From This Side of the Persian Gulf

Things That Happen When Traveling in Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt for a Very Large Political Conference

2008-05-24T14:31:00.005+03:00

1. I am cursed with being in the same vicinity as politicians. It seems that any time they are traveling, I am traveling as well and therefore get tangled up in massive amounts of traffic. About three weeks prior to my trip, Kuwait was the host of the World Islamic Economic Forum. The opening sessions were held at one of the palaces, off 5th ring road. I regularly take 5th Ring home from work, and it usually takes about 20-30 minutes. On the night of the opening, they had apparently closed part of the road and, as a result, it took me two and a half hours to get home.

Arrival in Sharm was no exception. I was lucky enough to land at the same time that Egyptian President Mubarak landed. That meant I sat in the parking lot for about 30 minutes, while my cab driver got out of the car, smoked a cigarette and then started playing 50 Cent on his beat-up radio.

2. It is spectacularly cool to see Air Force One land. Following Rule #1, however, means that because President Bush landed in my general vicinity, it would take 20 minutes for a shuttle to arrive at the conference center to take me back to my hotel, and another 15 minutes to actually get to the hotel, making what should have been an hour long excursion into two hours.

3. Egyptian hospitality doesn’t exist. Absolutely no offense to any Egyptians reading this; your people are friendly. But they completely lack customer service. The internet connection in my room died around 3 p.m.; it took them until 10 p.m. to send someone to my room to fix it – this is after I finally had to call and scream at them how I simply did not understand how a supposed 5 star hotel that is one of the chosen hotels for the WEF takes six hours to send an IT person to fix the internet connection. I am not a screamer normally; I believe that the way to get what you want is to smile and ask nicely. But even I have my limits.

4. The Raid air freshener is in my room for a reason. Plug it in or face being bitten all night long.

5. Hearing George W. Bush speak in person is as embarrassing as hearing him speak on TV. It is especially awful to hear him speak after King Abdullah II (a charming and eloquent speaker). Where King Abdullah is dignified, Bush is just a mess. He began his speech mentioning how he and wife Laura were “walking in the land of the pharaohs” and ended it with a long lecture on how the Middle East needs to embrace democracy. Of note: He managed to mention Al Qaeda, Hezbollah and Bin Laden all in the same paragraph.

6. President Karzai and I smiled at each other as he passed by me to go to an interview. Therefore, he and I are now best friends forever.

7. I wasn't surprised when my room key randomly decides to stop working. I was annoyed. I had two room keys and both of them stopped working at the same time. I had to get one of the cleaning people to let me into my room. Again, this is a five star hotel that was one of the chosen six by the World Economic Forum.

8. European women have no issues sunbathing topless in a Middle Eastern country.

9. When it came time to finally, finally check in for my flight home, there was a Eurotrash couple in front of me who took about 20 minutes to check in. Why it took so long is unclear; the woman (who looked like a poor man’s Britney Spears) had to take out random bits of paper from her wallet and show it to the people behind the counter. Was Kuwait Airways giving them grief because they aren’t married (doubtful)? Was the man behind the counter morally opposed to her hideous outfit (possible)? At any rate, the woman started clucking at a fussy baby in line behind her, trying to be cute and motherly. She was not cute nor was she motherly. At one point, she took the child’s bottle and pretended like she was drinking from it while making faces at the baby. The baby was not amused, and neither was I.

10. Just because the Sharm El Sheikh airport has a wireless signal doesn’t mean I was able to connect to it. This is not because I had to pay money to surf the web, but rather because it just won’t connect to the wireless signal at all.

11. While I may have thought that Jordanians were some of the most ethnocentric people around, they have nothing on the Egyptians. I was not able to find a single magazine or book for sale at either the hotel or the airport that didn’t have something to do with Egypt.

12. I shouldn’t be surprised when two of the airport employees start taking apart the seating area right in front of me.

13. While waiting to board the plane, Eurotrash Britney started playing with the baby again, while Eurotrash K-Fed looked on warily. The minute they boarded the plane, you know she turned to him and proclaimed that she wanted one, really badly.

14. Just because my boarding card says that boarding time is 6:10 doesn’t mean it is actually going to happen at 6:10. 6:30 will come and go and I wasn’t anywhere closer to boarding. In fact, there wasn’t even a flight attendant at the gate to help us board until 7 p.m. Take off was at 7:10 p.m.

15. There is no announcement of boarding over the speaker system – boarding announcements are made by a man walking through the food court/terminal/duty free screaming “KUWAIT?! KUWAIT?!”

16. I have not flown Kuwait Airways in over ten years. Not much has changed since 1996. There were at least 40 people on the flight; I was one of three women (not counting flight attendants). When I asked for an upgrade to business class, they said that it wasn’t allowed because there were no more meals left. I said I didn’t want a meal, and they said it just wasn’t allowed.

17. Arabs fly their airplanes the same way they drive. They will take obscure roads just because they can. Case in point: Flying from Sharm El Sheikh to Kuwait took the following path: Depart Sharm. Fly west to Luxor, for a quick 20 minute stop. Then fly east to Kuwait. On top of that, at random points during the flight, the pilot would rev the engine, as if he was about to race his friend in the Jazeera Airways plane next to us to see who would be able to reach the airport faster.

Sharm El Sheikh, in summary: Warm, resort-y, but boring when you're traveling by yourself. Bathing suit tops not necessary.

Rome

2008-02-29T09:03:00.002+03:00

I do not have the best luck when it comes to travel. Especially when it comes to traveling alone. I have told stories about Jazeera and their headaches, but my trip to Rome was a regular Jazeera nightmare times 150. Apologies for the length, perhaps this can keep you entertained for the day. In hindsight, I should have known better than to travel on what is probably one of the busiest travel weekends in Kuwait. Prior to actually setting foot in the airport, I had heard about delays, both from the weather (dust, dust, dust) and from the holiday travel. When it was actually time for me to fly, I was fairly pleased. I made it through customs and check-in with no major hassle, and figured the rest of the trip would be hassle-free as well (major ironic foreshadowing).

"Do You Smoke?"

As I was sitting at Gate 26, waiting for my flight, I noticed that it was 5 p.m. The plane was not at the gate, where it should have been, since it was scheduled to leave at 5:30. It was 5 p.m. About 5 minutes later, an announcement was made, that the gate was being moved from Gate 26 to Gate 20. I hauled ass over to Gate 20, started to walk through, when the Khaleeji Rent-a-Cop standing by the XRay machine informed me that this was actually the gate for Iran Air AND Jazeera – and that the flight to Tehran was boarding first. Those flying to Dubai lined up and waited as chador after chador walked through the gate. It was very easy to tell who was going where – those draped in black were going to Tehran, those with an inch of makeup and high heels were going to Dubai.

When I got onto the plane, I instinctively went for seat 6A. I knew I was by the window, and 90% of the time, I sit on the left side of the plane. In this case, I was actually in 6F – a definite error on my part. I didn't realize the error until an Indian couple attempted to find their seats. "What seat are you in?" asked the wife. "6A. I think. Wait, let me check." I pulled out my boarding card. "I'm sorry. I'm 6F…" I looked past them to see if my seat was available. It wasn't. They were both still in the aisle.

"Come into the row," I told them, "so other people can get past." The woman looked at my blankly. "Can I sit in my seat?"

Keep in mind, I was at the window. So there was no place for me to go, since they were half in the row and half in the aisle. "You will get your seat," I said. But for now, can you just move in? There are people waiting behind you…" I said, noticing how more and more people were getting annoyed. The pair finally came into the row and looked at me expectantly. Row 5 was completely empty. The aisle, however, was still full. "Why don't you move to this row?" the wife asked, trying to be helpful but failing miserably.

"I would," I said, "except there is nowhere for me to go. Because there are people in the aisle."

"Well…. Can I have my seat?"

"Listen," I told her. "The plane is not going to take off without you having a seat. I promise." Looking around, I flagged down a flight attendant and explained the situation. He took our boarding cards and studied them. The lady looked at me again. "My seat?"

"I. Don't. Have. Anywhere. To. Go. Calm. Down. I promise you will get your seat, just wait about two minutes." I wondered if she was an idiot or just really impatient. Or some combination of both.

The seats were sorted, and we finally took off and made it to Dubai in one piece. After landing, going through customs, going to the ATM and visiting the restroom, I went to the luggage carousel to collect my bags. Except they weren't there. There were no bags there. It was at least 15 to 20 minutes after I had gotten off the plane, and there were no bags going around the carousel. I looked up at the sign on the baggage to confirm that this is where my bags were supposed to come. It was. There was still no bag. After another 10 minutes of waiting, my bag came out and I hurried out of the airport.

But no. The fates were clearly against me. I was stopped on my way out of the airport, by an abaya-clad woman who asked to see my passport.

"Where are you coming from?"

"Kuwait."

"Hmmm," she said, looking through my passport. "How long are you here for?"

"One night… Is something wrong?" I had never, ever been stopped LEAVING an airport before so I was very confused. And tired. She looked at me in fake surprise. "Wrong? Why would something be wrong?"

She continued pawing through my passport.

"Then where do you go?"

"Rome…" I answered, as she looked at my visas and stamps. "Is something wrong? I'm confused."

She looked at me in "surprise" again. "Why would something be wrong?" she asked, pretending to be a friendly gal who just wanted to laugh with me about my passport photo. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Do you… smoke?"

I wasn't sure if she meant the herb or the nicotine, but I was baffled by her question either way. "Um, no? I'm just tired and I want to get to my hotel."

After looking yet again at my passport, she thrust it back at me and turned away.

I though the bad luck was over. The amount of inanity that had taken place seemed to be enough for one trip. But I was very, very wrong.

"This Is My Child."

I rose around 4:45 a.m. to get to the airport in time for my 7 a.m. flight. The hotel I was at (Ibis Hotel – not bad for a short stay, if anyone is wondering) had a shuttle to the airport, which I took advantage of. Now, Novotel and Ibis are right next to each other and I think they are linked, so they share a shuttle. The shuttle was waiting at Ibis. We drove to Novotel (around the block). Then we drove BACK to Ibis and waited for another ten minutes before finally departing to the airport.

Checking in and getting on the plane was no major hassle. I was unfortunate enough to sit in an aisle seat, in the center – but fortunate enough that a window seat was free in the row next to me, with the middle seat empty as well. The bad news was that there was a six-month old baby directly behind me. The worse news was, because there was a baby sitting behind me, I couldn't recline fully. The even worse news was that the baby was using the tray table as its own personal drum kit. About two hours into the flight, I finally turned around to the mom and asked her, politely, if her oh-so adorable baby could possibly use the MIDDLE tray table for as percussion, since that seat was not occupied.

She peered at me from the crack in between rows. "Well, can't you move to the middle seat?"

Was she crazy? I seriously had to pause for a second to process that question. "Um, no."

"Well," she shrugged. "It's my child. And I paid for two seats."

Now, I don't like children. This is well known. I especially don't like parents who think their Goober is the world's most precious thing and that their every whim must be catered to, courtesy be damned.

Her father? Husband? Some random old dude she was with? interjected at this point. "Is that your seat?" he asked me, pointedly.

"Uh, yes."

He looked at me, eyebrows raised, probably wanting to challenge the fact that I switched seats. "That's your seat?"

"Yes," I said mocking his tone. "This is my seat. Look," I said (probably sounding pissed off, because I was really tired of my seat being jostled every two seconds). "All I'm saying is that there is no one in the middle seat, and I don't like my seat being banged on every two seconds." With that, I turned away. The mother told me that I was being rude. I snapped back at her "I was not rude, so don't you dare say that."

Ten minutes later, the Emirates steward came over to me and told me that if I was having an issue with the child, he could get me earplugs. Because earplugs totally erases the shaking of a chair for 6 hours.

When we finally landed in Rome (mercifully, the baby did switch to the middle seat so I was shake-free for the remaining four hours!) I attempted to find a taxi. I was accosted by the taxi sharks ("65 euros to the center!" No, thanks) but I managed to find a legit taxi and get to my hotel.

Feed the Birds

Rome itself was lovely. I do not want to dwell too long on this aspect, because I think the trip is best told through photos. However, I want to share the following fun story with you. As I was walking around, I passed through a square with lots of pigeons. In the middle of the square were a woman and her friend. The woman PICKED UP one of the pigeons and NUZZLED IT AGAINST HER CHEEK. I really hope she either a) had a rabies shot or b) was fond of being ill from bird flu.

"Scuzi!"

Leaving Rome was a breeze, for the most part. However, on the way to the airport, the car I was in was pulled over by the Gestapo (kidding – the carabiniere, but I keep calling them Gestapo in my head). Pulled over! And they took the drivers license? Registration? Something? and glanced at it for about ten minutes before giving it back and sending us on our way.

Then, at the airport, the gelato man yelled at me. Yes. A gelato man at the airport yelled at me because I asked if I could try one of the flavours before purchasing a 4 Euro cup of the stuff. YELLED. Excuse me, sir, you are selling crappy airport gelato. Calm down. The Italians were so friendly up until that point.

The significant thing to note about my return was that I was arriving in Dubai on Emirates, but leaving 6 hours later on Jazeera. I would be staying at the hotel in the actual duty free area of the terminal. The question: What to do with my suitcase?

The Suitcase Fiasco

I was told by everyone (in Dubai before I left, in Rome before I left, and in Dubai again before I checked into the hotel) that what I needed to do was leave my bag at baggage claim, then arrange for it to be picked up by Jazeera before my flight. I was understandably wary about this – had these people ever dealt with Jazeera, ever? – but went along with what they said. It was 1 a.m. by the time I crashed into the airport hotel bed and I needed to be at the transit desk by 5:30 to get everything taken care of.

