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!”

Turkey Part 3: Night

I walked back to the hotel and had the misfortune of running into the same scooter guy who offered us wine. Dang it. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to see him again. He was on his scooter and offered to take me back to my hotel. I felt a little weird about that offer, so I declined. He told me that he was going to watch the sunset, somewhere that all the locals go every night because it is such a great view. He invited me, and I accepted. I climbed behind him and we drove up a hill much steeper than any scooter I had ever been on could tackle.

We sat on the white rocks and watched the valley turn orange, red and yellow with the sinking sun. He moved in a little closer, put his arm around me and pointed somewhere. Sorry, guy. I only agreed to this because I thought that having lots of other people around would keep you from pawing me. I stood up and reminded him that he had to get back for Iftar. We drove into town, and he invited me to join him and his family as they broke their Ramadan fast. Seemed safe enough to me, so I went with it.



Eating Iftar is one giant feeding frenzy. Hardly anyone noticed I was there for the first fifteen minutes because they couldn’t chug water and shovel food in their faces fast enough. Then we began some cute chit chat about how I liked Turkey and what I had seen so far. Dinner was over much quicker than I imagined, probably because everyone was dying to smoke. I liked the feel of being with people who had waited 16 hours to eat or drink.

After dinner I announced that I had to go home. He tried to convince me that I should join him for wine, but I could tell from the way his hand found my knee at dinner that he was really aiming to make my last night in Capadoccia end in a grand finale. I was sick of it. I just wanted to go home, call my mom, take a shower and call it a day. He got a little pushy, and I finally told him that I felt like he was trying to sell me a rug that I didn’t want. He got the message and left me alone as I walked back to the motel.

I got back to the motel and sent out a quick email to a couchsurfing friend from the night before who offered to take me to his store before I left. I let him know that I was too wiped out to hang out. He quickly emailed me back saying that he understood, but was disappointed because he had canceled plans so he could be my friend that night. I’m a sucker. I can’t do that to someone because I’ve had too many people do that to me. He was really nice, so I felt bad crapping out on him. I emailed him back and let him know I would be coming after all.

I walked to our meeting spot and saw that he was waiting for me. He drove me to the town next to Goreme and we grabbed a container filled with lots of flavors of ice cream. Right next to his store was a charming café, so we sat down to eat. He invited all his friends within sight over to share the ice cream. The café owner brought out spoons for the five of us and pulled up a chair to join in. It was really cute eating ice cream on a hot summer night with so many Turkish people.

After the last spoonful of ice cream was snarfed down, we went into his store. It was like walking into that cave in Aladdin filled with all the treasures. I didn’t see any piles of gold, but there were plenty of other sparkly things piled up around the shop. I picked up about a million things that I would have bought if I had more suitcase space and more money, but I needed to keep my purchases to a minimum. I still regret not buying an amazing red silk scarf, a cool blue wall hanging with gold thread accenting the design, and some great silver jewelry.

I watched him help customers in Turkish, English, Korean and French. He didn’t use the hard sell tactics that annoy people like me, he just kept himself available and made himself useful when people wanted to try on every pair of boots in the store or take two dozen scarves out from their plastic wrap. I have met a few Muslim men like this, and their gentle patience always leaves a sweet impression on me.

Before we left, I asked him to ring me up for a small stash of items that I could easily fit in my suitcase. I planned on paying exactly what they were marked, because it was a fair price. I guess I’m pretty lucky in a bunch of ways because he said that I was his good luck charm that night. A bunch of people bought stuff right before it closed and that usually doesn’t happen. Conclusion: he was going to keep me feeling lucky and give me everything at a great price. Awesome!!!




We drove to a couple cool rock formations before he took me back to my motel. I laid in my cave bedroom, reviewing all the randomness of the day and decided to take the rapid pace of my adventures down a notch. I’m getting too old and ill humored to keep this pace up for long. Either that, or I’m ready to trade in this crazy acid trip for a taste of boring old normal life.

