Back in the Desert!

In my previous experiences, after having the chance to go abroad, when I came home and the experience ended, it became a blip in my life; a memory that, although wonderful, was over.  I feel so blessed this time around to have the opportunity to return to Saudi Arabia.  It’s like a second chance to do the things that I didn’t do, see, or learn the first time around.  I left Saudi at the end of May for a summer vacation (my student chose not to take summer classes).  After stopping in The Netherlands for some exploring, I returned to the comforts of home, family, and friends.  My dad picked me up from the airport, and after two weeks of carrying a pack that weighed more than I did (I can never seem to get that pack just right), I was thrilled to throw it off, along with my abaya, and settle in.  

In 1602, an anonymous bard wrote, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder” as the opening sentence to a heartfelt poetical rhythm.   Being away makes you think about the people in your life; the ones you miss the most, the people you think about often, and the folks that take up space in your head.  It also has the effect of helping you step back and realize who you want in your life.  I hate to say it, but distance is often the decipherer between good friends and acquaintances, lovers and exes, and between what’s important and what’s not.

I spent the summer hanging out with my mom, getting to know my niece and nephews (because they change every day), visiting friends in Pennsylvania, Colorado, and Michigan, talking with my dad on the back porch, camping with my brother and his family, dodging a hurricane in North Carolina, and generally enjoying the people and places that I love.  I also enjoyed the outdoors while I had the chance.  One of the things I miss the most when I’m in Saudi is being able to go outside for a long hike or walk.  When I was contemplating accepting this position, I remember being so concerned with how I would react to not being able to spend as much time outside – the summer was my chance to catch-up, so that when I came back to Saudi, I was refreshed and ready.

I started work again at the end of August, although a detour was in the works.  After two weeks in Boston, two weeks in Manhattan, and one week in Paris, our plane set wheels on Saudi territory.  People kept asking me how it felt to go back; they wanted to know if I was nervous or cheerless about it.  This time around, it was such a different feeling.  There was no anxiety about what to expect.  No concerns about how I would react to the culture and environment.  I was allowed to simply be excited, because I already had a handle on things – and for this, I was so grateful.   It was fun to come back and already know where to go to get groceries and fresh bread.   To know when prayer time would shut down the stores, where the dry cleaners is, and how to get to the post office.  I got to say hello to the staff that I had already met and was no longer considered as the “new American girl”.

I have said this before, but the best lesson that I have learned from being here, from being in such a unique environment, is that it is remarkable to have the chance to learn that I can feel like a happy person regardless of situation (at least so far).    That being said, there are moments of sadness and homesickness, which are to be expected.  My first jolt of this hit me the weekend of October 22.  A wonderful friend was getting married in Pennsylvania, to the woman of his dreams.  Several of my beloved friends were gathered to celebrate this special occasion with the happy couple, and I had to miss it.  These are the moments that make you question your decisions.  These are the moments when you weigh the opportunity against the memories that you are missing out on.  It’s in these times that the people I mentioned earlier – the family and friends that you miss the most, are so important to reach out to.  

Although I tried last semester to make connections, the Saudi social scene is a hard one to break into; however before leaving in May, I went to an event for a newly arranged group for expats living in the area.   The week after returning to Riyadh, I purchased tickets to my first event.  Having not convinced any of the other three people from my compound to join me, I headed off to see what it had to offer.  The night was a breath of fresh air – at my table alone were people from Canada, England, the Caribbean, the Czech Republic, and the US.  After a night of engaging conversation, funny stories, and sheer light heartedness, I exchanged phone numbers and emails, and left with a renewed sense of excitement at the possibility of new friendships.

Recently, the king declared that Saudi women will have the right to vote in the next election; a victory in the eyes of most people around the world.  Although it is hard to understand, the decision was met with mixed attitudes here in its homeland.  It is important to note that the next election is not until 2015 and I am unclear as to whether or not women will need male approval for this right to vote, because in Saudi the guardianship laws are still in place.  The Arab spring has only touched Saudi with its fingertips.  This immensely religious culture has felt little effect (at least as far as I can see) from the new dawning that seems to be surrounding its borders.  Some have said that this was a way for King Abdullah to prevent an outcry from the women here who want more freedoms.  Others have argued that this was a sign of his progressive attitude and enlightened sensibility.  Even in a monarch society, there are different sides to every story.

Crown Prince Sultan, the next in line for the crown of Saudi Arabia, passed away on October 22 in New York City.  A beloved member of the society, he has been involved in Saudi politics since the ripe age of 16 – a career that blossomed throughout his lifetime.  Funerals in Saudi are very different from the type of setting that I am used to in the states.  My Lebanese neighbor shared with me that in her culture, people close to the person that passed wear black for a year and do not leave the house, as a sign of mourning and respect for their loved one.  In Saudi, major events that are relatively close to the death of a family member (i.e. weddings or celebrations) are postponed until a reasonable amount of time has passed.  As for the funeral, this cultures traditions reign supreme.  The men in the family are tasked with the job of cleansing the body and then wrapping it in soft white cloth from head to toe.   The body is then carried on the shoulders of sons and close ones to a place of mourning where it is splayed out and outlined with a perfumed treatment to prevent the smell from escaping.   The body is then touched, ever so slightly, by those present.  In American culture, the “spirit” (if you believe in that) is said to leave the body the minute that the heart stops beating.  In Islam, the spirit is said to remain until the physical body is buried; thus, cremation is not an option here.  Once the men have said their goodbyes, the women are afforded the opportunity to touch the deceased before he/she is taken to the grave site.  Men and women, kings and peasants, are all buried in the same fashion.  According to Muslim philosophy, this is because no one is different or greater than the other. This is a sign of equilibrium amongst Muslim people.  The body is then taken to a cemetery, where only the men are allowed to enter the terrain.  No tombstone or mark is placed above the grave – they can only be found by memory (or by a groundskeeper with a great memory or record).  The cloth wrapping the departed’s head is brought down to show the face, and the person is buried.  According to my student, the reason the cloth is taken off the face is to take away the barrier between that person and Allah (“peace be upon him”; apparently that is to follow whenever his name is mentioned).  In the last seven months, the Saudi king has lost his sister and now his brother.  

On a final note, I was recently stopped for the second time since being here by the religious police; the Mutawa. It’s amazing how they sneak up and catch you when you least expect them.  Aware that women here cover their heads, but excused from doing it most times because I am not Muslim, I have grown comfortable with leaving my Niqab (headscarf) at home.  Through fault of my own, I was not prepared when the men blocked in my car and told me to cover my head.  Thankfully, they did not stick around to see that I didn’t have it with me; lesson learned.  I slid into the car and we drove away.  The back windows in cars here are always blacked out, because women (who are required to sit in the back) are not to be seen.  I have a hard time with this because I love the fresh air of rolling down a window.  So as a compromise, I have figured out the exact combination between how far I can roll the window down and how far leaned back to sit, without getting noticed.  I’m always caught off guard when I see little boys sitting in the front seats, while their mothers and sisters climb effortlessly through the back door.  I never imagined myself to be a backseat sort of lady but I think here it comes with the territory.