I, of course, took the chance to sleep in and got to the desk by 5:45 a.m. At 1 a.m., there were 4 booths open and not a soul in sight. At 5:45 a.m., there were two Emirates booths open and one non-Emirates booth open – and probably 2 plane full of people trying to either transit or asking questions about transit.

I don't usually do this, but I cut the line at about 6:15. I had dealt with missing a Jazeera check in before – hello, do we all remember the Jordan incident? – and I didn't want a repeat. I told the guy behind the counter that I had to make my flight. He looked up at me. "Why?"

Why. WHY? What do you mean WHY? Who asks that kind of question? I responded that I had to get to work, but really – I think the fact that I had booked and paid for a seat means that I want to get on the plane. I explained my suitcase situation to him and he frowned. "You should have had it checked all the way from Rome," he told me.

"But I'm flying on different airlines. So…" I trailed off, thinking he would make the connection. "Still," he said. "I will send them a message now. Hopefully it will get there on time."

"I hate you all with the fire of a thousand suns," I thought.

"Five minutes, Inshallah"

After I got through the transit area, I had about 45 minutes until boarding. I ran to get makeup (hey, I am at work, needed to restock anyways, and need to look good for work) then ran to the gate. They had told me to inquire at the gate about my suitcase, if it had made it through. Panting, I arrived and asked the two ladies behind the gate counter about it. "You have to wait for Jazeera," one of them told me. "We have no information."

Okay. When do they come? "Five minutes, inshallah." I headed to Starbucks, to get breakfast. I came back to find a long line. As usual, when I am there the first time and can't be helped, no one is around. When I come back to be helped, suddenly half the airport needs help as well.

That's when I found out the fight was delayed for 45 minutes.

One of the Jazeera flight members walked by at that moment, and I stopped him to double check that fact (that I had heard from another passenger). He smiled at me. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know. I am just the ground staff."

Around 8 a.m. (a half hour after we were supposed to leave), we were allowed to enter the gate waiting area. The same two ladies were handling the tickets, and I asked one of them about my bag. "We don't know," she snapped at me. Bear in mind, she wasn't actually doing anything, just standing around. "You have to wait for Jazeera."

Really. How long is the wait? Oh, they'll be there in five minutes? You don't say!

Luckily, when I handed her my boarding card, a notice came up about my suitcase. It had made it through! Jazeera had done one thing right in their pitiful career as an airline.

In Conclusion

I have clearly safely made it back to Kuwait. I am tired, but have lots of pictures to share from Roma. I want to be Italian. Seafood risotto is amazing. I threw a coin in the Fontana di Trevi, so hopefully I will return.

Royal Jordanian, Part Two: From Baghdad, With Love

2007-08-28T14:54:00.000+03:00

I have traveled to Jordan three times in the last four months. Each trip has been riddled with problems. I thought the problem was that I was flying Jazeera Airways. The first time I flew, I missed my flight. The second time I flew, I was given a boarding pass for a Dareen Al Shankseer. That is not anywhere close to my name. I thought the problem with all of this was that I was flying Jazeera. The link, however, turned out not to be Jazeera. The link is Jordan.

My third trip to the Hashemite Kingdom started off smoothly enough. I made it to the airport on time and checked in. I had a seat. Our plane wasn’t brand spanking new, but it had definitely been made in the last 7 years. Nothing disastrous happened in Amman, so when I woke up on the last day there, I considered the trip a success.

Our return flight to Kuwait was scheduled for 2 p.m. We all went to breakfast with our Jordanian friends, as a sort of final farewell. Around 10:30, I got a message from a friend in Kuwait who was supposed to pick all of us up:

“Hola! Is your flight delayed? Just checked the web.”

I was confused and wrote back, “Not that I know of – is it saying it’s delayed? We are flying Royal Jordanian”

The response was immediate: “It’s delayed five hours!!”

I made the announcement to the table, and all of us sighed in relief. We may be delayed, but all of us love Amman and none of us were in any hurry to get back home. That notion, coupled with the fact that we thankfully weren’t AT the airport put us all in a cheerful mood. The rest of the day was spent doing lunch, checking in at the Royal Jordanian office in Amman and saying goodbye.

Once we got to the airport at 6 p.m., we went through security and then checked our flight. In bold letters, it read like this:

RJ800 KUWAIT 13:55 (original time) 20:45 (estimated time) DELAYED

We were delayed another 3 hours on top of the earlier 5 hours. We all groaned, and realized that it could be worse. We could have been there since 11, like we were supposed to be. We needed to entertain ourselves, and fast.

“Let’s play cards,” said Nisreen. Leaving Shamlan to watch the bags, Samer, Ziad, Nisreen and I all trotted over to the duty free section to buy cards. But Nisreen got distracted by the Jordanian souvenir section.

“Guys!!” she said, calling Samer and Ziad over to her. “Let’s dress up!” The three donned Palestinian scarves picked up tambourines, drums and fezzes and posed for my camera. We managed to take about five photos, in various poses, before a very unhappy looking Duty Free clerk came over and started telling me, in Arabic, that this was a “high secure zone” (really?) and that pictures weren’t allowed.

“Guys!” said Nisreen, taking my camera from me. “What we should do is go to the alcohol section, grab TONS of it, and take photos!”

In our defense, we live in a dry country.

Samer and Ziad went about collecting alcohol in a blue plastic cart while I struck a pose with a bottle of Johnny Walker. Ziad, meanwhile, stopped in front of a display of Belleintine’s alcohol, and pointed. “Will you be my ballentines?” he asked us, with a mournful look on his face.

Cracking up, because we are all about five years old, we made our way back to our bags, where Shamlan had been patiently waiting for about half an hour as we conducted our photoshoot. On our way back, we spotted a Royal Jordanian representative, and made a beeline for him. Nisreen did the talking.

”Amoo,” she said in Arabic. “Can you tell us why the flight is delayed? We’re on our way back to Kuwait.”

He turned to us and spoke in Arabic. I listened, trying to understand what was going on, in an effort to improve my own Arabic. I couldn’t. Samer understood, though, and turned to me, laughing.

The reason our flight was delayed eight hours? It’s simple, really.

“The flight,” said Samer, in between laughter, “is delayed because it is stuck in Baghdad.”

Yes, Baghdad. As in Iraq. As in the war zone. As in, why the hell is our plane stuck there?

I began to laugh and just walked away before I could ruin Nisreen’s two truths and half a lie about how we had been at the airport since noon (lie) and we were tired (truth), hungry (truth) and how we just wanted to go home (half lie, half truth – we just wanted to get out of the airport).

After making it back to Shamlan, we shifted over to the Starbucks to get comfortable, when there was announcement made over the airport intercom that all people waiting to get to Kuwait on RJ800 were entitled to a free meal. Nisreen, Samer and Ziad jumped up and ran off.

They came back about 20 minutes later, holding five boxes of “food” (one for each of us) and handed them out.

“Oh man,” said Samer, opening up the box. Inside the box was a turkey sandwich (aka two slices of bread slapped together with some butter and a turkey slice), an airplane meal that was probably meant for a flight yesterday, banana bread and a juice box.

“This isn’t food,” Shamlan said, pulling apart the sandwich.

“You have to hear what we did,” said Nisreen, helping herself to a bite of the “sandwich”. “We barged into the kitchen.

Samer continued. “I was talking to the guy giving us the food and I told him, in Arabic, “Make sure we get better food than the American.” And then I realized that she probably heard me say “Amrikia” and figured out that I was talking about her, so I turned back to her and was like 'How many do you want? I just asked the guy to make sure you get enough.'"

We all were crying with laughter at this point.

“And then,” continued Nisreen, “the guy working at the kitchen was just NOT happy about the fact that we had barged in. So I was like, ‘why are you so mad?’ and he said he wasn’t. And then I said that I’d call him sanfoor ghadban [translation: angry smurf] since he was so upset with us.”

Ziad chimed in: “Everyone there was yelling about how they’d been there since 11 a.m., and we all stood up and were like US TOO, GET US OUT OF HERE.”

I wasn’t sure how we had evaded being arrested, but somehow we had managed to be overly obnoxious in an airport and still hold boarding passes.

Just then, we heard an announcement that all passengers to Kuwait should head to Gate 7, since the plane had apparently made it out of Baghdad and into civilization.

We handed over our boarding passes at the gate and started walking towards the tarmac. “Oh, guys,” I said. “I think we have to take the bus to the plane.” Sure enough, we crossed through the gate and were greeted by an escalator, taking us down and out of the airport.

Not just any escalator. A non-moving escalator.

“This,” said Samer, “is VIP treatment. The plane is delayed for hours, we are forced to wait here since 11, we get terrible food and now the escalator doesn’t even work!”

As we walked out of the airport, there were two buses waiting for us. About 500 yards away was the plane. We could walk the distance.

“Amoo,” said Nisreen, sweetly to the elderly Royal Jordanian employee guiding people onto the buses. “Can we just, I don’t know, walk to the plane?”
He looked at us, unamused. “No.”

”But it’s so close.”

“It’s a security threat,” he said, and turned his back to us. Case closed.

When we finally made it on the plane, we were faced with another dilemma. Nisreen and I were not sitting with the others. In my case, it was purely my fault – when I checked in, I was given seat 6A, and wasn’t fond of giving up such a prime seat. The boys were in the second to last row. We all waited as a group to try and switch seats. Nisreen took care of this effort and did it seamlessly. However, in the process, she made an enemy of Diana S., the flight attendant assigned to our section of the plane. The woman constantly threw us dirty looks as we attempted to finagle our way into Row 27. At one point, I was blocked into the row because she and two other people were standing right in front of me and there were people behind me.

She shot me a dirty look. “Where are you sitting?”
“Um, up front.”
“Please go to your seat.”
I smiled sweetly at her. “I would love to, but I can’t get out of the area I’m in.”

She sniffed, and walked away.

“We are so going to get her,” hissed Nisreen, joyfully.

After finally settling into our seats, having successfully switched, I noticed that the armrests had ashtrays built into them. How old, exactly, was this plane?

I got my answer soon enough, when the safety video came on. While Royal Jordanian didn’t have video screens built into the back of the chairs, they generally had, at the very lease, normal television screens ejecting from the roof of the plane.

Our flight, however, had a projector.

“How old is this plane?” asked Samer, in a hushed tone, as the projector screen slowly descended in front of us.

We all stared. I was trying to calculate the last time I had been on a plane that had ashtrays and a projector screen and figured it was probably in 1993. I didn’t know planes like this were still in existence.
While the rest of the flight was uneventful (except for when they handed out comment cards, to Ziad and Nisreen’s joy – they had lots to say about Diana S.), we were all fairly certain that we’d never fly Royal Jordanian again.

Baghdad. Honestly.

Suprise! (Part Three)

2007-06-20T16:35:00.000+03:00

Day Four: Amman

Day four was fairly uneventful. We went down for breakfast ("This is appalling," sniffed Waleed as he looked at the display of cold cuts and cheeses. "And they call this a five star hotel.") and then ended up sitting around the lobby drinking Turkish coffee. After three hours of this, we went to Centro for lunch, which was very much a business-lunch kind of venue, and then went to the Royal Automobile Museum, at Samer's request.

"I want to see the cars," he insisted. Dimah, Waleed, Samer, Fahed, Fares and myself all went, along with Waleed's cousin, Niveen. Fahed, Waleed and I picked up Niveen from one of Amman's many roundabouts.

"Wow, this isn't suspicious activity at all," I said as we passed a policeman, who was watching our car circle the roundabout for a fifth time. Once Niveen met up with us, we drove to the museum.

The museum was atop of a hill, overlooking Amman. "They want to tear all of this down," Fahed told us, "to build high rise apartments." We all looked at the sprawling green hills, taking in the contrast of the bright green with the white buildings in the distance. "That is disgusting," said Waleed.

Behind the museum was the new Children's Museum that was in the process of being built and a new mosque. When Fares, Dimah and Samer came, we all decided to check out the mosque. "We have to cover ourselves though, don't we?" I asked. "Nah, its fine," responded Fares, marching up to the mosque with confidence.

We were stopped by a shout from one of the men sitting in front. Gesturing wildly at the three of us girls, he indicated that we should, in fact, have covered our hair. We backtracked to get scarves for those of us who had XX chromosomes and walked back.

"This is the first and last time you all will see me like this," I informed everyone, as I adjusted my make-shift hijab.
"What if you marry someone who forces you to do it?" asked Fares.
I fixed him with a steely gaze. "I wouldn't."

As we walked towards the mosque, our “guide” stopped us. "No pictures," he said, in Arabic. He walked us around the back of the mosque, into the courtyard and then back out. Our tour was done. It lasted all of five minutes.

"That's it?" I said, pulling off my scarf. "That was kind of ridiculous. We didn't even see anything."
“You went totally Iran style on your abaya!” said Samer. “It was just like, boom, Iran!”

After the so-called tour, we walked back towards the Royal Automobile Museum. As we approached the building, Fares turned to me. "Don't say a word," he said. "We're going to try and get the Jordanian citizen rate for everyone instead of paying full price."

We looked at the price. The cost for a Jordanian was 1 JD. The cost for non-Jordanians was 2 JD. The difference was less than $1. Whatever Fares' plan was, it worked. We went into the museum and were face to face with… cars. Lots of cars. Fancy cars. Cars that kings died in, cars that queens were married in… just, cars everywhere. I had never been to a car museum and always figured they would be dull. I was right. Cars are cars. However, we had a tour guide who insisted on telling us, in Arabic and in great detail, about each of the cars.

“This is the car that King Abdullah was married in!” Waleed would translate to me. The Jordanians were fascinated. I was bored. After about 45 minutes, we finally left the car museum to go to Blue Fig, which is apparently the place to go in Jordan. “All the cool people are here,” I was informed. “This is where you go to see and be seen.” Blue Fig is your standard bar/coffee shop. After Blue Fig, we went back to the hotel bar where the Kuwait-refugees all kicked back with some alcohol. Day four was quiet – but after our weekend in Wadi Rum, quiet was what we needed.

