, and bounces from building to building to somewhere in the distance. The same is true for cable TV and electricity. People have a tendency to splice into these wires.)

My computer, ISP told me, was too old. He needed to do something special that he couldn’t do right there. (My vagueness is not to question the credibility of what he was saying but a function of my complete ignorance on this subject.)

When did I want him to come back tomorrow? “Whatever time works best for you.”

“No, no, tell me, and I will be here.”

“Ok, how about 9?” He stared without responding. “10?” Still staring. “11?” Nothing. “Whatever works for you.” He continued to politely insist I set the time. “No, no, when do you want me here?”

“11?” Silence. “12?” I started to laugh, and he asked if I woke up early. “I’ve been waking up at 7 a.m. since I got here for some reason, so whenever you’d like to come.”

“I can’t wake up before 11,” he confided. At last we’re getting somewhere. “Ok, 12?” Nothing. “1, how does 1 work?”

“OK, I’ll be here at 1.”

At 1:15 the next day, he arrived and fixed my computer.