--C. Sims

Istanbul, Turkey: March 2011

Istanbul: March 16 – March 21, 2011

While in Europe in 2005, I remember feeling slightly at odds with myself at times; most of me LOVING the experience of being abroad and part of me wishing that I had someone to share it with; a friend, partner, or companion.  I recall thinking that I was young and that this was my time to enjoy.  My good friend, Jen came to visit and travel with me twice while I was in Ireland.  Six years later, I absolutely cherish the fact that we share those memories together.  It’s easy to forget things when they only reside in one mind.  I suppose that’s part of the reason that I’m feeling the need to share this experience with those of you who will eventually read this.

March 17, 2011

This city is bustling with a multicultural vibe that I don’t think I have seen elsewhere.  Buckets and plates of fresh fish, baskets with every imaginable spice, and gleaming towers from the cities countless mosques, light up the streets and paths of the city.  Right now, a band of young men are gathered in front of the café that I am at.  They are playing instruments and singing together as the crowd gathers.  Travelers are taking pictures of each other and I know that all of my pictures will be filled with only scenery, as I am not one to do the “camera at arm’s length” photography.

                In Italy, the street vendors have thick slices of coconut, cascading down water laden towers.  I remember thinking that it was so unique and, quite simply, completely wonderful.  In Istanbul, the favored vendor snack (aside from the famous kabobs) is fresh squeezed juice.  In old fashioned fruit-pressers, the merchants crush fresh oranges and pomegranates into a single cup, for a mere two Turkish Lyre (the national currency); about $1.40.  Rarely does something so tasteful, equal its health factor.  I have started each morning this way; reading my book, watching the casual people engage in conversation, and thinking about what to explore during the daylight hours. This morning, a man gave me a napkin, twisted into a rose.  Having been in Saudi for the better part of a few months, the charm of his gesture has stuck with me.

                This place definitely has character. Men shouting in the streets, vying for attention: “Excuse me blond-e, where are you from?”, “Hello Miss, with the beautiful eyes.”, “May I ask you an innocent question, my dear?”  All of the travel books tell you to keep walking or you’ll find yourself being sucked into their store to spend money on things you don’t want.  I have a hard time with this sort of thing.  In 2010, I wrote an article for the Philadelphia Examiner, explaining my disillusionment with cat-calling.  I think it’s an interesting technique, although I know that this city would not feel the same without this method of attention seeking.

                Being here reminds of the “color” that I miss in the states.  The shades of Istanbul are so obvious to this color-starved American; orange and yellow from the citrus, red and green from the spices, blue from the Bosphorus waters, grey from the cobblestone streets.  The air is clean and the smell of roasting chestnuts and corn give a burnt sweetness to the breeze.

                The men here walk with arms looped together.   They share cheek-to-cheek kisses as a sign of friendship.  I can’t help but think of the label that this type of behavior would quickly acquire in the states and it makes me wonder why we’re so quick to identify affection as romantic, rather than friendly.

March 18, 2011

                Spanning a corner of Europe and a piece of Asia, this dual-continental city is home to lots of lovers.  They walk hand-in-hand with an ease of carelessness.   As we speak (metaphorically), they cuddle lip to lip on the bench next to me.  Paris and Nice (France) have this same romantic effect on people.  Although I have spent only a short time in both of those places, the people really do appear to see the world “through rose colored glasses;” I think that this part of Turkey creates the same emotions.

                While caught up in this lovers nest, out of the corner of my eye, I notice two policemen with guns the same length as my leg; it is an obvious reminder of the turmoil that this part of the world is experiencing.  However, the contrast of laughing children and the sound of a birds singing, makes those two men seem out of place; rather than the other way around.

                Similar to Saudi Arabia, Turkey is a Muslim country.  The mosque towers still announce prayer five times daily, but the city does not shut down as it does in Saudi, five times daily, and the women do not wear the abaya or burkha; they are instead adorned with multicolored silk head scarves that often seem to be coordinated with their outfits. Their faces are sunned and I find myself thinking that they look unencumbered.  Women are also privileged to enter the mosques here, although they are kept separate from the men in the back of the wide open space.  As a tourist, I was allowed to enter in certain areas, mind you, with the proper modesties taken.  Entering mosques, as a woman, in Saudi is forbidden.  This eases my imagination as to what lies behind those walls.

I took a cruise up the coast of Turkey today.  I found a corner seat, in the back of the grand boat, and watched the coastline drift past me as the announcer gave some historical background of the sites.  I feel so lucky and blessed to be seeing all of this.  I have watched travel stories for years about places around the world that I had hoped of visiting some day.  It’s a weird feeling (full of excitement) when you actually get to check one of those places off your bucket list. The sun, the water, the Turkish coffee, the pressed sandwiches, the wind, the buildings…there isn’t another place that I wish I had spent the day.

March 19, 2011

                Traditional Turkish dining takes place on the floor, amidst woven pillows and carpets…and it is eaten entirely with your hands.  I have a special aversion to people licking their fingers in delight and dragging their hands across the plate to gather every last kernel of deliciousness.  Given that I’m in a cultural setting that condones this form of eating, I (of course) decided to partake in this pet-peeve that I harbor.  The man next to me scooped up rice and sauce with a small piece of fresh flat bread and then proceeded to forcefully flick the remaining grub that had taken up residence on his fingertips, back onto the plate…but I managed to keep it together.  I ordered artichoke hearts seeped in olive oil. It arrived, and I lathered up my fingers with it, just in time for the artichoke piece to fly right out of my hands, onto the table, and then bounce onto the floor.  My fingers slapped together with oily goodness…and I reached for my napkin and fork.  KHALIS! (Enough, in Arabic). 

                I purchased a king-size, hand woven, silk quilt today.  I wanted to leave with something that I could not resist buying.  The bargaining process that is a part of every purchase here is exhausting and uncomfortable for me, but it does feel fun knowing that I got something for less money than I initially planned on buying it for.  At a farm auction in Michigan, while I was in college, I bought an enormous handmade quilt for $5.  I still think that it was the best purchase I have ever made.  It has moved with me to the 9 or so different apartments that I have had since then, and it is the only “thing” from home that I brought with me to Saudi Arabia (aside from a few pictures).  At this point, it is tattered and falling apart at the edges and in major need of a professional repair, but wrapping up in it at night always reminds me of home.  Maybe this new quilt will forever remind me of this unique trip to Istanbul. 