**

Day Five: Amman

Our last day in Amman was spent eating more of the hotel breakfast, visiting a mall called Mecca Mall (we were informed that “It’s called Mecca Mall because it’s located on Mecca Street.”) and going to the airport.

And, because it’s me, the airport couldn’t be as simple as checking in, boarding the plane and getting home. Oh, no.

The Queen Alia International Airport in Jordan is made up of two terminals. The building is about a hundred years old and the combination of the two terminals is the size of one, normal, fully functioning terminal in Los Angeles. I was in Terminal 2, flying Jazeera Airways. The boys were in Terminal 1, flying Royal Jordanian.

The airport is structured as such: You walk into a waiting area with two coffee shops. If you’re actually flying, you walk through a security check (where you show your passport and ticket) and only then do you walk up to the counter to check-in.
After I was dropped off, a porter rushed to me, grabbed my bag and asked me what airline I was flying. I told him that I could take my own bag, but he shrugged me off and asked me again what airline I was flying.

“Uh, Jazeera.”
“They are closed. Come this way!” he said, walking purposefully in front of me. I stopped at the security check and showed the guard there my passport.

“What airline?” he asked.
“Jazeera.”
The guard chuckled. “Jazeera is closed!” he said, handing me back my passport and waving me through. I didn't get it. Was it closed because I was early? I thought my flight was at 2:30. It was 1 p.m. I chalked it up to a language barrier and walked through the second part of the security check, which involved scanning my bags and getting scanned myself. As I walked towards the counter, the porter walked next to me.

“See!” he said. “They are closed!”

He put my suitcase next to the counter and looked at me expectantly.
“What do you mean it’s closed,” I said, beginning to panic.
There were three other men standing around the counter. One of them looked at me. “See,” he said, pointing at the screen above me. “The flight is at 1:30. It is 1 right now.”

That panicky feeling wasn’t going away. Yes, I was cutting it close, but come on. I’ve been on flights where they’ve held up the plane for an hour. I needed to get home.

“Um, I need to get on this flight,” I said.

The men all chuckled. “Jazeera is gone!” they said.

“Gone where??” I asked, still panicking.

“To the gate!” he said. “You are late!”

“Well, can you get them? Please?” I wasn’t trying to be a brat here, but I just really needed to get home. I had a job to get back to. And what would I tell my parents? Would I send them a postcard with a picture of Petra on the front and a message saying “Sorry, I misread the ticket. I’m still in Jordan, will get home when I can! XO, Your Daughter”

The man chuckled again and disappeared behind the door without actually answering me.
My faith in Middle Eastern efficiency is almost none. I pulled out my cell phone and called Waleed.

“Are you still at the Royal Jordanian counter? Are there still tickets?” I asked him, sending bargins to whatever holy deity was listening to me.

There was a long pause, during which time I think Waleed was debating whether or not he should even bother asking me why I needed to know this. Instead, I heard him turn to the person behind the counter and ask them if there were still tickets available. There were.

I quickly recapped the situation for him, adding in a few curse words here and there. I told him I would wait a little longer and call him back.

I hung up the phone and surveyed the scene before me. My porter was leaning back against the counter, studying his cuticles. Two other airport employees were sitting on the side, chitchatting. My porter looked up at me and grinned.

“Look!” he said, pointing behind the counter. “Jazeera is now Iraq Air!” He chuckled to himself while I tried to decide if murder was too harsh of a punishment. I looked back at the two decorations sitting on the side and called to them.

“Hey. Is anyone coming?”

The two men looked up at me and grinned. “Nope!”

I grabbed my suitcase and bolted to the other terminal. On the way, I called Waleed. “I’m coming on your flight,” I said, and hung up the phone.

I ran to the other terminal which wasn’t far, but meant I had to navigate my way though two buildings with a big bulky suitcase in kitten heels. I reached my destination and, panting, I handed my passport over and went through security. Waleed was on the other side, waiting for me and holding in his hand the most beautiful sight ever – a ticket home.

Together, we went back to the check in counter where I handed in my bags to them and tried to catch my breath. The lady checking me in looked at me and smiled. “Window or aisle?” she asked.

“I don’t really care,” I said, panting. “Just get me on the plane.”

Waleed explained the situation to them; since I was too busy trying not to die to explain what happened. They laughed, handed me my ticket and sent me on my way.
By some miracle, I cleared customs and onto the plane. Of course, since I was traveling with Waleed, Samer, Ziad and Fares, the plane ride couldn’t be all that smooth.

As we sat waiting to take off, Ziad propped his leg up on the chair, with his arm dangling in the aisle. As one of the stewardesses walked by him, she walked into his arm, causing it to hit the chair in front of him. “Ow,” he said loudly, rubbing his arm. The stewardess kept on walking. Ziad turned to the rest of us. “Did you see that?!” he asked us in disbelief. “She smirked! I said ‘Ow’ and she turned around and smiled!”

He was livid. The rest of us laughed.

The plane ride itself was uneventful, save for some video and picture taking. As we prepared for descent, we tried to settle in to our seats, but it was proving difficult. Samer was still taking videos. And Ziad was keeping his eyes out for the bitchy stewardess who hurt his hand.

As we were lowering towards the ground, the pilot decided that a smooth landing was just too boring and that an air show was actually far more appropriate.

There was turbulence.
An insane amount of turbulence.
Then the plane went diagonal.

When I get nervous on plane rides, my reaction is always to look at the stewardesses and see if they look nervous. If they don’t, I figure everything is okay. In this case the stewardesses were still wandering around the aisle, preparing for landing, despite the fact that the plane was in no position it normally would be in.

Ziad’s Stewardess walked by us as well. As she did, the plane was suddenly rocked with turbulence. She was thrown off balance and stumbled down four rows before catching herself and continuing walking. As he saw this, Ziad smirked.

“What goes around comes around, yeah?” he shouted.

The rest of us dissolved into nervous laughter as the plane did a 180.

We somehow landed and didn’t skid off the runway. As we taxied to our gate, I spied a Jazeera plane parked at the gate next to us.

“Oh, look. There was my original plane,” I muttered bitterly. One thing was for sure: I was never going to fly Jazeera again.

As we walked into the airport and drove home, the familiar scenery passed me by. It was time to go back to normal life. Jordan was one of those trips that I wouldn’t soon forget.

fin

Part One | Part Two

Suprise! (Part Two)

2007-05-17T08:32:00.000+03:00

Day 3: Wadi Rum

The No Surprise Sex Tent Girls, along with Fares, decided to stay up to watch the sunrise. We hiked up a little bit of mountain and settled, with a lantern and Fares for entertainment.

Meanwhile, Waleed decided to skip the sunrise that he had been talking about for three weeks and go to sleep.

"Where are my cigarettes?" asked Fares. "Did I leave them down at the tent? Damnit." He placed a call to the tent below, where the others were drinking and playing cards. They laughed at his suggestion for them to bring up the cigarettes and hung up on him.

To Jordan's credit, the sunrise was beautiful. The stillness of the morning combined with the sunrise was just calming. The weather wasn't too warm, the company was good.

After sitting there for about a half hour or so, Fahed and Ziad joined us.
"Do you have cigarettes?" called Fares, frantically.

We stood for a few moments, watching the sunrise and taking photos, before heading back down the mountain to our tents.

We settled in, with Sally and I attempting to sleep while Erica and Rula immediately passed out. Before long, we heard voices outside the tent. Fares and Ziad were awake and didn't care who heard them.

"Peekaboo," said Ziad, walking into our tent.

Fares walked in after him. "We don't have beds," he said. "Where are we supposed to sleep?"

Sally and I shrugged and kicked the boys out. They walked around some more outside of our tent, giggling, before pausing outside one of our "windows" and blowing smoke into it.

"Hey!" called Sally. "This is the no smoking tent!"

More giggles.
More smoke.

We both sat up in "bed" and looked at each other. From the entrance to our tent, we saw the boys' shadows, Ziad's shadow holding something long and broom shaped.

sweep

We saw sand being swept into our tent.

More giggles.

Sally and I gave up on sleep and went outside to join them. "We're bored," declared Fares.

"I can see that," I responded.

Ziad's face lit up. "I know!" he said. "Let's open up all the tent doors to let the sunlight in. Then everyone will wake up."

Sally and I started laughing in disbelief. "You guys," I said. "It is like, 6:30 in the morning. Everyone just went to bed about an hour ago. They might kill you."

Fares looked at us again. "But we're bored."

Ziad, in the meantime, had gone to each tent and opened the tent flap.
Nobody had stirred.

Fares sighed. "Fine. We'll give them till 8:30. Then, I am personally going to go and wake them up myself."

Sally and I rolled our eyes, and went back to our beds.

The boys continued to wander.

Then, we heard something hitting the tent. "Are they throwing rocks at us?" I asked.

I peered outside the tent, carefully, and saw the boys holding stones. "What, are you Palestinian now?"

"We're bored!" said Fares.

Ziad then wandered over to Waleed's tent. "Ohhh, man," he said. "I have a great idea."

He started lacing up Waleed's tent, locking it up from the outside and securing the flap in place with a broom. "This is terrible! I wish I could see him when he wakes up."

I excused myself to go to the bathroom, as Ziad spotted a pile of bamboo sticks and made a beeline for them. "We have to use these!" he said excitedly.

As I made my way back to the tents, a cold fear had gripped me. "Oh god," I said to myself. "They've taken my bed."

Sure enough, as I approached my tent, I found that it had been locked from the inside. I peered inside, and saw Ziad passed out on my bed and Fares attempting to make himself comfortable on the floor, in a sleeping bag.

"Are you kidding?"

I somehow managed to untie the door, entered the tent and found that I had nowhere to sleep. I tried nudging Ziad, but he wouldn't move. Knowing that he has Deena-phobia, I decided to just sleep on top of him, thinking he'd freak out and move off the bed.

Unfortunately, Ziad was gone to the world. As a result, I had about twenty minutes of sleep, since I was sharing a 2 x 4 cot with him. I gave up sleeping around 8:30 and decided that I would just sleep on the bus.

***

Breakfast was just as appetizing as dinner. I made a move to put some hummus on my plate, but Waleed and Sally stopped me.

“I wouldn’t eat that,” Sally said.

I looked to Waleed to confirmation. “Yeah,” he said, peering at the hummus. “It’s a million degrees outside. I wouldn’t touch it.”

I settled for some bread.

Before long, we got back on the bus and headed to the Wadi Rum Retreat, where we were to take 4x4 pick up trucks (“SUT’s”, as Sally called them) around the desert. We saw the Seven Pillars, where Lawrence of Arabia was filmed and other cool rock formations.

All of us, that is, except for Ziad.

“I want to tan,” he said and promptly lathered himself up with baby oil and removed his shirt. He decided to forgo exploring the rocks and instead lay down on the back of the truck and soaked up the sun.

Our driver was about 100 years old, leathery and brown from the sun. “He’s so sweet,” murmured Rula, taking photos of him. On our way back, however, our “oh-so-sweet” driver decided to up the ante and race across the sand going about 100kph. Including bumps.

“I really don’t think he’s so sweet,” grumbled Sally, clinging onto the back of the truck for dear life.

After eating at the retreat, we made our way back onto the bus. Hisham promptly put in the tape of Egyptian music, while the rest of us fell asleep, only waking when we reached rest stops.

At one rest stop, while the majority of the bus was outside stretching, Sally shook her head. “I can’t believe our Bedouin driver in Wadi Rum,” she said. Those of us on the bus looked at her, confused. Our driver was about 95 and had one good eye. What was so shocking about this?

“You mean you didn’t see the ‘surprise’ he almost gave Samer?” she asked.

Surprise?

“Yeah,” she said. “There was one point where Samer was standing up in the back of the truck, facing forward and taking photos. And the driver casually stretched his right hand back towards the window and towards Samer’s um, region.”

Right as she finished the story, Samer got on the bus. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Awkward silence.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Actually,” said Samer, looking more and more concerned. “I DO want to know.”

Sally recounted the story of the Bedouin driver’s love to him. Samer slumped down in the seat, holding his head in his hands. “I can’t believe you told me this four hours after it happened,” he said. “I’m traumatized.”

“Surprise!” said Sally, meekly.

Part One

Suprise! (Part One)

2007-05-15T20:43:00.000+03:00

Day One: Kuwait to Amman

The trip to Jordan was doomed from the beginning. Not only did I have intense, heated arguments with Jazeera about booking my flight, Waleed had issues with reading his Royal Jordanian ticket (ironic foreshadowing). Somehow, I made it to the airport for my 11 a.m. flight on time and in one piece.

The first order of business was checking in, which surprisingly went off without a hitch. They told me at the counter that I could pay for the Amman-Kuwait portion of my trip at the airport in Amman. I happily went off, confident that I had been able to check in with time to run the usual pre-boarding errands (that is to say, buy sunglasses because I forgot mine and exchange money). As I walked by the Jazeera counter, however, I decided not to risk it. I was hopeful. It was a brand new day, after all. Maybe Jazeera had made some changes!

Me: Hi! I’ve just checked in for my flight from Kuwait to Amman. Thank god. But hey, I still have to pay that 5KD for my change in dates for my return flight. Can I do that here?
Incompetent Person #4: Yes. That’s 5KD.
Me: Hot damn. I just changed all my Kuwait Dinars into Jordanian. Can I pay with my credit card?
Incompetent Person #4: No.
Me: What?
Incompetent Person #4: No. We don’t support credit cards when you make a change over the phone.
Me: That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my life.
Incompetent Person #4: Yeah, well, we’re Jazeera. That’s what we do.
Me: Fine. This is a long shot, but can I pay with Jordanian?
Incompetent Person #4: HAHAHAHA. No. But, hey, there’s a money exchange place over there, you can re-exchange your money into KD.
Me: Okay, I lied, THAT is the most ridiculous thing I have heard in my life.
Incompetent Person #4: Toodles.

