Al Doctor Asnan (That's My Arabic for "The Dentist")

One of the best parts about living in Riyadh is drinking tea. The tea doesn't burst with interesting and exotic flavors like you'll find in Miss Tammy's Tea House in Boise. It isn't served by a shy, whispering girl who pours it from a charmingly crafted tea pot like you would find in Hong Kong. The tea itself isn't the the part I like, but the act of drinking it. Drinking tea means I'm sitting down with someone worth talking to, enjoying something warm in an overly air-conditioned building. I drink it with my work friends when our patients are tucked away snugly in their beds. I drink it with my patients when they offer, and we attempt a conversation in Arabic. I drink it with my Syrian family when I hang out at their house, laughing with the three guys as we watch YouTube videos on our iPhones while we listen to the news about the Syrian civil war in the background.

The tea does good things for my mood, but bad things to my teeth. After going nine months without seeing a dentist, the tea stains on my teeth were grossing me out. My teeth were starting to look like those found in the men working in the Riyadh souks who have feet covered in callouses and deep yellow armpit stains on their thobes. I'm too vain to let that look go for long, so I faced my fear of having my mouth ruined by an incompetent dental hygienist and called up the dentist recommended by the hospital. I had heard about the clunky van that picks you up and drops you off half an hour away, but it was going to be worth it to have a recommended dentist change my pearly browns back to pearly whites without accidentally knocking out an incisor in the process.

I stood outside my apartment complex waiting for the hunk of junk to pick me up, and after about five minutes an acquaintance stopped for a second to say hi to me. We chatted for a minute about dentists, then she said that she was also on her way to the dentist. As luck would have it, she had been to the one I planned on seeing, but she preferred the one within walking distance. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is. I told her I would join her, then cancelled my appointment as we walked through the beige labyrinth of walls that separates the hospital's massive construction site from the footpath taking us to the compound's main road.

The two of us chatted away as we hurriedly walked along Riyadh's sidewalks, otherwise known as the pedestrian death-zone. After we made it to the dentist's office miraculously unharmed, we approached the niqab-clad receptionist. My day really couldn't have gone any better because they had an opening for a cleaning right away. I stepped into a room that didn't do much to instill confidence. In fact, I don't think I had seen a dental chair and spit basin that old since...well, maybe ever. That didn't stop me. It was my lucky day and those tea stains needed to come off.

The hygienist came in and said in the classic Philippino sing-song fashion, "Helloooo maaaaaa'aaaam. How are youuuuuu?" She placed a pink napkin on my upper chest, then wrapped the chain around the back of my neck to clip it into place. She handed me some goggles. I've never needed safety equipment at a dentist's office before, but since there isn't much safety equipment on the numerous construction sites, I figure the universe has a way of balancing out. I put my goggles on and hoped for the best. She took about the same length of time as my hygeinist, Marcie, takes in Arizona. Then she left the room to find the dentist. While she was gone, I hopped out of the chair and took a peek in the mirror. She did an amazing job! They looked like my teeth would look if I hadn't sipped my weight in tea over the past few months.

I climbed back in the old-school dental chair, then ran my tongue over my smooth teeth and wondered why I had been so hesitant to go to a dentist in a foreign country. At that moment a man in his late 30's entered and completely justified my fears. He raised his aviator glasses with the air of someone who just stepped out of a leased red Ferrari. His oversized wrist watch looked heavier than my purse, and he was wrapping up a conversation on his Bluetooth.

The dentist traded eye contact for eye-mouth contact, then asked me to show off my choppers. I opened. I closed. I made no objection to the round mirror being inserted. As he had me in the "open wide" position with a mirror in my mouth, he did what all dentists like to do and asked me a question. Why do they do that? They know we can't answer properly with something preventing us from naturally moving our lips, tongue and jaws. It seems that they all like to show off their ability to understand a language known only to other dentists. Whatever the reason, he understood when I answered the question of where I'm from by telling him "A-air-a-ha." He proudly announced that he went to dental school in Arkansas. That did little to dispel my fears.

He took his fingers and tools out of my mouth, then had me bite one more time for a better inspection. He said, "Mashallah! If everyone had teeth like you, I wouldn't have a job. You are starting to have a few cavities forming near the back, but if you brush them a little more they'll be fine. Really, your teeth look beautiful."