                As if the topography of this city isn’t interesting and gorgeous in its own right, beneath the floor of Istanbul lays Basilica Cistern.  The cathedral-sized cavity measuring 105,000 sq. ft. is the home of 336 marble columns, each 30ft high; built in-part between the 3^rd and 4^th centuries.  The basin looks and feels like a candlelit world.  Although not a religious person, this place definitely feels like a house of worship.  In my travels, one place that I always try to go to is the churches.  There aren’t many places in the world today where people stop to believe in one thing – whatever you call it – adoration, veneration, devotion – spirituality is something worth taking notice of, and this dwelling certainly invokes that feeling.  I spent a few hours walking around this underground belief system.  Wooden planks elevate the floor, to allow the natural collection of water to flow freely and people walk quietly around, as if everyone recognizes that this place is a treasure.

March 20, 2011

                Although travelling alone has its pitfalls, it certainly has its perks; one of which is developing the ability to meet people anywhere.  On this trip, I shared a wonderful conversation at the top of the Galata Tower with a retired nurse from Florida, her Turkish lover, and her native friend.  I shared coffee with a very arrogant law student from Northwestern University. I had breakfast with another retired nurse from Australia.  I also had a great afternoon with three young Istanbulians, who opened the hostel that I am staying at, roughly a year and a half ago.  I have to wonder if I’d had a companion at my side, if I would have met any of these people.  Just as the saying goes, “the world may never know.”

                Everywhere here, blue, glass eyeballs adorn the walls of shops, hotels, and restaurants.  The orbital symbol represents the “evil eye.”  The Turks believe that if you have one of these near you or hanging from a wall in your home, that evil will be warded off and good luck will fall upon you.  Of course, I bought a couple!  Before I left for Saudi, my brother, Brian, gave me an Indian, porcelain elephant to carry in my pack.  Legend has it that when it breaks (accidentally) luck will find you.  My sister-in-law, Kate, also gave me something for luck.  Kate gave me a black onyx necklace.  Black onyx has long since been said to deliver a bit of charm to its owners.  It seems as though I have started a bit of a collection.

On a final (and much less insightful) note, the men here are definitely worth mentioning; tall, dark, and handsome, with a splash of exoticism and social charm.  Having gone for a few months without men looking me in the face, let alone making direct eye contact, I have been caught up in a moment on more than one occasion in this city.  The broken language that we share probably only adds to the mystique.

I am sad that this is my last day in Istanbul.  I will certainly miss the daylong walks, the energy of this city, and the food from this dynamic Middle Eastern metropolis. 

                I guess the reason that I am sharing all of these personal experiences, emotions, and stories from this visit are because I don’t want them to be lost in my mind.  I write because I want others to see these things and hear about them from someone that does not have a hidden agenda or the desire to produce a media twist.  Part of the reason that I accepted my job in Saudi Arabia was because I wanted to be able to form my own, honest opinion; to see things for what they are.  No one knows what is real and accurate in the eyes of the media, and I don’t like the idea of being handed a story about a place or its people, especially if that story is fluffed and “marshmallowy”. 

                As I said previously, the thing about traveling alone is that the experience and the memories become entirely your own.  Never will someone say to me (about this trip anyway), “Remember that day in Istanbul…” so many of the things that have happened on my stays abroad, are only my memories.  Hopefully, at some level, they will part of yours now too.

--C. Sims

March in Saudi

Every so often, the air here turns beige.  I’d never seen beige air before living here.  The sand storms of Saudi whip the tiny grains in to swirls that coat the air like a fine mist.  You can reach into it, pull back your hand and feel as though you’ve touched a heavy cloud.  It’s quite pretty while it lasts.  The pool outside my window is under lit and appears bright blue against the misty wind.  Afterwards, everything is covered in sand.  It creeps in from under the doorway, it coats the outdoor furniture, and it causes me to sneeze 5 times without a break to catch my breath in between.  I miss the weather changes in the states.  Although I know the East Coast has had some crazy weather over the last few weeks, I miss waking up and not knowing what the day will literally look like.  It’s beginning to heat up here – it was 93 degrees a few days last week, but it’s a different kind of heat.  It’s not heavy and it’s not damp, rather it’s dry and light. 

When I accepted the position to work here, I was under the impression that I would have to cover my head at all times while outside the walls of my villa.  To my surprise, I found the rules a bit more flexible because I am not a native Muslim.  I am obligated to cover my body with my abaya, however covering my head is not something required of me.  I was told that I needed to have my headscarf with me at all times, in case a man or policeman told me to cover my head for whatever personal or traditional beliefs.  Although I stand out, I have had no issues with this from anyone.  That changed about two weeks ago, while walking through the corridor of a mall.  People in Saudi do not look at me when I’m out.  I haven’t quite figured out if it’s a personal thing or if it’s a cultural thing; although, from what I’m told it is a sign of respect and humility to not let your eyes wonder from one person to the other, especially a female.  I have learned to also steer clear of obviously staring at someone else (I seem to have a problem with this, whether I’m at home in the states or abroad). So, you can imagine my surprise and fear when a very large man walked right towards me, brought up his hand, and began to point at me, all the while yelling, “Sister of Saudi Arabia, cover your head!  Cover your head!”  Staring right at me, I could see he was offended and I could certainly hear it in his tone.  While ruffling nervously through my bag, I continued to walk outside, found my driver, jumped in the car, and took a deep breath; although my instinct is to strike up a conversation about why he saw my head as so offensive, and possibly tell him to “get over it”, but I am fully aware of the magnitude and strength of this country’s belief system and it’s not mine to challenge.  What is mine, at this time, is the ability to observe it and try to make sense of it all. 

After two months of “laying low” in my compound, I made a connection with a fellow expat from a forum that I joined when I arrived.  He has been in Saudi Arabia for roughly 9 months, working as a vascular surgeon in the new, state-of-the-art hospital that is receiving praise throughout the city. I can’t tell you how nice it was to have a reason to get dressed up again.  It doesn’t matter what you wear here usually because you’re covered from head to toe.  In compounds (where most expatriates reside), you are allowed to remove your garb and sit comfortably in your modestly and/or not-so modestly chosen clothing. The compound that I am living in is a small, private segment that does not generally match the description of other compounds in the area; including only 7 villas. The one that I was invited to had roughly 27 apartments and more than 65 people living there from around the world; India, The Netherlands, the USA, Canada, Germany, Brazil, China, England, Scotland, and Italy, to name a few.  Similar to hostel living, only with typically longer stays, the connections made are short and happy.  After hours of conversation and food, I left with a smile that carried over for days.  True to what my Dad tells me, I am someone that gets energy from being around other people; I mingle and bounce from place to place and group to group.  I knew that the isolation here would be a part of the experience and something that I would have to adjust to and deal with, but I certainly felt energized after my visit with other people going through the same thing that I am.  There is truth to the old idiom that there is in fact, “safety in numbers.”  There is also comfort and sense of relief to admit that it’s hard.

