The flight

It didn’t hit me until we were flying over Jerusalem.  The captain said (first in Arabic) that we would be flying over “the holy city of Jerusalem and Occupied Palestine.”  On this plane it wasn’t a political statement, at least not overtly, but I couldn’t help but place it in the context of my own world view and experience.  Everyone sitting close enough stared somberly out the window.  From where I was in the middle isle I could only see some lights.  I couldn’t see their patterns of concentration or contrast.  I couldn’t discern between the occupied territories or Israel proper.  Between settlements and refugee “camps”.  I wanted to, but I was too far away.  I wished I had snagged a window seat.   What I could see was how everyone stared, though, silently.  It had finally hit me.  I was here.  The Middle East.  The Holy Land.

I noticed that they served alcohol on the plane.  Something which probably came as no shock to my fellow passengers but having set out on a journey to Saudi Arabia, I had mistakenly assumed that alcohol would be as scarce as what I’d heard it would be in Riyadh.  The first of many manifestations of my ignorance. It turns out that Jordanians are pretty lax by American standards.  Only half the women wore headscarves and I saw no abayas or burkas.  Many were willing to speak English even to the bilingual flight attendants.  I heard laughing and a few men cracked jokes when some of their friends were reprimanded for standing before the plane had come to a complete stop at the gate.  One surprising thing:  every child who I saw on the plane was a boy.  No little girls.   Maybe daughters weren't valued enough to take abroad.

During my layover I skyped and face book chatted.  I told my girlfriend I loved her.  She reciprocated.  Getting used to our new situation wasn’t gonna be easy.  Some tears were still pretty fresh.  Then I went to my departure gate.  Most of the people sitting in the waiting area were Saudis it seemed.  I found myself suddenly nervous.  I had read about taboos within Saudi society and the thought hit me that something I might do could be seen as offensive.  I resisted the urge to cross my legs as I usually do for fear of displaying the bottom of my shoe to someone. I knew there were no religious police (Mutawwa) around.  But I was nervous. I started to sit in close proximity to a woman in an abaya when I remembered what I had read about “Family” vs. “Singles” seating in restaurants and public places.  “Family” meant women and children while “Singles” meant men only.  I looked to my left and noticed that on the other side sat only men.  I thought it wiser to sit with them.  The Kingdom was already having its effect.  The oppressiveness, its laws and customs were beginning to weigh. A few of the women and young girls still had their hair uncovered.  I knew this wouldn’t be the case when we landed.