I don't know why I always find myself doing this, but for some reason I need to let everyone who compliments my teeth know that they cost a lot of pain and my parents' money. I told him that I had braces for a couple years, and before the braces I had to have a surgery to expand my upper palate. He put the gloves back on, then took a look at the handiwork of the oral surgeon who separated the roof of my mouth 18 years ago. He complimented the surgeon, then again complimented my teeth. This time he said something about my teeth making my face, and especially my eyes, look pretty. I love how flattering Arab men are, but sometimes it makes me wonder the degree of innocence in their sweet words.

He left the room, presumably to do something dentisty. The sweet Philippina applied a fluoride treatment, then unclipped my bib. I wondered how much my bill came to as I walked towards the niqab-clad receptionist, wondering if my 700 riyals (roughly $185) would be enough. I asked her how much I owed, and she answered, "150 riyals." A hundred and fifty riyals! Forty bucks!!! Holy crap, am I in Mexico? I guess the answer to that question is, "Yeah, kind of."

I felt like I got a great deal on my lucky day as I walked out of the dental office. As I walked on the dusty marble stairs leading to the dusty streets, I noticed the dentist smoking near the door. I cheerfully waved and thanked him again. He flashed a smile, then said something that would have surprised me if I hadn't spent the past two years surrounded by Arab men. He said, "You know, you really should come back soon. Your upper molar is completely black and needs a filling." Yeah, I know that trick. I'll stick with the original, pre-flirtatious suggestion and just brush a little more. He wasn't an unattractive man, and he certainly liked spending money. Maybe if I meet a cute girl who has a thing for flashy dentists, I'll send her over for a cleaning. Who knows? If things go well he might ask her out for tea.

"Iraq! Iraq! Iraq!" (That's my Arabic for "Fight! Fight! Fight!")

I’m a lover, not a fighter. Haha! Who am I kidding? I can be a real scrapper and there are few things I love more than giving a jerk a taste of their own medicine plus some. Saudi Arabia brings out the worst in people, and the longer I’m here the less it takes to bring out my inner fighter.

A little while ago I went with my friend Aladdine to a compound bar. We were outside eating our dinner at a picnic table when a man in his late 50’s walked over to us and asked if he could share our space with him while he finished his pint of beer. We agreed, then braced ourselves for the standard barrage of questions that accompanies any introduction here in Riyadh.

He looked at Aladdine and asked in a thick South African accent, “Are you Saudi?”

“No, I’m half Syrian, half-Lebanese.”

Then he looked at me. “And what about you?”

“I’m American.”

The man snorted, then nastily replied, “That’s your problem.”

I gave him “the American look” then continued my conversation with Aladdine.

The man ignored the obvious by asking, “Am I interrupting something?”

Aladdine showed more politeness than I felt like this guy deserved and answered, “No, not at all.” Those were the last words out of his mouth until the older guy left, opting instead for a front row seat of a verbal smack-down.

Then the guy decided to really make his feelings about Americans known. He said, “I would never work for a Saudi company or an American company. I’ll work for a British company or a German company, but I stay away from American companies.”

“I believe you. You probably can’t handle the work ethic Americans have. We don’t tolerate laziness the way other countries do.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s that Americans take care of their own.”

Hmmm…I’ve never heard or seen that one before. Americans are more performance-based than any other country I’ve seen. If anything, we’re guilty of NOT taking care of our own in the workforce because we’re frequently overly capitalistic. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t that one of the main premises behind Occupy Wall Street?

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I train people for my job and I’ve often seen it in American companies where the person I’ll train gets a promotion ahead of me if they’re American.”

“It’s probably because they do the job better than you.”

“No, it’s not that. I’ve had excellence awards for the past four years.”

“Then it probably has to do with your abrasive personality and your lack of people skills.”

“I don’t have an abrasive personality.”

“Yes you do. You interrupted a total stranger’s conversation only to insult their country. You don’t think that’s rude?”

“You’re taking this all the wrong way, sweetheart. It’s nothing personal.”