Since I work close to the airport, I have gone to the airport a few different times for lunch. I knew where three different ATMs were. I went to each of those ATMs. Every single one of them was broken. I ended up changing 10 JDs into Kuwaiti Dinars in order to pay for my flight home (more ironic foreshadowing).

I realized, at this point, that if I made it to Amman in one piece, I’d consider myself lucky.

After making it through the security check (where, as I was waiting, I heard Ugly American Kid tell his Somewhat Less Ugly American Father that the millions of security checks were totally lame and unnecessary, to which I really wanted to turn around to him and say “Have you heard of September 11?”), I entered the waiting area at Gate #2, sat down and pulled out my iPod. I had barely made it through the introduction of whatever I had been listening to when I was tapped on the shoulder by Elderly Hijab Woman.

“Excuse me,” she said, not unkindly.

I was befuddled, as most people are when they are interrupted by a random stranger at the airport. “Yes?”

Elderly, Hijab Woman: Please don’t take offense.
Me: (internally) Oh god.
Elderly, Hijab Woman: It’s just that, a little bit of your back was showing when you sat down.
Me: Oh okay. Thanks. (internally) Oh god.
Elderly, Hijab Woman: Please don’t be mad. You are like my daughter.
Me: (forcing a smile) Not at all! Thanks!

As the lady wandered away, I heard a clanging noise. Behind me, a 2-year-old had started climbing on top of chairs, using it as her own personal jungle gym. I glanced around the waiting room and counted over 10 children, all under the age of 3. It was official: My plane was being doubled as a day care center.

I checked the time. It was 10:34 a.m. I figured, at this point, if the Jazeera flight crash-landed in the desert, I would somehow find a way to hitch hike to Amman, to get away from both the children and the insane woman.

The worst part of it was, Jazeera is a dry airline.

When I finally landed in Amman, I sent Fahed a text message letting him know that I had landed. “And,” I added “You better have a bottle of wine with you.”

I got a text back immediately. “Welcome to Jordan. It be madness, it be alcohol, it be sexy times!”

That was yet to be seen.

***

After picking up the second group of Kuwait-refugees, we all decided to make a night of it. After all, we hadn’t properly partied (illegal parties on the roofs of apartments just don’t count) in months. We started off with dinner and quite a few drinks at Mandaloon, a restaurant/club in Amman. It was a high class joint, where, apparently, all the prostitutes gather with their pimps, according to all the boys there.

“They WERE?” said Erica. “Are you sure?”

Waleed did his patented looking-at-you-over-his-glasses look. “Of course. It’s obvious.”

Having had enough of the pimps & ho’s, we went to Dove, a basement dive bar at the bottom of the Best Western hotel. Like most dive bars, their decorations were alcohol-theme posters and signage. As we entered, Samer immediately began scanning the walls.

“I want one,” he said, squinting through the darkness. “It has to be in good condition though.” He selected a Johnny Walker Red Label carpet-style wall hanging and set it on the bar table. “This is it,” he said, proudly.

He recruited Fares and I to help him get the sign out of there.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to tuck the sign into the back of my pants, put on Fares’ jacket, and you’re going to hug me so they don’t see.”

Which is exactly what we did.

"This is so going to go on my wall at home," Samer said.

***

Days 2: Wadi Rum

Our original departure times was set for 2 p.m.

“We have to see the sunset,” claimed Waleed when telling us about the Wadi Rum adventure. “It is gorgeous. Everyone goes to Wadi Rum to see the sunset.”

Then our departure time got pushed to 3 p.m.

“It’s okay!” said Waleed, clearly overcompensating for his original declaration. “We can see the sunset on the way to the camp!”

We all met at the Four Seasons at 3 p.m. Except we were missing three people. So we had to wait. For an hour.

Waleed, Samer and Fahed took this opportunity to bond with our bus driver, Hisham, as the rest of us sat on the bus, complaining about waiting around.

Ziad peered out the window at Hisham and the boys talking. “You know who he looks like?” he asked the rest of us rhetorically. “Have you ever seen Thundercats? You know that walrus character?? He looks just like him!”

He handed my camera back to me. “Take a picture of the two of us,” he said, racing off the bus. “I want to post it on Facebook, and tag him as the walrus.”

By the time we actually got moving, it was 4 p.m. Hisham reached over and pulled out the microphone. “Hello. Welcome to the bus,” he said. “Would you prefer me to speak in English or Arabic?”

Everyone looked at Erica and I, the only two who didn’t speak Arabic.

“Welcome to the bus,” repeated Hisham. “As we drive to Wadi Rum, I will tell you about different sites to see. Also, I only have a tape deck on this bus. Thank you.”

Putting away the microphone, Hisham popped in what was soon to be the soundtrack for Wadi Rum. He had one tape. It was Egyptian songs. He played it for the entire six hour trip to Wadi Rum and the entire five hour trip back from Wadi Rum. Occasionally, Hisham would turn down the radio and tell us about some sight along the route.

About two hours into the drive, Hisham tapped the microphone. “Irani girl,” he asked, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “Are you Shia’a?”

The entire bus went silent. The Kuwait crew, in particular, was trying to muffle their laughter.

I looked at Waleed, who was sitting in front of me. He motioned for me to nod.

“Yes, I am!” I replied, enthusiastically.

He smiled at me. “To your left,” he said. From the backseat, Fares quietly chimed in by paying homage to Beyonce. “To the left, to the left…”

Hisham didn’t hear him. “To your left,” he continued, “You will see one of the most holy sites for the Shia’a people.”

Dead silence on the bus.

“Wow!” I responded, trying to be enthusiastic.

“This site,” he said, “is the home of Jaafar.”

“That’s so amazing!!!” I gushed.

Hisham continued on with the tale of the site. I honestly don’t remember the details. After he finished his story, there was an awkward silence until he started playing the tape of Egyptian music again.

“That was fun,” I told Waleed.

A little while later, we pulled up alongside another tour bus. “The driver of this bus,” said Hisham, “is my nephew.” All of us turned to wave at the people inside the bus, who in turn stared at us, befuddled. We pulled over to the side, where the people from Nephew Bus exchanged coffee for food from our bus.

“Old fashioned bartering!” said Waleed. “I love it! It’s like the olden days!”

We hit the road again, making a pit stop at a tourist trap rest stop, where everything was overpriced and spelled wrong. “Hand me your camera,” declared Ziad. “I have to take a picture of the Emergency sign.”

After some overpriced shopping, we made our way back onto the bus.

“You know,” said Ziad, looking towards the rest of us sitting in the front of the bus. “My friend Aziz doesn’t believe that rape should be called rape.”

He paused, letting the sentence hang in the air. “He says it should be called ‘surprise sex.’ You know. It’s just like (makes jazz hands) SURPRISE!”

The theme for Wadi Rum was born. Not so much a fan of rape jokes myself, the concept of “surprise sex” was just so unbelievably bizarre that it quickly caught on with the other 14 of us on the bus.

Around 8 p.m., we pulled over on the side of the road to wait for Abdullah, Fares & Fahed’s cousin, to meet up with us.

We waited about an hour.

“You know, I have spent more time in waiting than I’ve actually spent in Amman,” said Ziad. “The theme of this trip is going to be waiting.”

By the time we made it to Bait Ali (literal translation: House of Ali), it was about 9:30 p.m. and the last call for dinner.

Calling it “dinner” would be generous though. The kebab was chewy. The rice was sort of edible. The chicken looked burnt. The salad was limp. “This is disgusting,” said Samer, looking at his plate. “I know,” said Sally. “I can’t really eat this.”

After settling in, Sally, Rula, Erica and I declared ourselves the “No Surprise Sex Tent”. “Come on,” said Fares. “Nothing?”

“No.” responded Sally. “Pre-mediated sex, maybe. Surprise? No.”

Eventually, we settled down with drinks, sheesha and conversed while waiting for the Jeep 4x4s to come pick us up and take us to the desert. When they finally did show up, however, there was only one of them. And fifteen of us.

“We’ll take the bus!” declared Hisham, who had had a few drinks himself. “Everybody on!”

Hisham followed the 4x4 into the middle of the desert, playing his Egyptian music enthusiastically while the rest of us cringed in fear. He overtook the 4x4 at one point, driving off into the desert.

“I’m sure he knows where he’s going,” said Fahed. “I mean, he’s driven this desert for years.”

None of use were convinced. We eventually stopped, and piled off the bus, as headlights approached us. It was like encountering the Others on “Lost”.

“Oh, god,” muttered somebody. “Are we going to get surprised?”

Turns out, this wasn’t the stop. We drove a little bit further, and reached a sand dune. Hisham got out of the bus, while the rest of us sat nervously inside, as the Egyptian music kept blasting.

Then, the bus died.

The lights went off, the engine shut down, and Hisham definitely was not in the drivers seat to have control over that.

“I guess this is where we’re settling,” someone said. We piled off the bus, and moved cushions and backpacks up the sand dune. Five of the boys went to collect firewood in order to build a bonfire.

The No Surprise Sex Tent girls huddled together on cushions close to the fire. “It’s so cold,” complained Erica. Surprisingly, I was not cold – considering I grew up in Kuwait and later moved to California, this was a miracle. Eventually, the girls called Fahed over.

“I get to be a lezabian?” he asked, clearly elated.
“Come keep us warm!” cried Sally.

As it got later and later into the night, the fire kept dwindling, until it was finally just out. That was our signal to return to the tent, at around 4 in the morning.

Hisham rose from where he had been sleeping on the sand dune next to the bus and drove us back. Upon arrival at Bait Ali, we found that the front gate had been locked.

“We are going to end up sleeping in the bus,” I told Waleed, laughing. At some point, you just had to laugh at the absurdity of it.

We tried rattling the doors to no avail. Waleed’s cousin had met up with three of her friends from Israel at the camp, and they were with us. “Look,” said one of them. “We’ll just hop the fence.” And, hop the fence he did. With a boost, he climbed over and opened the door for us.

“So,” pondered Waleed. “The Israeli just jumped the fence and broke in. I really hope the irony of this is not lost on anyone.”

As we made our way to the tents, dawn was just starting to break. Waleed had been the biggest supporter of watching the sunrise and sunset in Wadi Rum, and he began his campaign again.

“Look,” he told all of us. “The sunrise is supposed to be beautiful. Amazingly beautiful. We have to watch it.”

We had already missed the sunset. We figured we could stay up the extra half hour and see sunrise.

Part two to follow.

Royal Jordanian: Let’s Do The Time Warp Again

2007-04-28T16:42:00.000+03:00

Flashback: A Week and a Half Ago

Waleed, A Week and a Half Ago: Hi, I want to buy four tickets on Royal Jordanian because you have a totally awesome deal, roundtrip tickets for 30KD ($104)!!

Royal Jordanian (RJ): Cool. How many people?

Waleed, A Week and a Half Ago : Four people. For Wednesday.

RJ: Four people? Cool. Totally booking it. Hey, your names are really unusual by the way.

Waleed, A Week and a Half Ago : Whatever you say. We’re booked for next Wednesday?

RJ: Totally!

Cut to: Present Day

Deena: Hey, Waleed, are you sure your flight leaves at 5 p.m. tomorrow? Because someone just told me that they leave tomorrow at 8 p.m. and you guys are all on the same flight. Aren’t you?

Waleed: Uh, obviously. Wait, what?

Deena: I dunno. Here’s RJ’s number: 1-800-We-Suck

Waleed: Hi, I’m booked for a flight with you guys from Kuwait to Amman…

RJ: Awesome!

Waleed: For four people…

RJ: Oh right! I totally remember you, you’re the ones with the funny names!

Waleed: Tomorrow, at 5 p.m.

RJ: Oh. No. Actually, it’s today. Hey, what time is it now?

Waleed: Uh, 3:30 p.m.?

RJ: Yeah, your flight is in like, an hour.

Waleed: But I told you to book me on the flight for Wednesday!

RJ: You sure? Isn’t today Wednesday? The 24^th?

Waleed: Today is Tuesday!!

RJ: Right, right, Tuesday.

Waleed: I should have been booked on the Wednesday flight!

RJ: Right. The 24^th!

Waleed: No! Wednesday is the 25^th!!

RJ: Whoops, sorry about that. Well, you can still make it, can’t you?

Waleed: No! I have to pack! And The flight is in like, an hour! And I have a job?

RJ: Oooh, right, jobs. Whatever, we just play Solitare all day. Let us know if you want to reschedule your flight! LATES!!

dial tone

Waleed: Okay. Okay. Okay. I have to figure this out. Okay. I just… I just won’t pick up my phone for the next two hours!! And it’ll all go away. And be fine.

Two Hours Later

Waleed: Hi, it’s the one with the weird name. Do you have flights for tomorrow?

RJ: We are so totally booked solid. I think it’s because we’re awesome. We are so awesome, with our handy calendars and helpful customer service!

Waleed:What about in business class?

RJ: No, tomorrow we’re bringing in the small plane.
Waleed: The what?

RJ: The small plane! To Amman! Yeah, we’re thinking it’ll have like, two rows or something. I mean, it’s not like it’s the weekend or anything.

Waleed: Today is WEDNESDAY!

RJ: Right! But we figure, wo goes to Amman on the weekend, right? So we’ll bring a small plane.

Waleed: Fine. FINE. Book me for next Wednesday. Unless you’re using a small plane THEN also.

RJ: Oh, no. This Wednesday is really more of an experiment kind of thing. Small planes, yay! Come pick up the tickets soon, ‘kay?

Wednesday Afternoon

Waleed (defeated and dejected): Hi.