Although I would like it to be true, but just because I’ve left the USA doesn’t mean that my bills have suddenly stopped.  Student loans, storage bills, car payments, and credit card payments are still attached to my American name, and since leaving they have also been attached to my automatic bill pay.  I don’t need it often, but while sitting with my new acquaintances I was reminded of how lucky I am to have people at home who not only support me emotionally, but are there to help with the little imperfections and financial issues that pop up when not living stateside.  Some of them were not as fortunate as I.  How do people make these moves without love and support from others?  How do they leave what’s known behind, if they don’t the support system to remind them to keep their chin up? The ironic twist of fate (at least for me) is that you can’t leave without them, but they are the ones that you long to get home to see and hug.

                We all have friends, loved ones, or acquaintances that operate on their own time schedule; you might actually be the person that everyone knows who is like that.  Saudi has its own time schedule, which we appropriately refer to as “Saudi time.”  As I have mentioned before, the stores here are closed from 9 – 12, and additional are closed 5 times a day for prayer.  Although prayer times occur at roughly the same time each day, the exact times change according to the moon – making them not exact at all.   When you make an appointment with someone, or you schedule an event, the common response is “Inshallah”, which basically means, “I’ll get there at that time, if God is willing.”  As someone that enjoys punctuality and sense of sureness when it comes to appointments, this has been quite a trip for me.  There is a sense of steady pace here that cannot be pushed or shoved to move faster, by anyone, and I admit that I am mildly impressed with the California-esque attitude (not to be stereotypical) of moving throughout the day ignoring the fact that the rest of the world is moving two steps to your one, because as I have heard not only here but in the states as well, that “it will all work out in the end.”

I recently learned that Saudi women, from the middle and upper classes, return home to their parents’ house for the first month after giving birth.  There are two reasons for this: First, women are not supposed to have sex with their partners immediately after giving birth; the body needs time to heal.  Women move home so that they are not able to tempt their husbands, because they won’t to be able to entertain their man’s sexual urges.  (Needless to say, I definitely have some strong oppositional ideas about this institution).  The second reason for returning to her parents’ house is because it is assumed that the woman needs time to rest.  Her mother waits on her and takes care of her needs during this time of disconnection from the regular world; essentially absolving fathers of parental duties for the first month of their child’s life.  I called my mom and told her that I was thinking about instituting this in our family when/if I started to have children.  Take a guess how you think that went over.  I have to wonder about the paternal connection that the father’s are missing out on.  Psychological speaking, there is so much growth and connection that starts immediately after giving birth between both parents and the child that it makes me wonder what the cost of this lack of involvement brings. 

One of the highlights of the last month was taking another trip to “The Barr” (desert).  This time, the desert that we visited was more private and had a sense of tranquility about it.  I took a walk up the dunes behind out site and slide from top to bottom down a 50ft hill of sand.  All Arabs are descendents of true Bedouins; people that lived simplistic lives deep in the desert, surrounded only by tents, sheep, and family.   Although this way of living has been drastically altered over the years, due to the development of technology and the influx of monetary income, the ideals of this lifestyle are still strong amongst the Saudis.  There are a few people that continue to live as close to this mindset as possible.  During my time in the sandy abyss, I was treated to a traditional Bedouin feast.  As I mentioned, Bedouins were Sheppard’s, so it was no surprise that sheep was the protein and star of this meal.  Skinned and gutted, the sheep was tied with metal bands to a bar and sunk into a 5 foot deep fire pit.  Hanging just below the carcass, was a pool of uncooked rice.  During the cooking process, the fat from the sheep drains into the pan and flavors the rice as it cooks.  An hour and half later, kneeled on the ground, we were served the two whole halves of the animal.  I was showed how to pick it apart, and how to use the scoop-and-push method to shovel the food into my mouth; utensils are more of a modern thing; let me just say that this wasn’t as easy as it sounds. 

As a self declared foodie, I have watched enough of the Food Network and bizarre food shows to know that the head of the animal is often considered the best part.  There aren’t many opportunities in my household to hold the head of a cooked animal and “have at it”.  I went right for the cheeks, apparently the most tender and fatty piece of the animal.  Next, I moved on to the tongue.  As a rookie to the tongue eating world, I was instructed that I needed to rip the top layer off (the taste buds) to expose the muscle below.  Doing as I was told, I took a bite and was unnecessarily proud of myself. Sitting in the bowels of a multi-colored Saudi Arabian tent, sipping tea from a hot kettle (tea is something that I am still trying my best to like), and feeling full, was one of those moments that I will never forget. 

2 months and Counting!

I had the privilege of spending two of the last four weeks back on American soil.  The 6^th floor of one of New York City’s great hotels was my residence for 14 days.  My first night back in the states, I casually strolled into the pharmacy across the street, without even a pause in remembrance of my long lost abaya.  The guy at the counter struck up a conversation with me and suddenly I couldn’t help but feel the excitement of the familiar.  In Saudi, casual dialogue is not exactly something that I find common, especially not with a female, unilingual American, such as myself.   I laughed, thinking that absence really does make the heart grow fonder.  I miss the general conversation and chatter that is so ordinary in the US.  While the lack of personal exchange is not meant to be a “diss”, it is something that has been an adjustment.  I’m sure that it’s similar in concept to a lack of eye contact – a sign of respect and humility amongst the people of this country.

While in the States, I visited with friends and was reminded of how lucky I feel to have these people in my life.  As I was expecting, the return trip to Saudi was tainted with a sort of sadness about not having those daily interactions.  As typically a very social person, the isolation here got the better of me, post-USA.   We’ve all heard the phrase, “location, location, location”.  Most Ex-Pats that come to Saudi live in compounds with other people from their same country or find themselves among people with similar backgrounds and/or origins.  My situation is rather unique.  My compound is small and there are roughly two people here on a regular basis who speaks English.  So how does one make friends here without the benefits of location? 

Mingling between sexes in Saudi Arabia is not allowed (unless you’re related or married). There are no bars or clubs for impromptu nights out. There are no movie theaters or bowling alleys. Additionally, women are not allowed to sit in public at restaurants or coffee houses.  I’ve been doing some research and networking to meet people here, but the process is not easy.  It’s a fact that the internet has been a good source for social connections for well over a decade now; however as evidenced by countless stories in the US, it is not always the safest means of meeting people.  I have joined the local Ex-Pat site and find myself getting responses from people that make me weary of connection.   Given that meeting in public is not quite an option, initial get-togethers take place within the home.  Meeting someone over the internet, in their home, makes me obviously a little nervous.