“I’m not taking it personally, I just think you lack the social skills that Americans value, so you’ll never get ahead in an American system. I think you’re a total ass hole, and I’m sure I’m not the first American to tell you that.”

“You Americans are all the same!”

“Why are you talking to me then? Isn’t there somewhere else you can sit?”

At that he walked away and mumbled, “Typical American.”

“Thanks!”

Aladdine looked at me and began to laugh. Yeah, he enjoyed the show. He said, “As soon as that man said that being an American was your problem, I knew you would get him. You would let him sit there, say a few things, then you would attack him and make him look like an ass.”

Mission accomplished.

Ana Lazim Shoof Woozen (That's my Arabic for "I Need to See Your Weight")

One thing I’ll never get tired of is watching people get on a scale. The scale on my unit is prominently displayed next to the nurses’ station, inviting everyone from the housekeepers to the members of the royal family to see how their body handles not getting enough exercise.

Saudis bodies come in two main sizes: XXXS and XXXL. They are either stick figures or watermelons. There’s the occasional outlier with a healthy body shape, but for the most part their weights are as extreme as their culture.

Whenever a group of gangly teenage girls walks through the unit, the scale is a more popular pit stop than Starbucks. They make a big production of it, with everyone around promising not to look but peeking anyway and giggling as they compare weights with each other. Although their abayas hide the main outline of their figures, the scale hides nothing. They frequently click their tongues in disgust, hoping one day they will have a normal body weight.

Even better than the giddy girls is a crowd of adult men. As they hoist their portly bodies on the scale, there is no pretense of wishing to hide their weight. The other men in the group hover over the scale monitor, cheering when it shows that their other thobe wearing friends are equally unhealthy.

As amusing as these frequent occurrences are, they’ve become predictable, a rarity in this unpredictable land. What is unpredictable, however, is how individual patients will each react when the nurse enters their rooms at 4:00 AM with the scale to take their daily weight.

Last week’s weight story weighed in at the best scale story so far. My patient was a cranky old man who was not quite 100% with it mentally. His son kept him company that night and listened to his incessant complaining. By the time I entered the room to take his 4:00 AM vitals and weight, the son had reached the end of his patience for his father. I told the patient that I needed to take his weight and he quickly refused. I didn’t push it. He’s old, he’s tired, he’s not feeling well, and even more importantly I would have to do a whole lot of assisting to get the old guy up to the scale. I let him know it was no problem, and began to leave the room.

Then the son stepped in. His lack of sleep combined with obvious frustration with his father kicked him into full gear. He told the father that we were going to take his weight whether he liked it or not. At this point he scooped the father up like he was crossing a bride over the threshold. Unlike the blushing bride, the father began yelling and squirming, somehow managing to shift the waist of his pants to below his scrawny rump. The son struggled to take the four steps to the scale, then dumped the father onto the scale. The pants dropped to the dad’s ankles, the dad yelled the entire time, and the son looked like he couldn’t wait to have one of his family members replace him at the bedside. After the weight was recorded, the son tried to lift the father up by the waist to put him back in bed. Nope! Nothing would be that easy! The father yelled, “Laaaaaaaaa!” (Arabic for “Noooooo!”) and held on to the scale handle as the son lifted the lower half of his body up. The dad acted the role of the world’s most awkward, immodest Superman while I pried his arthritic fingers off the handles and the son yelled at his dad to stop doing everything that crazy dads do that piss their kids off.

I somehow managed to suppress a laugh throughout this ordeal, then left the room as quickly as I could once I saw that the dad made it safely back to bed. With scale in tow, I left the room and saw one of my coworkers gape-mouthed and wide-eyed. She asked me what happened, and all I could do was laugh and point at the scale. No further explanation needed.

Москва AKA Moscow

When I was 22, Clint and I embarked on our first European adventure. Our Rick Steves’ guidebook sang praises of exploring the culture and getting to know the people. Whatever. We weren’t going half way around the world and spending all that money to see people! We didn’t even know our neighbors. Why would we try to meet people we would never see again? We wanted to see crumbly castles, cavernous cathedrals, ostentatious palaces, famous paintings, snowy mountains, cows with big, heavy bells around their necks…all the stuff we couldn’t find in Tucson, Arizona. We went on that trip and eight other trips to Europe, and I can think of maybe three times we had any meaningful conversation with anyone outside of ourselves. We researched the heck out of anywhere we went, then spent action-packed day after action-packed day seeing all the places and things that made each destination unique.