*Nafas Kabeer* "Ana Lasim Akel" (That's My Arabic for *Deep Breath* "I Need to Eat")

I try to leave my compound as infrequently as possible. Going anywhere simply isn't worth the frustration most of the time. For those of you who have never been to this country, let me describe this morning's trip to the grocery store. It contains about the usual amount of weird by Saudi standards. If I could get away with not eating, I would never go grocery shopping again because average amounts of Saudi weird aren't as cute as they were when I first got here.

My friend, Brenda, and I went to a new grocery store called Lulu's. We grabbed our carts and began our adventures at the cutest named store in town. Doing this was much easier sideways, because neither of us had shopping carts that steered straight. After switching our carts, we made our way over to the food. Both of us love talking, but the noisy Koran reading over the loudspeaker ruined our conversation. We split up and bumped into each other occasionally.

All the food that's cheap in America is an expensive import over here and vice versa, so I find myself eating like someone living in the Middle East should. I don't always know what I'm buying, but sometimes it's surprisingly good. Out of all the food, the produce definitely wins the What the...? Award. I now know that tapioca looks like a yam instead of a white bead in a red box, that gooseberries are green balls the same size as a crab apple but ten times as sour, and that mangos come in about twenty different varieties. Today's culinarily adventurous purchase was some Indian ginger. I have no idea what makes it more three times more expensive than the larger Chinese ginger, but I have never seen it before so I added a small root to my cart.

When you finish your produce shopping, you take all your clear cellophane bags to a man who weighs and places a price tag on all of your goods. The dude was whipping right along until he got to my mango bag. He didn't recognize which type of mango it, so what do you think he did? Something logical like ask a coworker or ask me? No. He asked the husband of the lady behind me waiting for her turn to have her produce bagged. Is there a man on the planet who knows or cares enough about mangos enough to distinguish someone else's through a plastic bag? The answer should be, "Yes, but only a few. They can all be found weighing and placing price tags on produce at grocery stores in Riyadh." Not surprisingly, the man being questioned had no clue, so I opened my big mouth like I frequently do around here. "Why would that man know how much my mangos are? If you don't know, ask me. I'm standing right in front of you." The worker probably understood a couple words, but he got the gist that I think he's an idiot.

Moving right along, I went to the deli area. I needed a little bit of cheddar, but not enough to go moldy or dry up in my fridge. Maybe 1/4 of a pound. My American brain did some quick math, then I asked the man working behind the counter, "Could I please get 1/8th of a kilogram of cheddar?"

The man blankly asked, "One eight kilograms. Yes ma'am. Eighteen kilograms for pick up later?"

Eighteen kilograms...so that's like 40 pounds of cheddar! No, I don't think I will pick that up later. I like cheese, but come on. "No, I want zero-point-one-two-five kilograms now, please."

I wrapped up my shopping, then headed to the cashier. The rows of empty registers attest to the fact that Saudis on the whole are nocturnal. I began unloading my full cart and some man walked from the door and approached me. He had a cart full of--I kid you not-- at least 50 bars of soap. From his appearance soap was either a new discovery for him, or he couldn't figure out what it was for. He loudly demanded that I move so he could pass through my aisle. I still don't know what was going on, why he was walking in the store with all the soap, why he didn't go to customer service if he was doing a return, or why he couldn't use any of the other registers, but I've learned not to ask why around here. I don't like bossy people, so I didn't move except to continue unloading my groceries. He kept talking to me, but I was not in the mood to try to understand.

Brenda was all bagged up and ready to go, and our eyes met with that look of, "Let's get out of this crazy place." When the driver approached both of us refused help from the bag boys who load your groceries from the cart into the car, often smashing bread, cracking eggs and ruining bananas. Now we will eat like kings for the next few days, then stretch out the non-perishables as long as we can so we don't have to repeat that experience any time soon.

"Sowak, Enta Harban Katheer!" (That's my Arabic for "Driver, you freakin' suck!")

Remember how I mentioned a cab driver in my last blog? He was a sweet man ten years younger than me who bought me breakfast and sang as he drove me home. That's pretty cute, huh? He drove me back to the airport a few weeks ago, and he turned out to be not so cute after all. Anyway, here's a classic Saudi moment where showing a little hair only gets a girl in trouble.