 The weekend in Saudi is Thursday and Friday, an obvious change from the weekend in western countries.  This has also contributed to difficulty with socialization.  Although I live here, I am operating on an American schedule, meaning that my weekends are still Saturday and Sunday.  I found a running group, however their races are on Friday mornings, making it impossible for me to attend.   Despite these few setbacks, I know from previous experience and adaptation that there are connections to be made, no matter where you are…and in one of these blogs, I will soon talk about the friends I have made here. I’m sure of it.

Two days after my return, the King of Saudi Arabia arrived home from three months away.   The typically beige streets of Riyadh were lined with bright new flowers and tiny white lights were skillfully threaded from street lamp to street lamp.   Saudi Arabian flags tripled in numbers as workers hung them nearly every 10 feet.   King Abdullah’s picture is everywhere here. It’s on buildings, billboards, sides of buses, and countless other places; his return was a good reason to show it off even more.  GIANT welcoming signs for the King were placed over every bridge and at every intersection.   When he and his entourage finally rolled in, the people of his kingdom lined the streets to see him.  They held up signs of praise and love and ran after his car as a way to show their affection for him.  I thought it was interesting that in a country where democracy does not exist and rules are guided by a single voice; people displayed the same emotion they do when the President of the United States steps out into the public eye, having been voted into office democratically.  Although freedom of speech is more welcomed in the U.S., and words of protest or displeasure usually accompany appearances by the President, I did not see any negative protesters. 

I’m sure you’re aware (or at least I hope), of the turmoil which has gripped the Middle East the last several weeks.  My family members have asked me how I’m doing here and what’s happening.  My friends have sent emails wishing and hoping for my safety.  Right now, nearly every bordering country to Saudi Arabia is in the news for remonstrations of leadership and declarations of personal choice and freedom.  The Muslim brotherhood is being challenged, yet continues to be the fastest growing faith in our time.  In psychology (as well other professions, I’m sure), there is a term called “groupthink.”  It is basically the idea that people as a whole operate with a singular sort of mentality, rather than call upon each individual’s sense of morals, problem solving skills, or decision making abilities.  It is what accounts for people “going along with the crowd.”   Although their message is strong and warranted, I think this concept has gotten the better of my neighboring Middle Eastern countries.  For me, at this moment, Saudi Arabia feels like a bubble in the midst of all of this chaos.  The local news only covers a limited amount of information, so as not to distribute the images or ideas throughout the country (I have an American news channel on my compound, that has provided the most frequent and vivid images of what’s happening here).  The day of his return the King announced a 38 billion dollar social benefits package to the members of his kingdom; 15 percent increase in pay, unemployment money for a year, promotion of education and funding.  The difference between this country and what I know of my country is that people will actually feel the benefits of this deal, long before the buzz from it wears out.

A commonly worn item of clothing here is called the “thobe.”  Thobes are one piece, long dresses, worn by most of the women here as casual clothing.  When I first arrived, I though they looked a little like “moo-moo’s”, only tighter fitting.  Having been here for a while now, they took on a more comfortable look and I decided to go along with the crowd. I bought a brown, silk thobe with painted flowers of pink, and red, and yellow.  As someone that is 5’2 ¾ (the ¾ is important if you’re under 5’5), nearly everything I buy needs to be hemmed.  Herein lays a problem.  I asked my driver to take me to a tailor so that I could get my thobe and a few other things taken up and in.  I’m not sure why I was surprised when the man at the tailor asked me why there weren’t pins in my clothes indicating how much they should be hemmed.  You see, as evidenced by the demand to wear an abaya and not show the female figure, women can’t try clothes on in front of men.  It’s the same with shopping stores; there are no dressing rooms for women.  The item has to be bought, taken home, tried on in private, and either kept or returned within three days.  I asked him, “how am I supposed to measure the length and pin it myself when the clothes are on me?”   He simply handed me back the items and basically told me to figure it out for myself.   I asked my Muslim neighbor for some assistance with this problem. She mentioned to me that there are female dress makers located in relatively secret buildings in the city.

Back on the road again, my driver pulled up to a windowless, stucco building that we have driven past a dozen times.  A huge iron door was the only adornment on the façade of the place.  I pushed a little button located to the left of the door and as if I were in some sort of haunted house, the door swung open with no one standing on the other side of it.  I stepped inside and out from behind the door stood a little Filipino woman who told me that this was a women’s salon.  She opened the door in such a manner because women cannot be seen in public without the proper attire, not even to open a door for a customer.  Although there was no dressmaker, I thought the whole experience was definitely worth acknowledging as pretty cool – simply for the shear strangeness and greatness of seeing what was inside.  As I told my mom that night, at least I know where to get a pedicure now.

While in the states, I attended the wedding of a dear friend.  My student asked me about what I wore to the event during a conversation after we returned to Saudi. She was stunned when I didn’t tell her that I was wearing a ball gown, with professional makeup and hair to accompany the fabulous dress.  She told me that weddings in Saudi are a huge affair and that gowns are worn and money is spent.  Fortunately for me, she was attending one a few days later and mentioned that she would phone my villa to come see her after she was done getting ready.  I was unaware that weddings generally start around midnight and last until the daylight hours of the next day.  So when my phone rang at 10:30pm, I was already in my pajamas and Western Michigan sweatshirt, having already called it a night.  No excuse to miss this though, I fixed myself up and headed out.  I should not have been surprised, but the dress may have been one of the most beautiful I have ever seen.  I’m hoping to be a fly on the wall at a Muslim wedding one of these days, to see everyone in their grandness and glory.

On a departing note, I have discovered a new food obsession; it’s actually a two-parter and definitely not a complicated dish.  Part one: Arabic bread is a flat, round, pita looking type of concoction.  It is thin and delicious and although similar items exist in the states, there is something unique about how it is made and something extra tasty in knowing that it is made here.  Part two: as with many major labels, different foods are distributed to different parts of the world under the same company name.  Kraft makes a cheese spread here that is not made in the states.  They call it “Cream Cheese Spread”, although it does not represent the cream cheese that I know and love in America.  As a snack, the cheese is often spread onto the bread and rolled up into a very handy and portable meal.  Simple, yes…delicious, oh yes.

1 month

“Winter” has officially ended in the country of Saudi Arabia and I must admit that I am slightly nervous for the infamous heat that I know is headed our way.  The last two weeks have been my favorite so far in this desert country.   I started work and am loving being on the teaching side of the education spectrum.  Seven and half years of life in college-level academia and I still love feeling like I have learned something new; and in this case, taught something new.  

Through casual conversation with people on my compound and other workers, I know that the desert is often a weekend getaway for people here.  Last week I was invited for a day trip to the “barr” (desert).  The woman that called to invite me asked if I wanted to go to the “Sahara” for a visit.  After a friend pointed out that the Sahara is in Africa, I quickly hopped on Google and searched the layout in comparison to where I am in Riyadh.  The next day I showed with my back packed and realized very soon that the Sahara wasn’t exactly our destination, rather it was a much closer venture into the abyss; I’m just going to chalk that one up to language barrier.