Fast-forward ten years. I live in Riyadh, one of the best places to do some serious traveling. Everyone I know has their next vacation planned. Adventures I never dreamed as a 22-year-old lie within reach, and I take advantage of them as often as possible.

My last adventure began with eight days in Russia. As I began planning my trip, I thought about what I wanted to see and do. My Frommers’ guidebook suggested lots of ways to fill my day, but unless it is something truly unique I would probably rather walk around outside with the freedom of knowing that no one will tell me to cover my hair. My itinerary for Moscow was filled with a few MUST SEE things like the Kremlin, Cosmonautics Museum, an authentic space shuttle now used for amusement park rides, and lot of other indifferent stuff.

From previous solo adventures, I knew that by day four or five I get a little lonely. Fortunately, I also happen to be cheap and trusting, so I decided to do some couch surfing for the middle leg of my journey. I went on the Internet, found the coolest looking couple in Moscow, and sent them an email asking if I could crash at their house for a few days.

Luckily, they graciously accepted my request. As soon as I got to Moscow, I saw Max’s smiling face at the train station. We went to the cozy apartment he and Tina shared with their chinchilla, Severus. The three of us enjoyed a simple yet delicious spaghetti dinner together. We cheerfully chatted with each other and watched as Severus ran between the piano, couch, china cabinet, mattress and overstuffed bookshelf that lined the perimeter of the room that served as both the living room and bedroom. We got to know each other a little more, then planned some things to do over the next few days.

They were better than I ever could have hoped! Max was a cute 22-year-old who graduated from college the year before but held on to his student metro pass. Tina was a beautiful 20-year-old with dreadlocks who read about Rastafarianism and shared my love for Alice in Wonderland. Both of them were fluent in English, quick to laugh, and happy to talk about a wide variety of topics. They treated each other as only young lovers treat each other, and I couldn’t help but miss all the unpolluted emotions I had when Clint and I were about that same age.

As we talked, I told them a few of the things I wanted to see, hitting the highlights like walking around the Kremlin after dark. I wasn’t expecting them to be my tour guides but they were so much fun to be with, I wanted them to come with me anywhere that they thought might be fun. Lucky for me neither of them had full-time jobs, so they were up for pretty much anything!

We explored a lot of Moscow together, enjoying the beauty of tree lined roads, flowering bushes and a horizon filled with skyscrapers. The hot, muggy weather threw me by surprise as we spent our walks sweating, laughing and drinking lots of water. They took me to their favorite park where goats lived off of the apples fed to them by locals and people paddled in boats around a sleepy lake. They showed me their favorite statues of Pushkin and Lenin, and we went to their favorite Russian restaurant. Their friend Alexander showed up at the restaurant and we all walked along Arbat street together.

At one point, the strap on Max’s flip-flop broke. Over the next few hours, the resourceful Russian tried to mend the sandal with Tina’s hair holder, a piece of twine from a construction site, and finally some scotch tape. When one attempt failed to hold the sandal in place, he never complained or seemed frustrated, but just kept trying different solutions.

We went home, hung out for a bit, then Tina and Max went to sleep. I stayed up with Alexander watching his favorite American comedian, Bill Hicks, on YouTube. That was one of my favorite memories of Moscow. I had never heard of Bill Hicks, but we had a good laugh at his comedy routine from the early ‘90’s. Equally entertaining was watching Alexander. Sometimes we would pause the clip so we could talk about Bill’s jokes. Alexander knew a surprising amount about American culture, and his clever sense of humor added an extra spark to the late night comedy clips. I loved finding myself describing trailer parks and explaining terms like “white trash,” and I enjoyed hearing him describing Easter in Russia where they “colorize” Easter eggs and children hunt for them like they do in America.

At 3:00 AM the airport delivery service arrived with my missing suitcase. Russian men are such gentlemen, and skinny little Alexander sweetly carried my heavy suitcase up five flights of stairs. I hadn’t been there a week and he was the third Russian man to assist me with my suitcase, but the only one whose name I knew.