RJ: OMG, hi!! Nice to see you again, it’s been a long time!

Waleed: Whatever. Remember how you booked me on the wrong flight?

RJ: Uh, whatever to YOU. Remember how you didn’t check the tickets?

Waleed: Oh.

RJ: Right. Oh.

Waleed: Whatever, can I just have my tickets?

RJ: Sure thing, Strange Name Dude. (pauses before handing them over) Want to check the dates?

Waleed: Heh, heh heh. Um. (leaves)

The moral of the story is that you should always, always check your plane tickets once you buy them. Also, when you make your reservations, it’s probably best to ask the person what calendar year they are looking at, to make sure they aren’t booking you on a flight for Wednesday April 24, 2013.

Jazeera, Part Two: Wings of Ineffectiveness

2007-04-23T09:59:00.001+03:00

The day after this whole fiasco, I got a call from Waleed. He said that everyone was planning on going to Jordan and I was like, excellent! I can use my Jazeera credit to go!

Since I had the two tickets, I was just going to use one of those tickets to go to Jordan and the other ticket to go somewhere else. Maybe Dubai, as a way to relax. I went online to make the changes. The difference in cost was 67KD. Which is… kind of a lot of money. Basically, I’d be spending about $400 to go to Amman, Jordan which is a 3 hour flight away and would ordinarily cost… well, not that much.

So I got the idea to use one of the tickets to GO to Jordan, and the other ticket to come BACK from Jordan.

But I couldn’t do this online.

Which meant I had to call Jazeera.

Which I am sure they were absolutely thrilled about.

When I called and explained the situation, they didn’t understand me at first. I had to break it down.

Me: Okay so I have two tickets, okay?
Incompetent Person #3: Okay.
Me: And I want to use ONE of these tickets to go to Amman.
Incompetent Person #3: Okay.
Me: And I want to use the OTHER ticket to come BACK from Amman.
Incompetent Person #3: Okay.
Me: (pause) … So, can we do that?
Incompetent Person #3: Umm… I think so?
Me: (ready to scream)

We finally got on the same page, and figured out that yes, it is indeed possible to do that. So we got the process down. As I waited, he started asking me questions. Where was I from? Oh, I’m Kuwaiti? But I don’t speak Arabic? Why?

Dude, here’s the thing. First of all, those are super nosey questions to ask someone who you are speaking to on the phone as a customer service representative. Second of all, this is my fourth time dealing with you and your stupid staff about the same itinerary, so…just… stop asking me the questions.

We finally get my tickets taken care of, and he told me that I owe Jazeera 30KD for the difference in cost (which is a hell of a lot better than the initial 67KD I was asked to spend). I tell him I’m willing to pay over the phone.

Incompetent Person #3: Oh, no no, you can just go to the airport.
Me: What?Incompetent Person #3: Yes, the airport. You can pay there.
Me: I don’t have TIME to go to the AIRPORT. I can’t just pay over the phone?
Incompetent Person #3: You can.
Me: So the problem is…?
Incompetent Person #3: But it will be easier to go to the airport.
Me: I don’t have time to go to the airport.
Incompetent Person #3: You have a week to pay for the tickets…
Me: I have a JOB! I don’t have TIME to go to the airport! Can I just pay over the phone? Why is this so hard!?

After several back-and-forths such as that, he relentented and let me pay over the phone. Which took a good fifteen minutes, but whatever. I now hold in my hands tickets to Amman, Jordan.

It took two days to get it taken care of. But I have it.

I’m sure I will have more complaints once I actually get on board the plane, so let’s see how that goes. Be prepared, kids.

Jazeera, Part One: Wings of Ineptitude

2007-04-22T09:41:00.000+03:00

I don’t understand how some businesses stay in business.

Prior to arriving to Kuwait, I had heard a lot about Jazeera Airways, the new discount-carrier for the Middle East (think Jet Blue, but Arab). Everyone raved about it – it was basically the new coming in airlines. I had been looking forward to trying it out, since I had heard so much about their service and phenomenal prices.

In their defense the prices ARE phenomenal. So phenomenal, in fact, that Other Favourite Twin Erica and I had found 6KD tickets to Shiraz, Iran. For the pair of tickets, including taxes, we were charged 67KD (roughly $230). That’s from Kuwait to an entirely different country. What a change from the U.S. where $230 would maybe get me a ticket from San Diego to Los Angeles.

There was a slight hiccup though. Erica ended up vacationing in Greece for two weeks, which meant that we would have even less time to get visas. And Erica is one of those damn Yanks, which means that the chance of her gaining entry to one of the Axis of Evils was about the same as me winning the World Series. So, there was a problem.

Then Erica got accepted to four Snobby Schools with Green Ivy on their Walls. There were three factors that were now in play: the whole temptation to be one of those snobby students, the cost of the visa, and the fact that she may not even GET the visa. So, the two of us decided to cancel the trip to Iran.

Which was no big deal because hey, I want to go to Jordan. Or Damscus. Or Dubai. I could use the 67KD credit to go to one of those places.

Or, so I thought.

On Sunday, I gave Jazeera a call. You know, just as a friendly, hey, I’m not going to Iran anymore, can I have my credit please?

Incompetent Person #1: You don’t get a refund.
Me: Not even the taxes? Okay, I guess. Well, I’m not going to Iran anymore, so I just want to cancel the ticket.
Incompetent Person #1: You don’t get a refund.
Me: Uh, I know. That’s fine. But I’m not going, so I still need to cancel.
Incompetent Person #1: Okay. But you don’t get your money back.
Me: I am WELL AWARE that I don’t get my money back, but in either case, I am NOT GOING TO IRAN anymore so CANCEL THE TICKET.
Incompetent Person #1: There is NO REFUND.
Me: I. KNOW. I don’t WANT THE MONEY, I just want to CANCEL THE TICKET.
Incompetent Person #1: Okay, fine.

Like, what? WHAT? I understand that you want to make sure I am aware that I don’t get money put back on my credit card, but I understand that. I get it. I’m just not going to Iran anymore!

So then, incredibly enough, we get disconnected. Or they hung up on me, I’m not sure which. I call back. This time, I want to know if I can use the money to go somewhere else because this is MY MONEY, right?

Not so much.

Incompetent Person #2: Sure, we can change the ticket to go somewhere else. Where do you want to go?
Me: Can’t I just change that later?
Incompetent Person #2: Sure. When do you want to go?
Me: Uh… no idea.
Incompetent Person #2: Okay, you can change it for you and Erica later.
Me: Wait. No. I want ALL the money, since I paid for both tickets on my credit cards.
Incompetent Person #2: Well, you can’t.
Me: Why.
Incompetent Person #2: Because the other ticket is in her name.
Me: SO WHAT?
Incompetent Person #2: So you can’t use both tickets.
Me: But… but I paid for the tickets. On my credit card. Which you can see right there on the page.
Incompetent Person #2: But the other ticket is in her name. So you can’t use it. It says so when you buy the ticket.Me: I am looking at the terms and conditions RIGHT NOW and NOWHERE DOES IT SAY THAT.
Incompetent Person #2: It says: “All fares paid are non refundable except as provided in 'General Conditions of Carriage'”

I think this is when I started screaming.

Me: I DO NOT want a refund. I just want ACCESS to MY MONEY. Because I paid for the tickets on my credit card.
Incompetent Person #2: But you don’t get the money.
Me: So what you’re telling me is, even though I purchased both tickets, there is NOTHING I can do to get access to both tickets even though Erica is LEAVING THE COUNTRY and will NEVER use Jazeera ever again?
Incompetent Person #2: Right.
Me: Okay, what if I change the other ticket into my name?
Incompetent Person #2: Oh, sure, we can do that.

It took 20 minutes for them to tell me that. Twenty. Minutes. As I got transferred to yet another person (Incompetent Person #3) to process all this, I got disconnected. Again.

That was it. It was about 12:30, I work close to the airport, so I decided to get in my car and go.

Where I stood in line for another half hour waiting for my turn to speak with the representative.

I finally got to the front, and told the lady my situation. She looked at me in surprise.

Only Competent Jazeera Employee: Oh, we’ll just put both tickets in your name!
Me: But I don’t want to use both tickets in my name to go to the same place.
Only Competent Jazeera Employee: So I’ll just split the ticket into two itineraries. (clicks the mouse) Done!

The thing I don’t understand about customer service (especially in this part of the world) is why everyone was telling me different things. Why does everyone not know the policies? And, on another level, why did it take two phone calls and a visit to the airport before my problem was solved? This wasn’t really a complex situation, and I highly doubt that Jazeera had never come across this problem before. When someone says, “I am no longer going on this vacation,” the response should be “Okay, well we can’t give you a refund, but you can use the amount to go somewhere else.” Or something along those lines. And if someone understands that they don’t get their money back, do not repeatedly tell them that they don’t get a refund. I get it. Please stop telling me the same thing over and over again and start giving me solutions.

Coming soon: Jazeera, Part Two: Wings of Ineffectiveness

Weather: Our Schizophrenic Friend

2007-04-12T14:10:00.000+03:00

I realize that the weather is typically the most boring thing to write about, but the bizarre patterns Kuwait has experienced over the last 72 hours must be documented.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

All dust, all day

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

6:45 a.m.: Rise. Stumble out of bed, squinting out the window. Informed by mother that there is a dust storm. Decide to forgo contacts.

7:30 a.m.: Leave house. Drive to Starbucks (yes, we have them here) to get coffee. On the way to work, drizzle starts. Am baffled.

1:30 p.m.: Leave cave (aka: office) to get lunch. Weather is now overcast. Slight drizzle. Still dusty.

7:30 p.m.: Safely at home. Notice flashes of light coming from outside, also known as “lightening”.

7:45 p.m.: Hear loud booms in combination with the lightening, also known as “thunder”.

7:46 p.m.: Heavens decide that they are done with swimming and dump all of their water on Kuwait.

7:55 p.m.: Hail begins.

7:56 p.m.: Decide to leave living room because it sounds like the windows are about to be blown in. Contemplate the excitement factor vs. the injury factor before leaving.

8:15 p.m.: Rain slows down.

8:25 p.m.: Rain stops.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

6:45 a.m.: Rise. Stumble out of bed. Notice it is sunny. Celebrate by wearing contacts for the first time in two days, due to sand storms.

8 a.m.: Also celebrate the weather by wearing sunglasses.

11:30 a.m.: Get IM from officemate, declaring that it is raining. Go to empty office to see this phenomena as said office has a window. Realize the parking lot is now a pool.

11:45 p.m.: Torrential rain stops. Decide to park out in Office with a Window.

11:47 p.m.: Sun comes out.

1:15 p.m.: Clouds return. Curse.

1:21 p.m.: Rain begins.

1:25 p.m.: Hail begins.

1:31 p.m.: Hail stops.

1:45 p.m.: Rain stops.

1:47 p.m.: Sun comes out.

Before the days end, I predict more hail, some rain and possibly a tornado.

Farce

2007-04-03T09:57:00.001+03:00

Since moving back to Kuwait, I, like anyone else living in this country, have complained about the driving, about being harassed by the shababs (young boys who drive Porches bought by Daddy and his bank account) and have been sick of the people who drive like they own the roads.

The fundamental problem, the one that ties almost all of my complaints together, boils down to one entity in Kuwait: the police force. Although calling them a police force is generous – perhaps it would be better to call them a police farce.

I don’t want to pretend that the police force in the United States should be held up as the moral standard for police around the world – after all, the tales of corruption and bribery run rampant, and they certainly aren’t ethical. But at least they get the job done.

As I drive to work every day, I almost always hit traffic (funnily enough, I sit in more traffic here than I ever did while living in Southern California, traffic capital of the world, for six years). Inevitably, there will be a line of cars cruising on the shoulder of the road, because they are just too goddamn important to sit in traffic like the rest of us plebeians. Last week, for the first time since I moved to Kuwait, I actually saw police pulling over the cars that were doing this.

Today, there was a police car with three police sitting in it driving directly behind me. As they chatted away (probably about how many young girls they were aiming to pull over that day), a beat up Nissan pickup truck drove down the shoulder. The car, seeing the police car, cut in right behind them. The police did nothing. The pick up then changed its lane, pulled up along side me, and began merging into my lane – and at the same time, merged into my car. I leaned on my horn as the car paid no mind, and continued entering the lane. The police, there to protect and serve, still did nothing. I believe their conversation had, at this point, moved on to last night’s football scores. As we all hit another round of traffic, the Nissan truck merged back into the shoulder and drove off, probably worried about being late for his tea date. The police still did nothing.

This is exactly the kind of behavior that promotes the selfish, me-me-me attitude that Kuwaiti’s have. If the police farce actually did their jobs, instead of pulling over young girls because their license plates are dirty (true story) or their lights are too bright (true story) and started pulling over the people who are out-and-out disobeying the law, this country would improve tenfold. Instead of playing with the traffic lights (not a euphemism, although it could be), they should pull over the idiots who treat Gulf Road like their own Formula 1 racecourse.

Rules are there for a reason. It’s bad enough when ordinary citizens break the rules, but it’s worse when the police willingly and knowingly turn a blind eye. Instead of hiring middle school dropouts, they should hire people who actually have brain cells. Instead of giving the 21 year old, new-to-the-farce police officer keys to the fancy BMW police car, they should make them walk around giving tickets to cars that are illegally parked. Pull over the idiots who drive 200kph. Pull over the cars that are driving at night with no lights on. Stop and arrest the young kids who cruise around the malls and roads, harassing girls who happen to be out by themselves.