I was surprised to see the desert flooded with people, motorbikes, tents, and food.  In my head I was fully expecting the scene of a single man with his white shirt tied messily around his head in a sign of surrender and exhaustion, walking endless miles through scorching heat; at this point though, I know enough to realize that my imagination sometimes runs away from me.   After driving past a cluster of people sprawled out across the sandy land and past one viewing of roughly 16 camels cruising along the side of the road, we arrived at our own secluded oasis.  Three large tents lined the perimeter of our area.  Two had cots in them for sleeping and the other was filled to the brim with the colors of Arabia.  If you’ve read either of the last two blogs, you know that I have commented on how beige this land is; the houses, the ground, the buildings, even the plants are covered in a layer of beige dust.  This particular tent was lined with bright yellow fabric with huge pink flowers adorning it.  There were cushions of deep burgundy with a white paisley pattern scattered across them.  The sand was covered in oriental rugs of dark greens and blues.  I was overwhelmed with excitement at the site of it.   This is the Arabia that I had in my head.

I soon realized that the women were disrobing from their abayas and letting them fall to the wayside.  Women are allowed to wear their own clothes in this space.  While men and women’s campsites are still separate from each other, this sense of freedom was very obvious.  Additionally, women are also allowed to drive in the desert.  Waiting for us upon arrival, were two 4-wheel drive SUV’s ready for the taking.  I hopped in and headed out.  Driving over the limitless dunes I couldn’t help but wish that everyone I know could see this site, because no picture that I have previously seen has ever done it justice.  Have you ever looked out upon the ocean and felt as though sun was about to drop into the water?   You try your hardest to look beyond the sea and horizon for some sign of land, but it just doesn’t come.  The same applies to the desert.  Never have I seen such a sunset.  The sand was orange, and I learned from a native that the farther from the coast, the more orange the sand gets.   Looking out at the distance there wasn’t a single plant, just miles and miles of rolling sand hills that never seemed to end.   As the sun bounced down, I realized that the temperature was bouncing down with it.  I was warned that it gets very at cold at night in the desert. Having been wearing short sleeve shirts this “winter”, I wasn’t exactly convinced until that moment.

After returning to our site, we started a fire and roasted some chestnuts.  It was around this time that the real learning experience for me began.  I was accompanying 4 girls on this trip, between the ages of 18 and 20; all indigenous to Saudi Arabia.   This was my opportunity to engage in true conversation about the perspective, ideologies, and lifestyles of the modern Saudi woman.  The four young ladies, all of whom are currently in college, afforded me the chance to ask the questions, and responded with intelligent and enlightening perspectives.  We talked about the impact of 9/11 on the Saudi culture, love and dating, marriage, women’s rights and issues, Muslim teachings, Islam culture, Osama Bin Laden, education, and the king, along with his predecessors and successors.   I was mentally exhausted for two days after this trip.  Initially, I was worried about stepping on toes, but the issues were welcomed topics.

After asking about the difference in the way that they have been treated in the states (all of them are well travelled) since September 11, 2001, I asked what they would like Americans to think about the 15 Saudi men that steered planes into our towers and into the dirt in Pennsylvania.  Without hesitance, I heard “How would Americans feel if 15 of your countrymen bombed Mecca (the most holy place in Saudi) and it forever changed the way that your culture, your religion, and your people would be treated around the world?”  I had nothing to say, she was perfectly right.  They went on to share that the true teachings of Islam denounce violence as a means to reach an answer.  She noted that those men were no longer residing in Saudi when the attack happened because they had been previously exiled due to their extremist nature.  Osama Bin Laden comes from a family here that makes the cloth which covers the holiest prayer site in the country.  His family had banished him in the years previous for misuse of the Muslim beliefs. The girls told me that after the attack, they had to change their company name because Muslims did not want to be associated with his kind of evil, belief system, and tactics.

They told me that the Quran has been mistakenly interpreted by many and that it is about how it is taught that can make the difference between being a true Muslim and one that has not grasped the religion in its holy nature.   I was told that Muslims are taught the religion all throughout school because it’s a complicated piece of text that needs to be scrutinized and explained. 

We went on to talk about love and dating in this fascinating culture.  Dating is more something along the lines of engaging in frequent telephone conversations and learning to build a mutual respect that sex and affection does not play a part of.  For my western eyes, I was exceptionally curious as to how love can blossom without including the physical aspect or at least frequent interpersonal interaction.  One of the young ladies told me that she was always told to marry someone that she could fall in love with, not necessarily someone that she was in love with.  She explained that love is blinding (as well have all heard) and that the ability to think about someone’s morals, character, beliefs, attitudes, and treatment of you needs to be first assessed from an objective point of view. With this impartial standpoint you can more easily and clearly assess the type of man that you are choosing to be with.  In fact, one of the young ladies has no desire to be married at all.  I soon learned that this is not a traditional lifestyle choice for a woman in Saudi; however she reported that her family is aware and supportive of her decision.

Contrary to popular belief, being forced into marriage is not something condoned in the Quran.  In fact, it is written as blatantly wrong.  This notion about women having their husbands picked by their fathers is an “old school” tradition and cultural experience.  One thing about this world of love and marriage that particularly caught my attention is that fact the women do not change their last name upon marriage.  While Saudi women do not change their name in order to preserve lineage, in the United States women are working this topic from a much different angle.  My generation of women is waging a battle against this traditional concept.  Typically, the crusades that we encounter were started in previous generations and often grows stronger with time; equal rights, equal pay, equal marriage opportunity, the list goes on. The idea of keeping your own last name is virtually something new to my country (relatively speaking of course) although it is piggy-backed off the idea of personal independence.  Just as men claim identity in their name, women do the same; although the Saudi tradition has different roots.   A resident lady told me that she would never want to change her last name (aside from her culture’s tradition), because it forever linked her to her family and to who she has been all her life.  This ideology is eerily similar to my thought process and the process of countless women in today’s modern, western society. 

Among the top list of questions that I get about this experience, the issue of women’s rights in this country ranks among the most frequent.   Having discussed women wearing abayas and being covered from head to toe, not being allowed to drive or generally sit in the front seat of a car, not being allowed to own property or open  a bank account are among some of the things that I have talked about.  From what I am told, women here are slowly working their way through the system of tradition to find a cultural balance between rights and tradition. An important thing to note is that in this culture, tradition trumps most other things; including personal beliefs about what people should and should not be allowed to do.   Saudi is a unique culture, in that they do not want to be skewed by popular opinion or trend, possibly explaining the lack of argument about the restrictions placed on them.  Although I know from conversation in America that we tend to assume that it is about mental and physical control. 