It’s hard not to see the stark contrast in Russian chivalry and manners with what I see in Saudi. The last time I interacted with a Saudi man at an airport, he pushed me aside as I lowered my carryon from the overhead compartment. I felt morally obligated to teach him not to push his way in front of people, so I “accidentally” knocked the back of his legs with my suitcase with every step we took down the long aisle of the airplane. No Russian would require that sort of social disciplining. They’re gentlemen.

After I got my suitcase I zonked out on the sofa bed, but Alexander stayed up. Before I went to bed I told him to touch my arm and tell me to roll over when he was ready for some sleep. Before anyone gets any big ideas, it wasn’t like that. The guy was eleven years younger than me and the couch was in the same room as Max and Tina’s mattress. We both knew nothing with potentially uncomfortable consequences would happen. I’m not sure if American women have a bad reputation in Russia or what, but he opted to stay up all night instead.

The next day Alexander walked me to the spectacular BLAST OFF! entrance of the Cosmonautics Museum, then headed back to his house to get some sleep. I never saw him again, but he’s definitely on my list of favorite things in Russia.

The Cosmonautics Museum gave me one of those, “Wow, I’m in Russia!” feelings. I loved it and enjoyed seeing the first dog in space, outfits of the first man and woman in space, and a life-size model of the space station. The museum was a treat for nerds like me, as well as the Russian military men who came in as a beautiful herd wearing fatigues over their blue and white striped shirts. Russian women are famous for their beauty, and their bothers are no less beautiful. I knew a pic of an American woman and a Russian military man inside a space museum would be pretty freaking awesome, but I couldn’t muster up the guts to bring myself to ask one of them to pose with me.

I left the museum kicking myself for not being bolder, but got over it quickly. There was a park with fair-type rides right across the street, so I walked on over.

I love Russia. I love how Russians celebrate life in all their various ways. If I had to say which country Russians would be from if they weren’t from Russia, I would say America. Odd as it sounds, they reminded me of Americans more than any other group of people I’ve met. Sure, there were minor differences, but their friendliness, enthusiasm for innovation, pride in their country’s worldwide standing, fierce competitiveness without a hint of insecurity and failure to let circumstances deter them made me feel right at home.

I started missing my new friends, so I headed back. On my way home I found some cookies for Max, who loves sweets, and a bouquet of pretty wildflowers for Tina. The look of delight on Tina’s face when she saw the flowers made me want to surprise her with flowers every week for the rest of her life! She is everything a young lady should be.

The three of us walked to Red Square that night. What a breathtaking way to see Moscow’s most famous part of town. I felt like I walked into a postcard. The stately red brick buildings crowned with stars that I had seen so many times in pictures were suddenly glowing in front of me. Thinking back on them, they still have a dreamlike quality to them. Tina and Max taught me quite a bit about Moscow’s history, but the thing I remember the most is that the architects for St. Basil’s were blinded after it was erected out of fear that they would make one like it somewhere else. Unfortunately, they never passed their blueprints along to the architecture firm in Utah County that builds all the LDS chapels, because all those little kids would LOVE to go to a church that looks like the Candyland Castle!

We walked by a pond with sculptures depicting scenes and characters from Russian fairytales. Tina recounted several sweet fairytales as we walked to the metro station. I couldn’t get enough of them! They added so much to the experience of being in the most famous landmark in Russia with two wonderful Russians. The only thing that could make it feel more Russian is if I wore a big furry hat with earflaps, held a flask of vodka and had caviar stuck between my teeth.

The following day needed to be my grand finale in Moscow. I set my alarm clock for 7:00 AM, planned on hitting Red Square the moment it opened for tourists, check out all the armor, jewels, mausoleums, museums, GUM shops and everything else before going to the Gulag museum to learn about Soviet labor camps.