This boy was named Khalid, a generic Saudi name equivalent to Matt. He called me a week or so after our first encounter and said that he was in the area of my hospital. He offered to give me a ride if I needed a taxi that night. I declined, but asked him if he would be up for taking me to the airport two weeks from that date. He agreed, even though I needed him to show up at 5:30 AM. Perfect! I was happy to get my ride arranged and he seemed happy to have a job lined up.

The following morning at work he sent me a text using English letters/numbers for Arabic words. I know how to speak a little Arabic, but reading--forget it. I asked my Saudi friend sitting next to me what the text said. He looked at it and didn't initially know, either. Then he said, "I think he said you look like a donkey."

What???? A donkey? Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the only donkey ride I've even been on, but I don't consider that text a nice thing to tell a customer! I sent him a text in English simple enough that Google translator had a pretty good shot of not screwing up. "Did you say I look like a donkey?" A couple minutes (and probably one Google translation) later he returned my text. "Hhhhhhhhhh, I say you look like the moon!"

Moon, donkey, whatever. This place brings out the weird in people. I didn't want to mess with this tar baby, so I deleted that text and pretended the whole donkey-moon incident never happened. I showed the text to my friend who translated, and he warned me to be careful about the driver. I laughed it off, saying that I could probably bench-press the wimpy dude. I only get drivers that the hospital provides or ones who look like someone I could beat the crap out of if push came to shove. The kid looked like he had never heard of exercise, came up to my chin and weighed 90 lbs on a fat day.

I debated whether I should get a ride with him as planned since that text was a little weird, but he was nice and I didn't want to back out on him. He probably could have used the money and, most importantly, I hoped that maybe he would find a little breakfast place to grab me some food for the road. He knew how to make good tip money last time, so hopefully he would pull the same trick on the way back to the airport!

I called him the day before my flight left, confirmed that he knew it was 5:30 AM not PM, and told him that I would call him half an hour before just to make sure he was awake and coming. After nearly 16 months of not going home, I did NOT want to miss my flight to see my family over some cab driver having a creative excuse for not picking me up on time.

Everything went according to plan. I called him bright and early, he was on his way over and we met at the designated spot at exactly 5:30. Sweet! My heavy roller bag probably weighed half as much as he did, but somehow he managed to hoist it into the bed of his truck. I was so impressed... for about ten seconds. Then the plan didn't go so well. He said that we would take his friend's car. I asked why, and he answered in Arabic. Hmmm. Not the time of day to require brain power. I hopped in the back seat, took at look at his empty gas gauge, and everything made sense.

I asked how far to his friend's house, and he gave me the standard answer, "Five minutes, five minutes." He turned in the complete opposite direction from the airport. No problem, I budgeted that time into my plans and even the extra five minutes to get back to our starting point. Five minutes and still driving. Ten minutes and still driving. OKAY!!! ENOUGH BEING PATIENT! I HAVE A PLANE TO CATCH!!!!

"Khalid, I need to go to the airport now. It has been ten minutes. I do not want to miss my plane."

"Just five minutes."

"No! We get gas now, then you take me to the airport."

"My friend is coming to the airport, too."

Then the phone rang. Apparently it was his friend. Khalid is a typical Saudi man, so talking equates to yelling. I did not understand all of the unnecessarily loud conversation, but I understood enough to know that the friend's house was close, and Khalid wanted to show off his girlfriend. GIRLFRIEND???!!! How could he possibly have thought I deserved that title? The way I saw it, he was my best option for a ride to the airport. That's all.

That's when it got ugly. I am about 99% sure nothing unfortunate would have happened to me, but this was not a situation I felt comfortable dealing with first thing in the morning. I could beat up the weenie driver, but I had no idea what his friend looked like. Even more than that, I didn't want to miss my flight! I lose my cool out here a lot more than I would like to admit, but I had never gone Mad Woman until that moment. Anyone who has ever been in a long-term relationship knows what I'm talking about. Mad Woman resembles a cross between The Incredible Hulk and a banshee. Don't mess with her unless you really want to get it! I yelled at him like I haven't yelled in years. The only part I know he understood was the part where I told him in Arabic that he was "very bad," but the eloquent English part came out like projectile vomit and appropriately freaked him out.