Although all of this information was educational, I think it is important to note that it has come from a relatively small group of women. I’m hoping that as my time here extends, so will my sources.  It will be interesting to see if other groups of ladies share the same liberated concepts and have the same understanding and acceptance of tradition. 

I wish I could have recorded all of the conversations that have happened about these important subjects and topics since starting my time here.  Aside from the fact that it would slightly odd to walk around with a recorder all day long, this society is ferociously private and not a fan of display, which includes being a part of pictures or giving loads of personal information to the world.

More to come! (videos will be loaded shortly...if I can figure that out)

Week 2

In every new place, there are bound to be comparisons drawn between the old and familiar and the new and novel.  For example, right now on the East Coast of the US, my friends and family are being pummeled by a snow storm, and I’m eating breakfast on my patio in 65 to 70 degree weather.  At 5 in the morning at home, the only one awake is my early-bird father, but here people are headed to prayer at that same dawn breaking hour.   Last week I visited the doctor and within 2 hours, I had seen the doctor, gotten an X-ray, had the doctor read the X-ray, had blood drawn, and got two prescriptions.  Aside from the sheer craziness that all of that only took two hours, the whole excursion cost less than $400; if I had been from Saudi, it would have been free (the same applies to education).  I felt a pang of anxiety when the doctor said the words “X-ray”, thinking “oh man, how much is this going to cost me?”   It’s a sad moment when you realize that you’re willing forgo medical attention based how much it will cost (something that has happened to me on more than one occasion in the USA).  Obviously, this is a sensitive issue in the states right now, but I have to say that I was extraordinarily impressed by the Saudi system for healthcare and will probably always draw upon this example and think about it every time I head to the doctor in America.

There are different entrances for women at many places here, with signs that say “Ladies section” or “Family Section” (also meaning ladies only).  For the men there are either no signs or ones that say “Single Section”.  Earlier in the week I was craving some American coffee, as the coffee here is poured in tiny cups and is an odd shade of green from the lack of roasting.  I saw a Starbucks and headed in.  Standing there I thought, “This place looks just like home!”  Immediately following that reflection, the man behind the counter said, “This side is for singles only ma’am”.  To which I promptly replied, “But I am a single”.  Then it hit me, clearly that wasn’t what he meant and I had to exit the building, chuckling to myself, but amidst staring eyes.  I opened the door directly to the left and entered a room where the windows were shaded out, the walls only adorned with crackling white paint, and far less seating.  The same man, who merely crossed over the divide, then took my order.  It’s moments like this that I think, “this is as close to segregation as I will ever get”.  What to do with that, I haven’t quite figured out, although I do understand that it is steeped in religion and tradition which dates back longer than I know – so in the meantime I’ll just pass the experience along to you.

I haven’t been able to exercise since being here, and I am fearful that I am losing my good habit.  It’s hard to run in an abaya, and I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t go over that well.  So I asked someone on my compound to take me to a few gyms in the area that she knows of so that I can finally get back in action.  The gym windows were entirely blacked-out so that no one from the inside or outside could be visible; needless to say, it was for women only.  I looked around, checked out the schedule, and noticed the price; 1,200 Riyal a month.  In the states, that equates to over $300.  You can imagine my surprise.  In Philadelphia, I belonged to a great gym in the Rittenhouse area and paid a mere $65.00 a month.  Given that there isn’t much activity for women to partake in here I figured they could afford to charge the hefty price.  After I removed the gulp from my throat, I walked out without a membership, not able to justify to my mind or my bank account the expense.  Being physically active is a huge part of life for me, something that I don’t share with most Saudi women.  In fact, in a recent article that I read, it stated that often times the ladies of Saudi Arabia are not encouraged to build strength in their muscles or leanness in their physique because it is viewed as something with attract male attention – not an acceptable thing in this society.

                In an attempt to find activity for myself, I had my driver take me to the Diplomatic Court; where all of the embassies broke soil.   The grounds are enormous.  Somehow, it felt like a cultural exploration with people from all over the world within a few acres.  As we passed each embassy, I could see a difference in the people filling their sidewalks; everything from their clothing, to the tone of their skin, to their accents and languages.  The names of each embassy; India, New Zealand, Bahrain, Australia, China, Canada, Mexico, Egypt, Kenya, Japan, Syria, Lebanon, the United States of America, and so many more, peppered signs mounted above each gate.  To my surprise, I was excited and relieved to see an American flag, although sad about its half mast status due to the recent shooting in Arizona.   Below it, I saw a very tall young lady standing and immediately marched up to her and said “HELLO!” it was the first time in two weeks that I knew someone would speak English. Although I’m doing my best to learn the language, most of the time I feel clueless.  I find myself turning my head to the left, as if the words will make more sense if they go directly into my ear, rather than having to find their way around the curvature of my head.

I learned today that Saudi parents never stop giving money to their children (at least that’s what I’ve been told so far).  In fact, grandparents give to all generations of their family members; their children, their grandchildren, and if they’re lucky enough the chain goes on.  They pay for houses and allowances, clothes and food.  Given the enormous amount of wealth that this country has, I’m sure this has something do with the success within the Royal Family over countless generations.  This concept got me thinking about the different beliefs regarding money and care around the world (not that I know a ton about this subject).  In the US, although this is seemingly shifting with our current economic status, at the age of 18 children are considered adults and can fend for themselves (if their parents so choose).  In China, it is the children who take care of their parents once they are old enough to earn money.  Is one system better than the other?  One possibly breeds dependence, one stands the chance to breed independence from family, and the other may possibly breed premature responsibility.  There’s no way to say who got it right and certainly no definitive answer, but it was one of those moments for me that made me realize exactly what I have, how I want it, and what I have been given in comparison to others around the world.  Learning about how money is handled in different cultures is a prime way of beginning to understand the dynamics of different places. 

There is a tradition in Saudi that happens once a month with one of the Prince’s of this desert country.  Men prepare letters that state why he should give them money and what they need it for.  They then line up for hours to individually hand him their piece of literature and pray that he does not forsake them.  In an interview that I watched this prince, he commented on how his family has given millions of dollars away to the people of his society as tradition; again, this idea of tradition runs deep within this culture.   This discussion of money leads me to my next experience here. 

                Women of Saudi are not allowed to hold a bank account.  Their money goes to their father or their husband, unless special permission is granted from these people for them to open an account.  My neighbor, and tour guide, arrived in Saudi two months ago for a two year commitment.  She’s an independent woman, who wants independent things.  She arranged permission from our sponsor to allow her to open an account.  Ever eager to learn the process, I accompanied her for the start up venture.  Aside from the regular information needed to open an account (ID, address, etc.), she was required to have proof that the male figure responsible for her was allowing her to open this account. 