Sometimes my body hates me. I woke up an hour before my alarm with the worst stomach cramps in my life! Seriously, I struggled to make it to the bathroom, but luckily I did…twice within half an hour. As I sat sideways on the toilet leaning against the miniature washing machine that took up valuable leg space, the hypochondriac nurse in me KNEW it was giardia that I must have picked up in St. Petersburg the week before. I grabbed a Flagyl tablet from my mini-pharmacy in my suitcase and popped one down. I was one sick puppy, and I made it to the bathroom just in time to puke the tablet into the toilet along with anything else that might have been left behind in my digestive tract (my mom would be so proud that I made it, unlike when I was a kid).

So much for the grand finale. I slept for another few hours. When Max woke up, I told him about my canceled plans, then went back to sleep while he read Harry Potter #5. Then Tina woke up, and I woke up again. The couple tried their best to think up entertaining things for us to do instead, and decided to download a movie made during the USSR times about a Russian fairytale. Max brought all of us some tea and we began the movie. I appreciated the uniqueness of the experience, but couldn’t fully enjoy it. I really felt awful. I put my pillow on Tina’s lap and went to sleep there while she stroked my hair.

After the movie, I woke up long enough to ask them if I could sleep on their mattress. The hot, humid weather made everything stick to me, so I only wore a t-shirt and undies. I woke up on their mattress at 6:00 PM, spread eagle and half naked. I remember wondering how many people I would feel as comfortable with as them.

Max brought me some tea and I apologized for sleeping the entire day. He flashed his friendly smile and said, “It’s actually easier this way.” Hahahaha! Can anyone get any cooler than that? I don’t think so.

I ended my last night in Moscow watching Mulan with Tina, knowing that I didn’t cover half of the stuff I marked in my Frommers’ guidebook, including the biggest site of them all, Red Square during touring hours. Instead, by following the sage advice given in my Rick Steves’ guidebook ten years ago, I got something better. On this trip I realized that it isn’t the sites that make each country unique, it’s the people. The people created the stuff the rest of us come to click pictures of and post on the Internet. Locals don’t take pictures of those things because they don’t have to. They own it; it’s a part of them. As I reflect on all the beauty I experienced with these three fantastic young Russians, I realize that all these years I had missed out on bonding with the people that make each country great. Maybe I should break down and meet my neighbor.

Turkey Introduction: An Acid-Trip for Non-Druggies

The Middle East turns sane people crazy and crazy people crazier. I have never dropped acid, but the past year and a half of living in this part of the world, I feel like I’ve been on a very long acid trip. Weird things just happen here.

My latest adventures took me to Russia and Turkey. I assumed that Russia would be full of entertaining anecdotes, and it was. I thought a man was going to steal my suitcase and he didn’t, I hung out with some Americans taking acting classes in St. Petersburg, I went to a fabulous ballet, spent time in impressive museums, watched bridges separate, turned 33, wandered wide-eyed through a palace, the Kremlin and the world’s fanciest metro, enjoyed living with an adorable, young Russian couple for four days, and basked in the beauty of a free country. I could combine all the stories taking place in that incredible week, but it still wouldn’t add up to the entertainment value of almost any given day I spent in Turkey.

I spent a week in Turkey as a solo female traveler. I know. Crazy. The best way to describe what that feels like is to imagine trying to crawl through a kennel full of puppies. You’re not gonna get hurt, but you need to deal with a lot of noise, playfulness and pawing before you emerge with your massive headache. After my sixth day I was ready to curl up in the fetal position and never do anything stupid again, so I spent almost all of my final day in Turkey in my expensive Istanbul hotel room, gladly paying top dollar for self-imposed solitary confinement.


The last day I spent in Capadoccia was the oversized dollop of icing on the cone-shaped birthday cake. I enjoy icing almost exclusively in small doses, and this time was no exception.


Capadoccia is a quirky part of Turkey that looks like it’s made out of petrified meringue. The first two days were pretty cool, filled with meeting both tourists and locals, checking out the scenery and exploring the small town of Goreme. Everything went more or less as expected, but the third day put an end to that.

Turkey Part 1: Morning

I started off my last day eating breakfast in the beautiful garden area of my cave motel. I was all set with my backpack, sunblock, water, and sunglasses.


