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.
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