I watched the women enter through the back door of the bank and thought of the sunlit room that the men were sitting in below us.  I can’t help but wonder to myself, “why don’t you fight against this?”  In America in the 1960’s and 70’s, women stood up and wanted to claim their own rights, independent of men.  A civil war has been continuously waged for people to have equal rights, equal pay, and equal opportunity.  The struggle continues today with more than just women fighting for their rights.  It’s not my question to explore or challenge right now; at this point, I’m just a sponge trying to understand the concepts, rules, regulations, traditions, language, and belief system of this country.  When thinking about accepting this job offer, I had many discussions with those close to me about how my independent, extroverted, and dare I say, mildly feminist attitude would find a balance in this particular type of society and environment.  My mom told me that she would have been more worried about my taking this chance if I was in my early twenties.   I have to say that I think being closer to 30 than I am to 20, and having a fairly good, internalized sense of who I am has helped (and will continue to help) me understand that I can be myself without having yell it from the rooftops when feeling oppressed or limited with my freedom of expression.  At this point in life, I no longer feel the need to follow the crowd and it is serving very well here, although on the exterior I’m wearing a black gown, just like every other woman on the street and using separate entrances.

                What is it about new places that make you think of old places?  Is it because we all want a point of relativity?  It doesn’t have to be defined as a sad thought or a happy thought; it doesn’t need to be classified as better than something or worse than something else.  It’s been two weeks since I arrived here and I have a few pictures of loved ones posted on the fridge, a packet of unopened cards from my brother in case I get lonely or need inspiration, and pots of full of plants that I picked up from the market, and I’m doing just fine, learning a lot, and feeling my way around this new and different world. 

               

Upon Arrival

Although I believe in destiny, I am a firm believer in the idea that people can influence their fate – at least the direction that one travels to get there.  My older brother once told me, during a less than decisive moment in my life, that “people like us” need to spend at least 50% of our time outside of our comfort zone.  I’m not sure the percentage is accurate, but he definitely knew what he was talking about.  I am constantly looking for new challenges and new perspectives.  During moments in my life where there are lulls, I always think back to his words.  This opportunity certainly stemmed from stillness in my work, and despite my mental debate about the magnitude of this particular challenge, I decided to take the plunge. 

On December 30^th I boarded a plane to Saudi Arabia to tutor/mentor a young woman in the field of psychology.  We changed planes in Ireland, and from the corner of my eye, I noticed an Irish airline with a clover on its wing.  Instantly, I thought of a trip to Ireland (my first time overseas) five years earlier. I recalled my first journal entry where I wrote about that same winged plane and thought that the clover must be a sign of good luck.  I chose to believe the same thing this time around.  Have you ever been in one of those situations where you feel like so much time has passed, when in actuality it’s only been a few hours, a few days, a few weeks?  It’s been roughly a week since our plane touched down on Saudi Arabian soil and I feel like I’ve been here for a while.  I’m sure that it has something to do with the scale of differences that I’ve seen in such a short period of time. 

While some things have remained the same; the site of a Dunkin Donuts, a Pizza Hut, or a Hilton Hotel; the majority of things have taken a turn in a direction that I previously knew nothing about.  On my refrigerator is a list of phonetically spelled words that I have been practicing; Shokran (thank you), Ismi (My name is), Marhaba (Hello), Maa Alsalameh (Good bye).  The buildings are all the same color as the sand and dry dirt beneath them.  The women covered head to toe in a thin black sheath as if to appear expressionless, featureless, and nearly phantom-like.  Looking down the isle of the Tamimi (grocery store), my eyes are flooded with visions of black figures cruising in and out of the isles, while their children run circles around them.  I asked a coworker how the children recognize their mothers, when they all appear the same.  She stated that when her son was small she told him to look at her shoes before they left the house; that way, should they be separated, he would be able to find her.  I thought this was quite clever.  In my experience, my mother’s face and clothing was how I recognized her and although I’m not certain, I think if only her eyes were showing, somehow I still would have been able to find her; however some of the women even have their eyes shielded.  The men (although not all of them) wearing red and white scarves on their heads, pepper the shops and stores that they work in.

Men are the only the ones allowed to drive in this country, and unless you are married to the driver, all women must ride in the back seat.  Once you have experienced what the roads are like here, you may find (as I did) that you are glad that you don’t have to drive in the chaos, which I think rivals that of than Manhattan driving.  It seems as though driving rules are mere guidelines and lines on the pavement are just suggestions. 

I’m sure that some things will take some time get used to.  In America, eye contact is considered a common courtesy, however in Saudi a lack of eye contact is a sign of respect and humility.  I need to keep reminding myself of that when I catch myself staring out of curiosity, familiarity, and the desire for connection.  Five times a day (starting at 5am) the speakers lining the streets of Riyadh begin to hum with Arabic music and words, indicating that it is time for prayer.  The shops close, the men retreat to their prayer rooms, and the city briefly shuts down for a moment of solace for the Muslim world.  For me, it means carefully planning when I go to the store and who I interrupt. 

Interestingly enough, wearing my abaya (a black robe used to cover the body from shoulders to ankles) is quite comfortable and takes away the very prominent display of fashion that litters the states and other countries.  Although I slightly miss the freedom, it is oddly comforting to know that it does not matter what you are wearing, how tiny your waist is, if your shirt has a stain on it, or if you have some famous label or brand attached to your body.  I found one with a trim of silver and find it to be distinctive enough to satisfy the ingrained sense of uniqueness that I have known for so long.

While I definitely find it peculiar that there are no dressing rooms in stores for women to try things on (you have to purchase the item, go home, try it on, and either keep it or return it within three days of the purchase date), I also recognize that there is a method to this whole system that is deeply dependent on faith, culture, and tradition (all of which I will not be one to criticize). 

Despite all of these interesting differences, I think the most prominent one for me is that of language.  I was not offered that chance to learn a language in school until 7^th grade; at which point I wasn’t too interested.  In Saudi Arabia, like many other countries around the globe, children are taught not only their language of origin, but also English, and possibly another.  There are people on my compound from Sri Lanka, The Philippines, Syria, Lebanon, and Jordan – all of whom speak more than one language.  My neighbor has been teaching me pieces of French and Arabic, both of which she learned as a small child.  I think (and hope) that this is something that Americans are beginning to understand and grasp.  My nephew, Aaron, at two years old, already knows more Spanish than I do.  After this experience, I can’t help but hope that he continues to learn it, even though it’s not offered in school at his age.  Like me, I know there will come a time for him, when he wishes he knew more than just his native tongue. 

I am sure that there will be a lot more adjusting, interpreting, and writing headed my way during this extraordinary opportunity.  I can only hope that with each day that passes and with each frustration at not the knowing the language or the customs that I will remember to keep an open mind. (period)

--Cat S.