The 27-year-old motel manager and I had discussed the pros and cons of me ditching the tour bus that day, but I decided to go with the original plan and hop on the bus. I waited for about half an hour, then asked the manager to call the tour company. No answer. He said something about running on Turkish time, so I waited some more. Another half hour came and went, and still no bus. He called again. Still no answer. Fifteen minutes later he called and they answered. They said they were not coming, and asked to speak to me. They said that my hotel manager canceled my tour the previous day, saying that I wanted to do my own thing.

WHAT???!!! I told them that I never told him to do that, and they should have verified the cancellation with me. I made it clear that I was not paying for the tour that never picked me up, either. They said they would talk to their boss about refunding me, then call me back.

I hung up the phone, then the manager’s father who owned the motel asked what happened. I explained the situation, the son denied telling them that I wouldn’t go on my tour, and I went out to the garden with their phone, waiting for the phone call.



The manager came over, asking for his phone. I asked if I could keep it a few minutes until the company had a chance to return the call. He retorted that they were not going to call back. I said that I would keep the phone until they did. He grumbled something, turned around and walked back into the lobby.

After about ten minutes, I got impatient. They had already wasted enough of my time, and the day would only get hotter. I wanted to get a move on my final day of site seeing, and I was angry enough at all the crap I had dealt with. I went to the lobby and handed the manager his phone. As I walked to the door he asked me what the company said. I replied that they never called back, put my hand on the door and opened it. I began to walk out when I heard him say, “I told you so.”

“What did you say?”

“I said that I told you they wouldn’t call back.”

Okay, that’s enough. I removed my hand from the doorknob, fixed my icy eyes on him and moved in on him, ready to go in for the kill.

“What’s your problem? Why have you been so rude?”

“I am not rude, you are rude.”

Seriously, one of the most frustrating parts about the Middle East is a steadfast denial of fault, regardless of how glaring it may be. Every time you point out someone’s unprofessionalism, their only weapon is to parrot the same fault back, even if it doesn’t make sense.

“You cancel my tour, let me sit here for over an hour waiting for it, then have the balls to make fun of me when I think that they will actually do what they say they will? That’s so rude!”

“No, you are rude!” The father walked in the room about this time, but the guy continued. “You are talking to me rude.”

“You really want to fight in front of your father, fine! Ever since you drank wine with me the other night, you have treated me like crap ever since. What’s wrong with you?”

I knew that would piss him off. His dad was as Muslim as mine is Mormon. Saying anything about breaking rules during Ramadan has the same affect as if someone would tell my dad something like that about me while he’s at church.

The guy stormed out of the room, and I followed right behind. Being married taught me a lot about how to not let someone get out of being yelled at, so I kept right on yelling as I followed him to his car. He turned around and I yelled for a couple more minutes about how much he sucked.

His reply, “Don’t talk to me. Fuck off!”

Done. “Okay, I’ll go talk to your father.”

“Nooooooo!!!!!!” But it was too late. I was already heading into the lobby.

Enough with the frustrating stupidity. I remembered my friend from work telling me that Middle Easterners hate it when you cry, plus the dad was an older gentleman so I knew a cry would do good things for me. I tossed my backpack onto the couch, plopped myself down and burst into tears. Admittedly, the tears were real. Enough was enough.

The father sweetly sat down near me and handed me tissues, looking very concerned. He asked me what happened, and I told him about how his son had been such a good friend to me when I first got there, and how I felt like we really bonded. He saw that I needed a friend and knew I was struggling in his exhausting country, so he was so nice to me and made me feel so welcome in Turkey. Then, once Ramadan started, he had been so nasty. I asked what kind of a man treats people well one day, then turns into a different person the next.

The dad gave me a cute little pep talk, told me that he was my father (I don’t know if my mom would agree), and that if I needed anything for the rest of the trip he would help me. I wadded up my tissues, cheered up and announced that I was going to go see the rest of their town. Then he excused himself so he could go spank his son.

Turkey Part 2: Afternoon

I headed out the door with three liters of water in my backpack, my camera around my neck and some cash in my bra. I went to the Goreme Open Air Museum, which looked a lot like everything I had seen the day before.












By the time I was caved out, I was also ready for a break. I sat right on a patch of grass by the entrance and guzzled water while I eavesdropped in on a young lady’s phone conversation.