I am not trying to say that improving the police force would improve everything about Kuwait. Nor am I saying that the police are the be-all-end-all – plenty of responsibility falls on the Kuwaiti citizens. At the end of the day, however, when people see those in an authoritative position blatantly breaking or ignoring the laws, they will do the same. This is basic stuff, not rocket science. No one is asking the police farce to get out there and cure cancer; we’re talking about making sure that people aren’t killed as they’re driving to work. The death toll in Kuwait from car accidents is four times that of any other country in the world. Why wouldn’t the police want to protect their own people? Do they want to contribute to this?

At the end of the day, changes in society come from within. But as long as people are given free reign to do whatever they chose, Kuwaiti society will never change.

Have You Any Wool?

2007-02-21T14:32:00.000+03:00

New York Friend Jessica has weird things happen to her a lot. Whether it’s being accosted on a pedi-cab by a Jesus lover or getting to be a VIP doorwoman at a celebrity party, Jessica is fond of looking to the heavens, rolling her eyes and exclaiming loudly “How is this my life?”

I was always amused by these stranger-than-life stories, the ones that you couldn’t even made up if you tried. I never thought I would have those kinds of experiences until I myself moved to a big city. Then, I moved to Kuwait.

I’m not sure if it was the sudden change in climate or if it was the 11 hour time difference. All I know is, I was driving home from a friends house when a cop pulled me over because my “lights were too bright”. As he wrote me a ticket, I saw about five cars drive by with no lights on at 9:30 p.m., all going about 120 kph (75mph). I cursed at the heavens, and wondered how, exactly, this was my life.

The other day, I was coming back from lunch with some coworkers. I work in the middle of nowhere, practically the ghetto. Farm-land ghetto, not East-Compton style ghetto, mind you. As we drove back, we noticed an orange cab in front of us.

For those of you not familiar with the Kuwaiti cab system, the orange cabs are the worst in Kuwait. They’re practically falling apart and, well, they just look dirty. This cab was no exception. But there was one unusual thing about it. In the backseat of this cab was a sheep.

As in the animal.

Just the animal. And the driver.

A sheep.

Uno sheep.

One sheep.

The sheep was just hanging out in the backseat of the cab, as if it were a Golden Retriever hanging out in the backseat of a station wagon driven by a soccer mom. As we passed by, it blinked at us, completely unfazed.

After getting over the initial shock, we all started wondering how, exactly the sheep got back there. Was it just hanging out by the side of the road and suddenly thought, “Dude, I am so over this joint. I want to go somewhere fun. Dubai! Where’s a cab?” Did someone ask the cab driver to take the sheep somewhere as a favour? Why a CAB? Are there no pick-up trucks that could be borrowed? Is it the cab driver’s sheep? Is the sheep being taken to slaughter? If so, is it aware of its fate? Is it being dropped off at the airport to be put on a flight to Egypt where it will meet its new Egyptian husband?

Had we not been on our way back to work, I would have insisted that we follow the cab, so we could find out what the story was. I mean, a sheep. In the backseat of a cab.

How is this my life?

Britney Spears is officially looney tunes

2007-02-17T21:38:00.000+03:00

You know, I have definitely had my "I hate the world and men" moments, but at least I've never gone out and shaved my head.

Boycott Gucci, Buy Target

2007-02-14T12:34:00.001+03:00

I love shoes.

Anyone who knows me can attest to this. I own over thirty pairs of shoes, which, by Imelda Marcos standards, isn't all that much, but for a normal girl it’s a fair amount. Heels, flats, flip flops – you name it, I've probably got at least one pair in my closet.

Shoes, in my opinion, make the outfit. I don't discriminate when it comes to places to buy shoes. Payless, Target, Nine West – if the shoes are cute, the shoes will be bought. And if the shoes are on sale? Well, Sale is my favourite designer.

That's why, when I found a pair of Gucci shoes in the Villa Moda warehouse, that were discounted from 100KD to 50KD (Translation: $345 down to $170), I leapt for it.$170 is a lot for a pair of shoes, but for Gucci's? Not that bad. They were a pair of classic black heels, an investment.

That is to say, they were an investment. Because last night, around 7 p.m. as I was walking on the marble-tiled lobby in my apartment complex, I heard a snap. And then realized that one foot was suddenly lower than the other.

Those of you who have ever seen a chickflick know what's coming. The heel of my Gucci shoes snapped off. The heel of my $170 shoe SNAPPED OFF. I have never in my life had this happen to me before, ever. And believe me, I have worn $15 heels. I have worn $70 heels. I have actually bent the heels of boots before, by leaning back on them and yet, I have never had a heel snap off. I have worn heels day in and day out and still, I have never had a heel snap off.

I'm not sure what this says about Gucci. That their shoes are overpriced? Definitely. I mean, if my Target heels never broke, then why should my Gucci's? And I realize the name dropping makes me sound really spoiled and rich, so I'd like to clarify that these are the only pair of designer shoes I've ever bought, because I generally dislike spending more than $100 on a pair of shoes.

In conclusion: Gucci is a piece of crap. Boycott Gucci. And, Villa Moda – I'd like my 50KD back, thanks.

Life Lessons Learned at the Pump

2007-02-03T10:36:00.000+03:00

I’m not good at getting out of sticky situations. Particularly when there are men involved.

In September, I left California and spent a month and a half traveling around the East Coast, visiting friends in Boston, New York and Washington, D.C. At Washington/Dulles International Airport, I was accosted by a Jet Blue check-in boy, who, in a non-threatening yet still very creepy manner, twisted my arm until I gave him my phone number. Which was going to be cancelled about two weeks later, leaving me with no worries about any sort of repercussion. Yet, as I walked way from him, I mentally slapped myself for not giving him a fake number. I don’t think of a reaction to these things until it’s too late.

Like I said. I'm not good at getting out of situations.

Last week, I was getting gas. It was a pump-before-you-pay kind of place. As I drove up to the payment counter, I handed the 40-something-year-old guy a 20KD note for my 4KD gas bill (for those of you in less oil-friendly regions: Yes, I was paying about $20 to fill up my gas tank when the light was on and it was on E. And I have an SUV). He asked me if I had anything smaller, and, noting my poor Arabic, asked where I was from.

This is where my California-friendliness comes in. If I’m ever shopping and someone strikes up a conversation with me, I usually chat back. Harmless, of course. So, like a fool, I respond that I’m half Kuwaiti and half Iranian, and he laughs at my Arabic. (Mistake #1) His next question to me is if my husband is Iranian. Again, like a fool, I respond that I have no husband. Between his broken English and my non-ability to speak broken English, we go around in circles as he keeps inquiring about my husband, before it’s established that I don’t have a husband. (Mistake #2)

At this, his eyes light up. Let me state for the record that he is still holding my 20KD note, and I am still waiting for the change otherwise I would have driven away ages ago. He leans a little bit out the window, and looks me straight in the eye. “I manager of gas station,” he says to me, enthusiastically. “And,” he added, “I run madrasa (school) in Jleeb Al Shyook.*”

At this, I’m sure my facial expressions went from “I’m trying to be polite, so please give me my money,” to “WTF”. “That’s great?” I respond, trying to figure out how I can get my money from him so I can just leave already. I am praying for my phone to ring so I have an excuse to end the conversation. No such miracle occurs.

“You like?” he asks.

Now I’m at a loss. Is he asking me if I’m pleased with the fact that he runs a gas station or that he runs a school? Or both? Am I supposed to be impressed? At this point, I should have busted out a Do-You-Know-Who-My-Father-Is kind of line, but I resist, since bragging like that is really just Not Me.

“Um. I hate kids,” I respond, like an idiot. (Mistake #3)

He chortles, grinning up at me. “You like Kuwaiti man?"

At this I really start to lose my shit, mentally, and am trying to decide if I should just drive away and chalk the 16KD I’d lose up to a way to save my life.

“Um, I don’t care?”

He laughs again, and starts to hand me my change, much to my relief. Right before my fingers can grab for the money (allowing me to make my getaway), he snatches it back. “You want number?” he asks.

“What?” I’m thinking he’s asking if I want a recipt or something.

“You want my number?” he clarifies.

“Um. No.”

He laughs again, hands me my money, and I break the sound barrier in my frantic attempt to get the hell away from there.

While this makes for an amusing story, the biggest thing here is the two lessons I’ve learned when it comes to dealing with men in Kuwait:

1) If asked “Where are you from?” answer with “It’s none of your business.”
2) If asked “Do you have a husband?” the answer is always, always “Yes, and he’s part of the ruling family who will have you beheaded for asking me these questions.”
3) It is okay to say “Give me my change so I can leave before my rich, famous, powerful husband has you killed.”

*Jleeb Al Shyook: Ghetto.

Why I Moved Back To Kuwait, Part One

2007-01-22T20:04:00.000+03:00

Allen: you are a very lucky girl

Deena: plus i get 200KD from the governement just for being a brown girl

Allen: i'm never going to understand your culture

Deena: hahahaha why?

Allen: because that's just ridiculous. that's like giving me 200 bucks just for having black hair

Deena: HAHA, pretty much

Twelve Ways To Turn A Perfectly Good Evening Into a Bitchfest That Makes Everyone Want To Kill Themselves (Or You) With A Butter Knife

2007-01-11T09:48:00.000+03:00

Last night, I sat on a comfortable IKEA couch (the Ektorp series are my favourites), drinking a glass of white wine, and listening to a crazy, drunken Italian New Yorker rant and rave for about four hours on how horrible it is working at the United Nations. To the crazy, drunk Italian New Yorker: I’d believe you more if you didn’t repeat the same stories about seventeen times throughout the course of the evening.

Twelve Ways To Turn A Perfectly Good Evening Into a Bitchfest That Makes Everyone Want To Kill Themselves (Or You) With A Butter Knife:

Prior to arriving at the household, drink two tumblers of vodka, straight. Then, during the course of the evening, have about three glasses of wine.
Begin talking about your job, which you hate. The hatred, combined with the alcohol, is sure to make you a hit with the non-drunks.
Tell the same stories, repeatedly. Mention how the only way anyone gets anywhere at your job is by kissing ass and how a truck driver has a higher position than you.
Curse, lots.
When telling your stories, gesture loudly and repeatedly. Use the stranger sitting next to you as a prop, grabbing at his shirt and gesturing wildly at him, despite the fact that you just met him about 20 minutes ago.
While telling a story about how you yelled at a local Kuwaiti man at the Sultan Center, mutter “fucking Kuwaiti’s” frequently enough to make the two Kuwaiti’s in the room with you uncomfortable as well. Marvel at the fact that she escaped unharmed.
As you tell all your stories about your lack of assimilation into the culture, boast about how you yell at people, which makes them scared of you. Ignore the fact that everyone in the room is thinking “They’re probably not scared of you so much as they’re thinking ‘Who is this crazy woman and why is she in my face?’”.
Tell the same stories that you were telling in #3, again. Gesture wildly.
As the brains of everyone in the room start to atrophy, repeat your stories, and ignore the fact that you are now the only person in the room talking.
Drink more wine.
As people start to clear out because it’s getting late and they have to go to bed, keep talking. Repeat the stories you’ve been telling all night, to make sure that your audience (because they are no longer your friends that you are having a conversation with since you are the only one talking) really gets the point.
As your new husband (who has been sleeping and/or suffering from a heart attack) taps you on the arm to tell you it’s time to go, squint at him and slur “I totally forgot you were here.” Ignore his first two requests to leave, repeating the stories you’ve been telling all night, then finally leave when he starts to hand you your coat.

In the future, if you look around and see that everyone is falling asleep on various sofas and you are the only one talking, it may be a subtle hint that it’s time for you to go home, drink a glass of water for every alcoholic beverage you’ve had, and go to bed.

Life is a Highway

2007-01-02T20:31:00.000+03:00

In Kuwait, I’ve learned to drive with one hand on the horn and the other one out the window, giving the finger.

People who have seen me drive in the United States say that this isn’t unusual. But the level of aggressiveness I’ve started to show is surprising, even to me. Driving in Kuwait isn’t just a way to get from Point A to Point B, it’s a contact sport.

In California, using your horn is illegal, unless something dangerous is going to happen. Here, using the horn is a way of communicating anything from “HEY! I’m right here. Please don’t drive your car into me” to “Hey, cutie. Look at me in my adorable Z3 with a red heart-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.”

As a woman, driving becomes even more perilous. According to these youngsters driving their expensive cars, by simply being on the road, you’re just asking for them to try to talk to you (communicating with their horns, of course). Any time I’m on the road, I fully expect to be followed to wherever my destination is. If a car is driving next to me, I refuse to look over because it may be a male and he may be staring at me and if he sees me looking at him, well, it’s over. I’m being followed. Important note: this isn’t a testament to my looks; this is a testament to my being a female. If you’re a female driving alone late at night? Well you must want them to follow you. Why else would you be driving so late? It couldn’t possibly be because you want to get home. In the three months that I’ve been back in Kuwait, I’ve been followed four times: Thrice to one of the malls (two numbers have been left on my car) and once to my apartment complex. True stories.

The rules and regulations of the road are considered guidelines here. Do you need to make a left turn, but you’re not in the left turn lane? No big deal, go ahead and turn anyways. Do you want to go straight, but you’ve ended up in a “right turn only” lane? No matter, just go straight anyways. The saddest part is, I’ve come to expect this. Just today, a car turned left from the middle lane. I, of course, laid on the horn and gave him the finger.

Using your high beams to make someone get out of your way is also illegal in California, but here, using your high beams is another way of communicating. It either means “Hey, I’m coming down the road at almost 120mph/200kph, move out of my way or I will wreck you” (this is indicated by flashing your lights several times from a fairly decent distance away) or it means “Asshole, you are moving TOO SLOW, please put your foot on the gas and go higher than 20mph/30kph in the left lane, thanks” (indicated by being right behind them and flashing your lights at least once or twice before getting impatient and changing lanes to go around them).

