(My old computer crashed and erased the several blogs that I had going, so this is an attempt to rebuild one of them).
As of late, every time I sit staring out the window of a plane that is taking off, I reflect on my time in that place – wherever it was spent. I left on Friday, January 27th from Dulles airport in Virginia, headed once again towards Saudi Arabia. In the six weeks that I was home, I spent time in Colorado with two of my favorite people, rang in the new year in West Virginia, partook in an annual tradition over the weekend in Philadelphia, spent nights with friends at home in Virginia, and days with my family. I always leave feeling so grateful to have been home and sad to know that I will be missing lots of little things over the next couple of months.
After a flight that I’m sure lasted longer than many relationships, I touched down in the desert and pulled out my abaya – which thankfully covered the coffee stain that I had my shirt from turbulence during the flight (who says wearing an abaya is a bad thing?). I hate the pressure to grab your bags as fast as possible and get off the plane in an effort to be the first in line at baggage claim. Military folk know of a phrase associated this sort of thing; “Hurry up and wait”. I decided a long time ago to not play this game at the airport. So as usual, I was the last to get off the plane and the last to head towards customs. The customs counter in Saudi is like no place that I have been before. There are pupil scanners, finger scanners, a million questions about your purpose for being there, and for me, there are lots of inquisitive glances and prying eyes as to why I’m traveling alone – something that women here are not allowed to do.
I met my driver (a young Philipino man, named John, who’s real name is Lord…I don’t quite know the backstory for that one) at the end of a 500 person line – all people there to greet their loved ones and/or the people that they have sponsored for work in Saudi. No one is allowed entrance into The Kingdom without a sponsor having validated their purpose and stated their responsibility for that person while they are in the territory (Imagine if the U.S. did such a thing?). A very good friend of mine, who has seen the majority of my last 12 apartments in 12 years, is planning to visit me in May. In order to process her request, I had to submit a copy of her passport to my sponsor, who then asked me numerous questions encompassing everything from how well I know her to whether or not she is planning on writing a book about her experience in Riyadh. Next, he will draft a formal invitation to her to come to Saudi on a visitor’s visa, and submit it to one of the four Saudi embassies in America. Although it sounds rather succinct, things have a way of moving a bit slower in Saudi – which has ended up being a very good lesson in patience and relaxation – a lesson that I’m certain I needed.
My mother has told me in the past that I have quite the “wanderlust” – in fact, I do not remember ever feeling any different towards traveling and going places. Because of this intrinsic desire, I cannot even begin to say how many travel shows, cultural documentaries, and articles about different places I have under my belt. One thing that has always caught my attention is the market places; the gobs of people, the so-called chaos, the pushing, shoving, and plain disorganization. Last March I visited Turkey for a short vacation. On the European side of Istanbul is a growing market of cheeses, shops, bread, drink, food, and grocery. It is also home to the world’s oldest market, The Grand Bazaar. It is exactly like the travel channels depict. Either you have to jump right in and go for it or get the hell out. Either you embrace it or you’ll hate it. For some reason, this is what I expect from a street market and I loved it (although I could have done without so much bargaining), it’s not the kind of thing I generally expect in your standard grocery store.
I mentioned that the customs lines at the Riyadh Airport (RUH) are like no place I have seen before, the same goes for the major grocery stores in the area…as strange as that sounds. When I think of a supermarket, I think about slowly walking up on the right side, and down one the left side of the isles. I think of casual greetings and neatly displayed fresh fruit that’s been recently misted in a cool spray. In Riyadh however, it’s a different story. Inside the walls of Carrefour Grocery lay the equivalent of the outdoor market on the streets on Istanbul, although I do not find this place as electric. People are bumping in to each other, yelling, placing their carts perpendicularly in the middle of the isles. They are digging through fruits and vegetables to find the best ones (because most of them are not). There are cornhusks and grape leaves scattered around the floor, there are also twice as many people because many women do not leave home without the company of a male. At the very heart of the fruit and vegetable section is a weigh station. Anything being purchased from this section needs to be scanned and barcoded before it can pass through the registers at the front of the store. It is in this spot, that I find myself wanting to be anywhere but there. There is no sense of order, no line, no idea who should be first and who should be last. Much like I do when I’m getting off a plane, I tend to just stand there and wait…most of the time I think to myself that I need to make sure the expression on my face is not indicative of how I’m actually feeling at that moment. What I wouldn’t give for one of those ticket machines you typically find at the meat counter…
I’ve talked in the past about the abaya that I wear on a daily basis, and I’ve spoken of the Niqab and the Hijab, the head/face scarves that women wear, however I have not yet expressed my opinion about the clothing of the men. Let’s be clear, men here are not required to wear anything in particular, however many of them wear what is referred to as a Thobe. In my opinion, a close second to seeing a man in rugged outdoor ware is a man in a clean pressed suit. A crisp collar and starched shirt are enough to convey a certain message. Although not all of the men in Thobes that I see cruising around town keep their garment this tidy, but some definitely do. The floor length, white, creased shirt (of sorts), is a departure from Western-ware in a big way, but here the cleanliness of it is a sign of success and respect for one’s self and one’s culture.
Although having just returned to Saudi, two weeks later we were on the road again for New York City to spend a few weeks and then later to Rome, Italy. I spent some time in Rome in 2005 with a very good friend of mine, but this time around I was more struck by the city. Maybe it was a little bit of age, or a having little more insight about these opportunities, but I found it even more enchanting this time around – the language, the architecture, the food…they sure know how to treat a lady.
--C. Sims