From what I could tell, the young lady was bidding adieu to someone she had been traveling with and was now on her own. When she hung up, I asked her how she was doing. She told me about a man she had traveled around with for the past week or so, and he left for the airport that morning.

We talked for a little bit, and I learned that her name was Keun Ah, she was 19 and came on a solo adventure from South Korea. Any 19-year-old brave enough to go to Turkey by herself wins some serious coolness points, so I invited her to hang out with me that day, or at least we could grab some lunch together. She thought about it for a second, then some security guard came over and motioned for her to cover her legs a little more because he could see her underwear if he bent his head down far enough.

I spent a lot of money getting away from Saudi, so I wasn’t going to tolerate this on my vacation.

“Quit looking up her skirt! You pervert! It’s Ramadan, you’re supposed to be better than that!”

Her hesitation to spend the day with me stopped immediately and she agreed to join me, but wanted to see the museum first. We decided on a restaurant and went our separate ways for the next two hours.

I wanted some pics from the top of the hill overlooking the valley, and after about twenty long, hot minutes a man pulled over and offered me a ride. His English was limited to “OK?” and “OK!” but that’s enough sometimes. My Turkish consists of two words, too (saw=right, soh=left), so we were even.

Before I admit to climbing in the car with a strange man, let me quickly remind my American loved ones that this isn’t America. You would have to be crazy to do that! Allow me to restate my opening sentence in my introduction: "The Middle East turns sane people crazy and crazy people crazier."

I appreciated an escape from the heat, so I hopped in the passenger seat. This man kindly drove me around to all his favorite sites with good lookout spots of the valley. His car definitely wasn’t built for off-roading, but he didn’t seem to mind.




After an hour or so, he pointed at his mouth and stomach. Cute, but I declined the charade version of an offer to take me to get something to eat because I knew he was fasting. He took me to the town, then I handed him ten lira (about $6) to pay for gas. At first he declined, then he handed me two magnets shaped like slippers and took my money.

I met Keun Ah at a small restaurant and enjoyed an entertaining conversation about her adventures. My favorite part of our chat wasn’t about her wild times in Turkey with a man she met in Istanbul, or the year as an exchange student in Texas, it was her reaction when she asked me what I did for a living. I told her that I work as a nurse.

She looked at me for a minute, then repeated, “You are a nurse.”

“Yes, I’m a nurse.”

“And you work in a hospital.”

“Yes.”

She looked at me a little longer. “I never would have guessed that you would be a nurse.”

“What would you have guessed?”

“A bank teller.”

Is that supposed to be a compliment? I pretended it was, and asked why.

“Because you talk like a bank teller.”

“How do bank tellers talk?”

“Like you.”

Okay. Anyone out there know how bank tellers talk, because I really don’t know what sets them apart from anyone else.

We kept up our friendly conversation while we did some people watching. Lots of scooters and motorcycles filled the streets, and I had a great idea.

“Wanna rent a scooter with me?”

“I don’t know how to drive.”

“You just hold on and I’ll do all the driving.”

“Okay.”

We found a scooter rental store that didn’t require a driver’s license. The man behind the desk asked us if we had tried any local wines yet. I replied in the affirmative, but Keun Ah hadn’t. He said that he would give us some when we returned the scooter, and told us to keep it a few hours later than the amount we had paid for. I questioned his motives, but appreciated the extra scooter rental time.

I fired up the scooter, Keun Ah hopped on the back, and we headed off to see all the sites I was supposed to see on our tour from earlier that day. Driving the scooter over the cobblestones and winding hills of Capadoccia was a little trickier than riding my scooter, Sophie, around Tucson, but we managed. Keun Ah and I constantly adjusted our ill-fitting helmets as we savored the wind in our faces and the feeling of freedom from hagglers as we rode through the peaks that looked like KKK hats, the boulders resembling Smurf houses and small cities built to charm even the most calloused of tourists.














We dropped the scooter off a little early so Keun Ah could go pack for her bus ride back to Istanbul. I walked her to her motel and we hugged goodbye. We thanked each other for the fun time, and I gave her my email address so she could email me some pics. Then she said the best line I’ve probably ever heard in all my life.

“I can’t wait to tell my mom that I spent the day riding in the back of a scooter with an American woman!”