Then, there are the roundabouts, also known as the Bane of My Existence. I don’t know what the rules are for roundabouts; I generally just hit the gas and try and maneuver my way through it. When do you drive on the outside and when do you drive on the inside? That’s completely unknown, both to me and to my fellow drivers. It’s almost as if your car needs shoulder pads, a helmet and a 300 pound fullback to help you get to the end zone.

Driving down Gulf Road (a stretch of highway not unlike Pacific Coast Highway in California – it follows the coast line and has way too many lights) makes me feel like I’m in racing the Indy 500. After the light turns green, all I have to do is glance into my rearview mirror to see the Mustang’s, Carrera’s and the very occasional beat-up Ford’s revving their engines, prepared to spread across the four lanes in order to maximize the space on the road. As the next light changes to red and half the cars screech to a halt (the other half blow through the light as if red was the new green), I almost expect to see a black-and-white checkered flag lowered, indicating that this leg of the race is done.

When I was first trying to figure out which car I was going to buy, my dad jokingly asked me if I’d like to drive a Hummer. I considered the idea for half a minute, rationalizing that it was probably the safest car to drive here. I decided to take my chances driving here in a normal car rather than looking like a tool driving a vehicle meant for desert warfare. Although I’d be safer in a Hummer.

The analogies I can make about driving in Kuwait are endless. But let’s just leave it with this: The Formula One racecourse is nothing compared to the insanity that is driving in Kuwait.

Auf Wiedersehen, 2006

2006-12-30T10:32:00.000+03:00

This evening, I went with some friends to the Holiday Inn. We had a voucher for 20KD (about $60) worth of food, and free food is never a bad thing. Instead of champagne or wine, we had FauxChamp, a bubbly mix of apple and peach juice. For kicks, we all raised our glasses in a toast.

“To the end of a shitty year,” said Yazan.
“Have you noticed how everyone says that at the end of every year? It’s never a happy time,” said Waleed.
“Actually,” I interjected. “I liked 2006. It wasn’t that bad.”

It seems that at the end of every year, the common theme is good riddance. I generally chime in as well, but for the first time, I didn’t want to chime in. I genuinely liked 2006. Of course it had its ups and downs, but on the whole, it was a good year.

I rang in 2006 at a party with people I barely knew, save for two friends. Less than a month later, I was flying to Las Vegas to have a girls weekend with my best friend. We covered the entire strip in two days and even got to see a show while we were there. I decided to play St. Valentine on February 14^th, dropping off flowers and heart-shaped candy boxes to friends before going to a sports bar for dinner and a Hillcrest uber-trendy bar for post-dinner drinks.

In March, my grandparents moved back to their home after a fire had torn apart my grandmother’s room in November of 2005, and we rang in Norouz (the Persian New Year) properly, in the house that I spent every summer growing up in. I saw snow for the first time in my 24 years of existing. April was spent cramming for the GMATs – I essentially had no social life, other than spending more time at the office taking practice tests and in the UCSD Computer Science building being taught fractions.

May brought about a confession and the taking of one of the biggest tests of my life. I bombed it (well, I bombed the math section), but I was just relieved it was over and that all I had to worry about was the math. In June I went back to Kuwait after being away for two years, and reunited with friends I hadn’t seen in years. I also made the decision to move back to Kuwait.

In July, I quit my job. I took a road trip to San Francisco, driving up the 101 for the first time. I went to Vegas again at the beginning of August and won $40 the first time I played blackjack. I stayed at my job until mid-August and then proceeded to spend the rest of my time in California packing a million boxes. I learned that I had too much crap.

September was spent saying goodbye. I spent my birthday in Boston, eating Asian fondue and drinking a cheap glass of Pinot Noir. I took off for New York at the beginning of October and spent a week with Jessica, drinking for free at Don’t Tell Mama and watching her spend our cab money on cheap beers at an unmarked basement bar in midtown. The rest of October was spent in Washington, D.C., spending weekends with Monica and saying goodbye to my family.

I returned to Kuwait in October, and spent the first two weeks of November trying to get onto a normal time schedule and interviewing for jobs. I got on my 11^th plane this year when I went to Qatar for the day, for the Asia Games, one of the most hilarious trips I’ve ever taken. I started adjusting to life in Kuwait.

So, here’s to 2007 being just as good as 2006, if not better. Cheers, 2006. You were good while you lasted.

Updates Ahoy!

2006-12-28T16:17:00.000+03:00

I have about four blogs that I'm currently in the middle of writing. I'm not quite sure when they will be done, but I'm hoping at some point this year. Stay tuned for entries about crazy rich shoppers and how to navigate around a roundabout!

Addendum

2006-12-11T12:27:00.001+03:00

Waleed found a map of our trek around Sports City. See it here.

Have I mentioned how much I love Qatar? I loooooove Qatar.

It's a habbening!

2006-12-08T16:58:00.000+03:00

Our first clue should have been when Taxi Driver stopped his car on the side of the street next to the site of the 2006 Asia Games. Hurrying out of the car, he left the door open, the engine running and three passengers in the backseat completely confused.

“Well,” said Waleed. “I hope he doesn’t mind us borrowing his car.”

The Beginning

Other Favourite Twin Erica was the one to bring up going to Qatar in the first place, as a relaxing girls weekend. “And I’ve heard the museum in Doha is beautiful,” she said.

I paused. “But I’ve heard that there’s nothing to do there."

Every other person who had ever been to Qatar confirmed this. But there was one who voiced opposition to the usual “Oh my god, Qatar? There is nothing to do in Qatar!” chorus we kept hearing.

To paraphrase: “Doha is one of my favourite cities,” said Architectural Friend of Waleed’s. “It’s developing, it’s booming; it’s going to be great in a few years.” After hearing this, Erica immediately turned to pout at me. I rolled my eyes and decided to look into hotels. I arbitrarily chose the first few weekends in December, just to get some prices. There was not a hotel room to be found. This was in early November.

Waleed’s Middle Brother Samer was the one to bring up going to the Asia Games, after seeing a commercial on television. Seeing as there wasn’t a hotel room available in any of the four hotels that Qatar had, the five of us (Myself, Erica, Waleed and his two brothers) opted to go for the day instead. Airline tickets were soon purchased, but we decided to hold off on purchasing tickets to the events, since two of us had connections to the Games.

The Arrival

As we landed, Samer leaned past me to look out the window. “Where is everything?” he asked. Indeed, Qatar seemed to be comprised mainly of sand, with the occasional building sprouting up in the middle of nowhere.

After landing and going through customs, we stood in line for the taxis and were soon informed that because there were five of us, we would have to take two cabs. After waiting for about 20 minutes, we finally got cabs – Samer and Ziad in one, Waleed, Erica and I in another. Once we got in, our cab driver soon set the trend by informing us that he didn’t know how to get to our destination – the Aspire Stadium. Samer and Ziad’s driver did know, however, so we instructed our Clueless Cab Driver #1 to follow the other cab. He managed to keep up with Cab #2 for a little bit, but eventually lost him in the bizarre Los-Angeles style traffic that engulfs most of Doha’s roads. Peering out the window of the cab on the way to the stadium, we all took note of the architecture (or lack thereof) in Doha. “See those buildings?” said Waleed. “It’s like being in Jahra*. Except this is the country.”

What should have been a 15-minute drive ended up taking about 45 minutes, thanks to the ridiculous traffic light system of the country. Once we got to Sport City, where the Games were taking place, Clueless Cab Driver #1 abandoned us on the side of the road, hurrying through the rain (yes, the rain: it was about 70F/22C degrees and raining) to ask the guards at Gate 6 where the Aspire Stadium was. He then drove a few more feet, got out of the car again and asked another guard at another gate where the stadium was. Coming back to the car, he looked inside and said “This is it.”

The Games

Three confused passengers still sat in the backseat. “Here?” one of us said. “Where’s the stadium?”

Clueless Cab Driver #1 pointed past the chain-linked fence at a building with blue trim on it. “It’s that one there.” Convinced, we paid, hopped out of the cab and trekked over to the nearest gate.

“No,” said the guard at the gate. “You can’t enter through here.”

“But… the gate… is open?” I asked.

“Go through Gate 6.”

“Where’s the Aspire Stadium?”

The guard pointed about 50 feet away at the blue trim building. “There. But you have to go to Gate 6.”

Gate 6 was a five minute walk in the opposite direction from the stadium that we wanted to get to. At this point, we had abandoned hope of finding Ziad and Samer, because neither of their cell phones worked. “Are we there yet? Where is this place?” asked Waleed. He paused. “I was totally one of those kids in the car. ‘Are we there yet? How about now? Now?’”

Upon reaching Gate 6, the blank-faced guard briskly informed us that no, we could not enter here, this was the service entrance. We’d have to walk another five minutes to Gate 5. “But the guard over there told us to come through here. You told our cab driver to take us to the other gate and the people there told us to come here."

Gate 6 Guard was completely unsympathetic. “Gate 5.”

“I will come in and work if you let me into through this gate.”

That didn’t work either. Apparently free labour isn’t high on Qatari’s list of Things They Like. I sighed and did what I always did when people are inept: I got bitchy. “Look, you guys really need to figure out which gate to tell people to go to. And tell those guys over there to tell people where to go, because this is ridiculous.” And then I stalked away. I’m sure they were quivering in fear.

As we walked past the cheerfully decorated chain-linked fence that declared that this was, in fact, the Games of our Life, we tried to figure out how we were going to get to the Aspire Stadium which was, to our eyes, halfway across the country. While Gate 5 proved to be the Passageway to the Games of our Lives, we soon realized that to get to Aspire we’d literally have to walk around the aptly named Sports City, through the rain. Like every other warm-weather place (including Kuwait, San Diego and many other parts of California), Qatar is not built for rain. The Sports City was essentially a Sports Venice. All that was missing were rowboats and men with jaunty straw hats and black-and-white striped shirts.

As we approached each building, we tried to figure out where Aspire was. We had an idea of which building it was and we could see it in the distance; the problem was we didn’t know how to navigate our way around the village. “A map!” cried Waleed, rushing over to what was, essentially, our oasis in our desert of confusion. Yet again, the Games of our Lives failed us. The map failed to name any of the buildings. In fact, the legend read as follows:

Light Grey Areas: Open Area

Grey Areas: Part of Venue

Dark Grey Areas: Buildings

“I aspire to find Aspire,” sighed Waleed. The rain and the trek were making us punchy.

Twenty minutes later, we finally saw Aspire. Standing in front of the Stadium were Samer and Ziad, who we had quite seriously had given up for lost.

The Events

The events themselves were fairly uneventful. Since Ziad had a friend working at the Games, we had gotten some free tickets, but not enough. We ended up purchasing tickets to the boxing and basketball events. The boxing venue smelled like a locker room. Basketball seems to be much more exciting when it’s either teams you care about (Bahrain vs. Syria! Yawn!) or when you’re watching it on television. I nearly lost my mind again when the concession stand refused to take my 500 Qatar Riyal bill for the 13 QR food I wanted to purchase. It wasn’t so much that they balked at the large bill (that’s understandable, it’s like me trying to pay for a Happy Meal with a $100 bill), it was the attitude the cashier gave me. Cashier #1 was nice – he said he had to go to the manager to get change and I’d have to wait a little bit. That’s fine and completely reasonable. Cashier #2, the one who was actually ringing me up, was just giving me attitude. Pulling his face into a sneer, he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I have to stay here.”

I glared at him. There were about five people behind the counter, and the line consisted of me and the other five people I was with. “So send someone else.”

“No.”

I was beginning to lose my temper. “Look. This is all I have. The people at the airport gave me two 500 QR bills. The person at the ticket stand wouldn’t take this. I need to eat. Go get someone to go get change. Or call the manager up here.”

That’s when Nice Cashier popped back into the conversation. “I’ll go and get it,” he said. Smiling gratefully at him, I wondered how, exactly, I could nominate him for the Nobel Peace Prize.

The Cabs

As I said earlier, it was raining when we landed. It continued to pour throughout the day; while I missed the swimming events, I still felt like I got to see some swimming through the pools of water that had collected on the ground of Sports City. And as I have heard from every New Yorker I’ve ever met (all two of them), when it rains, it makes it that much harder to get a cab. The same is true in Qatar.

We all piled into the first cab that pulled up, decided that it didn’t actually matter if they wanted to take five passengers or not. The three brothers all wanted to go see their cousin who had recently moved to Doha, and with over two hours to go until we had to be at the airport, we figured we had plenty of time.

“Do you know how to get to the Cinema City roundabout?” asked Waleed

The cab driver just stared blankly at us, prompting us to ask him, yet again, if anyone in this country knew where they were going.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know.”

The Cinema City roundabout is apparently one of the biggest and most known roundabouts in Qatar. It’s the Qatari equivalent to Times Square.

“Can you call your company to find out?”

“… No.”

“Do you know how to get the airport?”

“No.”

“Do you know how to get anywhere?”

“No. I’ve only been working for two days.”

As we all sat in the cab, wet and miserable, Waleed called his cousin for directions and handed the cell phone to the driver. After hanging up, Waleed tried to confirm that the driver did, in fact, know where he was going. “Yes, I know,” claimed the cab driver, the way a little kid claims that he did not pull his sister’s hair. In the meantime, another cab had pulled up behind us, so we opted to get out and switch cabs. This cab driver claimed he knew where Cinema City was, but once we started driving suddenly became unsure. “Just take us to the airport instead,” sighed Waleed. It was 5:30 at this point.

As we, once again waited about 20 minutes for a light to turn green, I leaned over and asked Waleed what, exactly, his friend, who had his Masters in Architecture, meant by “Doha is one of my favourite cities.”

“Well, what he meant was that Doha was being built in a logical manner. So, unlike other Middle Eastern countries, this city was being planned and constructed logically.”

He paused, noting the time we had sat at one traffic light and mentally calculating how long it would take us to get to the airport if we walked, considering 10 minutes had gone by and the light was still red.

“And when we get back to Kuwait, he is going to get a foot in his face.”

An hour later, we finally made it to the airport. After asking two different people, we stood in line at the First Class Check In, since we had no luggage to check. Handing over our itineraries to the man behind the desk, we were all kind of in a daze. And craving alcohol.

“They should have given you your boarding passes in Kuwait,” said Qatar Airways Dude Behind the Counter.

That got our attention. “They only gave us our boarding passes from Kuwait to Qatar,” someone said weakly. Maybe it was me.

QADBtC sighed. It was a sigh we were familiar with, a sigh we had been sighing the whole day. It was the “I cannot believe how stupid people are and how completely inept everyone in this entire world is” sigh.

“If you want to bump us up to first class because there isn’t room in Economy, it’d be okay with us,” joked Waleed.

QADBtC grinned up at us. We were friends now. While we didn’t get First Class, we at least got boarding passes.

“I can’t wait to get out of this fucking country,” said Ziad.

The Homecoming

As we boarded the plane (which was already 15 minutes delayed at this point), we all nearly immediately fell asleep. A half hour later, Waleed looks at his watch. “Why haven’t we taken off yet?”

That would be because the plane was waiting on two passengers who were still boarding. No other airline in the world would wait for two passengers, but Qatar Airlines apparently has the time and the money to spend waiting at a gate for an extra half hour. When the stewardess passed by, Waleed flagged her down to ask for alcohol, to combat the stupidity that had plagued us the whole day. She laughed and said that once we took off, she would get us the wine we were so desperately craving.

Halfway through takeoff, the sound of Tom and Jerry rang through the cabin. Erica and I both stared as Waleed jumped in fright, groping frantically for his cell phone, whose ringtone this week is the Tom and Jerry theme song. As Samer, who was 20 rows away, turned back, glared and mouthed “What the hell are you doing?”, Waleed was muttering in a panic “I thought I turned it off.” As the song continued, the sound of a cat meowing was heard, and the three of us looked up at the in-flight television, which was playing the actual Tom and Jerry cartoon.

As we landed and walked through the arrivals terminal of Kuwait International Airport, Samer spoke for all of us: “I never thought I’d be so happy to see this country.”

Erica wanted to go to exchange her money from Qatar Riyals to Kuwaiti Dinars. “Yes,” said Ziad. “Let’s go do that. Because if we keep the money, that’s going to give us a reason to go back to that country. And I never want to go back there again.”

* Jahra: Middle of nowhere Kuwait. Living here: The Kuwaiti version of rednecks.

Anne and Dan

2006-12-05T12:05:00.000+03:00

My friend Anne hates men.

That’s the rumour that goes around, at any rate. “I don’t actually hate men,” she always clarifies. She claims she’s very particular and that she’s more intelligent than most of them out there (this is true, I think all women are more intelligent than most of the males out there. Exhibit A: all my Weirdos of the Week).

So when Anne takes the first step and expresses interest in a guy, it’s not shocking when jaws drop and everyone checks the sky to see if the pigs are flying.

Enter Dan.

I first learned about Dan when Anne (notice the rhyming names? Cute!) sent me an instant message on AIM to tell me about this totally hot guy she met, and how she “want[s] to jump him.” Her big concern was the rhyming names. I told her not to be ridiculous and to just go for it. Rhyming names isn’t really a deal breaker (and, after all, she could always change her name. Anita, maybe?).

Then Anne got sick. Food poisoning, she said, so she had to cancel plans with Dan. Things were looking bleak for the two of them, and Anne, being Anne, kept looking for reasons not to call him and not to see him.

Then, this morning, I got an instant message from Anne:

Me: Oh THANK GOD. (Note: My “THANK GOD” is unrelated to this topic. We’ll save that for a future blog.)
Anne: I was going to say the SAME THING about you. I was going to show you something on MySpace! I found Dan!
Me: Oooh. Show me.

After sending me the link Anne says, “Wait till you get to the surprise!”

The surprise?

Oh, there was quite the surprise.

Dan’s MySpace is typical for the 25-35 age group that he’s in. And if he had sent me a message on MySpace, he would have totally been the Weirdo of the Week. Except for one special bit of information, under the “Details” section:

Children: Proud parent

Me: PROUD PARENT?
Anne: Yes!

Proud parent. Dan is a proud parent. Anne, quite clearly, did not realize this. She was also tuned into the fact that his profile makes him look and sound like a complete player.

Anne: I can’t stand the ‘lol’. They are all over the place.

They are, in fact, all over the place. For example:

Heroes: Captain America… lol..!

(We’re going to skip over the fact that Captain America is his hero, by the way.)

From Dan’s About Me:
“…currently I'm in the sales field & have played w/ acting, modeling & singing...I guess thats what happens when you get Califonicated.”

There are three things to notice about this statement:

a) He is in the sales field. Salesmen are always iffy.
b) He has “played” with acting, modeling and singing.
c) He made up a word and then he MISSPELLED it. It would be “Californicated,” Dan!

Also, I’d like to point out that I, too, was “Californicated,” and I did not enter the modeling, acting or singing field, nor was I in sales.

Anne: Last night he texted this message: “u want 2 hang 2nite?” Come on. He’s a 33 year old college graduate! What type of college did he go to? They must have REALLY low standards.
Me: OH MY GOD, HE MAJORED IN EDUCATION!

To make matters worst, he lists some of his interests. Music: Linken Park and Fuel. Are we living in the year 2000? I didn’t realize people still listened to Fuel. Favourite movie: Collateral staring the oh-so delightful and totally completely not crazy Tom Cruise.

Dan. Dan, Dan, Dan. You are, to be fair, a good looking guy. Why did you have to ruin it with your MySpace profile?

Me: I firmly believe everyone should have a MySpace profile so you can look at these things before deciding to stick your tongue down their throat.

Job Hunting

2006-11-28T12:12:00.000+03:00

Dysfunction annoys me. I’m not saying that everything in life has to be in perfect little boxes, I’m just asking for some semblance of order. Job hunting in Kuwait is dysfunctional. People saying they’ll call you in a week actually will go on vacation and not answer your calls. You’ll schedule a meeting and people will be late. It’s just a way of life.

The other day, I got a call from a company. I really had no idea what the name of the company was, nor was I familiar with what they did. (I feel it is best to mention here that I’ve been sending out my resume through my father, who really has the contacts in this country). So, I asked. Turns out they were a real estate company. I was trying to get away from real estate.

I was not pleased.

But, I was polite. They wanted me to come in that morning at 11 a.m. (it was 9 a.m. at this point). I agreed. I asked where, exactly, the office was located. A pause. The lady asked if I knew where Random Street in Kuwait City was. I did not. Which isn’t unusual, considering identifying streets in Kuwait is like identifying chickens in a hen house. There was another pause. “Well… can someone bring you here?” Considering you called me two hours before an interview on a weekday when both my parents are at work? I doubt it, lady. And what would I tell a taxi driver? “Hi, take me to this building.” “Where is it?” “I have no idea.”

I asked if anyone else knew. She transferred me to someone, who also had no idea.

Seriously, people, how are we getting to work every day?

So I show up at the interview, dutifully answer the questions, and I think I Bomb it. The whole thing was a half hour, including filling out the application., Not promising.

But this morning, I get another call from Dysfunctional Real Estate Company.

Lady: “You have a meeting tomorrow.”
Me: (frantically, in my head: “I do? What? When? Why did no one tell me? WHAT?”)

Turns out, she was trying to schedule a meeting for me tomorrow. Fine. We set up an appointment for 10 a.m. Fine. She asks if I know how to get there. I tell her no.

I tell her no, because when she had called me initially, she mumbled the company name. I figured she could give me directions, tell me what company name to look for and I would no. No problem, right?

No, big problem. Instead of giving me directions, she immediately, without warning, transfers me to someone. Who? I don’t know. Why? To give me directions. The problem?

She never told me who I’m supposed to be meeting with tomorrow.

So, this guy gives me (terrible) directions, and when he’s done, I ask him, praying that he’d know, who, exactly I’m supposed to meet with tomorrow. He, of course, has no idea. I asked him who I spoke with before (because, again, she failed to identify herself. COMMON SENSE, PEOPLE), and, of course, he had no idea.

He tells me to call back in five minutes and he’ll try hunting down who I’m supposed to meet with.

I am seething. I mean, I’m not asking for rocket science here, I’m just asking for proper etiquette. Identifying yourself, who the meeting is with, the company name… it’s all very simple.

I call back, and this time he’s figured out who called me in the first place and transfers me to her (DREC, by the way, has “Home on the Range” as their hold music). She tells me who I’m supposed to meet with, and then adds that she did, in fact, tell me when she called me the first time.

Lady. I assure you, you did not. I'm not sure what part of any of this will make me want to work for their company.

I’m going to borrow a line from Jessica: How is this my life?

Adventures on the East Coast: Part One

2006-10-04T22:05:00.000+03:00

October 3rd, 2006: New York City

"So, what's on 46th and 8th?"

The petty cab we had hopped into on 5th Avenue had previously been weaving us in and out of traffic. My only reasoning for this is that PettyCabMan was trying to scare Jessica, who hadn't wanted to even get INTO the petty cab in the first place. He posed the question to us after we had narrowly missed a bus and sixteen cabs while going through Times Square.

"Oh, just the bar that I work at," Jessica responded.
"Are you a bartender?"
"No, I work the door. I'm a doorhag."

PettyCabMan nodded at us, then asked "So, what kind of people go to this bar?"

"All kinds," Jessica responded. I agreed with her, "You get a lot of different kinds of people in there."

She continued, "You get everyone from the tourist from Alabama wearing sandals and socks to... Scott the Drag Queen."

At that, PettyCabMan asked what kind of bar this was, exactly.

"It's a piano bar."
"So there's singing?"
"Yep." At the point, Jessica turned on her DoorHagJessica personality and said, "There's live music every night, from 9 p.m. to 4 p.m. at 343 West 46th Street at Don't Tell Mama!"

We had turned onto 45th and had just made a right onto 8th Avenue, when he turned back to Jessica and looked her in the eye.

"Do you have a saviour?"
A pause from both of us. Jessica got over the shock first and responded, "As in... the All Mighty?"
"As in Jesus Christ."

As he pedaled us down 8th Avenue, he responded thoughtfully.

"A lot of people think that we're fuelled by electricity. We're not. We're fueled by Jesus, and one day, people are going to realize this."

As he pedaled to a stop, he turned back at us and smiled. "One day, you'll realize this and remember this conversation."

As we got out of the petty cab and began walking down 46th, Jessica turned back to him. "Oh, believe me. I will be remembering this conversation."

Moving Is A Bitch: Part One

2006-09-07T02:03:00.000+03:00

Now that about 99% of my packing is done (I still have to merge two boxes into one, and arrange for shipping), I'm getting down to the nitty gritty. Or trying to, at any rate. I have boxes to take out to the trash, a recliner and three boxes to store in Orange County, bills to change, and other random tasks.

I use SBC for my internet/phone services. I have really started to hate them over the last year, because every person who works for SBC seems ridiculously arrogant and cocky. They, like every other company on this earth, have an automated menu you have to weave through in order to get to a real, actual human. In the midst of trying to navigate through this thing to speak to someone real, I have AutoSBC tell me over and over that he's so sorry, but he's not sure what I'm trying to say. At which point, I finally yell "Oh my GOD, you are a fucking MORON. LET ME TALK TO SOMEONE."

Which was then met by the dialtone.

So, in short, don't curse at the automated menus. It won't get you to a human any faster.

Packing: The Final Tally

2006-09-03T19:04:00.000+03:00

3 boxes to store.
1 plastic crate to store.
2 suitcases to ship.
4 boxes to ship.
1 suitcase to travel with.

I am never buying anything ever again as long as I live.

Packing: A Saga

2006-08-28T03:06:00.000+03:00

I began packing on Friday, August 25th. As of today, I have two boxes packed, a closet full of clothes that is on the floor, a broken blue suitcase (left in my apartment by a Kruskamp) full of clothing and shoes i want to give away, a shitload of change and multiples of various items including deoderant, chapstick, lotion and hairbrushes.

The only comforting thing about the whole situation is that Jessica is going through the same packing bullshit that I am (although she isn't packing up her entire LIFE and moving ACROSS THE WORLD):

Jessica: seriously. are all apartments this dusty?
Me: mine is. and i have also found a lot of change. i'm going to make a trip to coinstar
Jessica: yeah me too. i have literally found about 50 dollars in quarters. like, it's bad
Me: HAHA. nice.
Jessica: there is fucking dust EVERYWHERE. and not normal dust. like big brown clumps. and ... leaves.
Me: well you have hardwood floors. wait. leaves?
Jessica: how the fuck did THAT happen. yes. leaves.
Me: like the shit that's on trees?
Jessica: yes. i got home and there were like three on my bed. and i keep finding them
Me: okay, THAT is making me laugh
Jessica: what else has been good. long lost shoes. like at least thirty lighters. no joke. a hell of a lot of chapstick. no wonder i have no money. i keep buying the same shit over and over again. i seriously don't know how i got this much stuff in here
Me: HAHAHAHAHHAA. i am half crying and half laughing right now

so, i'm moving to kuwait -- the f.a.q.

2006-08-07T05:08:00.000+03:00

Yes, I am moving to Kuwait.

No, I don't know when I'm leaving California.

Yes, I'll be traveling before I go - so if you're planning to be in the Washington, D.C. area or the New York area in mid-September, I will more than likely expect to hang out with you.

No, I can't bring you back any oil. But I will try my hardest, honest.

Yes, I will greatly miss alcohol, bars and clubs, but hey, Dubai's only an hour away.

I expect all of you to keep in touch, buy me booze when I come back to visit and let me sleep on your couch.