He quickly flipped a U-turn, then called his friend to cancel our introduction. Wise decision. The "girlfriend" wasn't in the mood for making a jovial first-impression. We sat in silence as he pulled into the gas station. He got out of the car while I kept my eye on the clock hoping that we wouldn't be too long. He quickly returned with a Snickers bar and a drink box filled with the sugariest orange beverage on the market. Okay, that's cute. I don't care who you are, it's impossible to stay mad at someone who hands you a drink box. It was not the breakfast of champions, but it was definitely the breakfast of psychos. That morning, it was just what I needed. He dropped me off at the airport, I handed him my money, and he told me to call him for a ride home after my trip.

Needless to say, I found another skinny boy to take me home. We did not get breakfast, but I haven't had any weird texts, either. It's a fair trade. So far, Khalid has called me twice. I never answered his calls. Why he would even bother calling me is a puzzle, but what can I say? I'm still probably the best--and only--girlfriend he thinks he ever had.

Ana mafi shagala (That's my Arabic for "I am not a servant.")

I've said it before and I'll say it again...Saudis are either the best people in the world or the worst. Yesterday morning I encountered the second kind at the airport, then got a ride home with the first kind. The ride home isn't very funny because it involves a sweet 22 year old cab driver singing to me and stopping to buy me breakfast. That's nicer than any cab driver you would find anywhere else, and he was smart enough to do that to a tired American who tipped him about $10 more than we agreed on, but that story is over all ready so I'll focus on the negative, hilarious story involving a stupid Saudi.

The story starts off with a little background on Saudi Arabia. They import workers like Americans import bananas: they get them in bulk from hot, foreign countries where labor is cheap. It is common for households to have a live-in maid or nanny, and many of these women are from Southeast Asia. These cute ladies are usually pretty short with round faces, small brown eyes, dark hair and tan skin. I saw a lot of these women huddled against the wall yesterday morning when I got off my flight after my fabulous trip to America.

Another tidbit about Saudi Arabia: about 90% of the visible population is male. Another 6% of the visible population is female, but you would never know from looking at their formless, black attire and covered faces, but that's what women wear out here. The remaining 4% or so stands out like me and gets a LOT of attention in the form of men staring as if they have never seen a woman. It's annoying, but I'm used to it.

Okay, now on with the story. I finished my long flight and made it through passport control, where they stamped my visa and added yet another stamp to the collection I have going on my passport. After walking past the swarm of imported domestic helpers, I stood next to the conveyer belt waiting for my checked luggage. A security guard approached me and demanded to see my passport. I asked why, since I already went through passport control. He didn't understand me, so I told him I would show him my passport, but he could not hold it. I busted it out and he took a look at the big American flag picture behind my pic. He then asked to see my visa. No problem there! It was a single use one, so he could keep it for all I cared. I handed it to him, he looked at whatever Arabic writing King Faisal Hospital felt like it needed to put on there, then passed it back. He paused, then said that he needed someone who spoke English to help.

A man flying in from Los Angeles overheard the conversation and offered to translate. The guard asked him where I worked. The translator asked me. I told him. He told the guard. The guard asked what I did. The translator asked me. I told him. He told the guard. The guard said something that I didn't understand, then walked away. The translator said something about the man being so stupid. I asked what was going on, and he said that he didn't know either, but there was no reason for him to want to see my passport and visa once I was out of the passport control area.

The translator guy and I engaged in small talk for a little while, then watched as the guard led a procession of future maids from their spot against the wall to the x-ray machine for their luggage to get one last inspection. The translator burst out laughing. I asked him what was so funny, and he said that the guard must have thought I was a maid like the other women! He said that no family would hire an American maid because they would be too expensive. Between my white skin, blue eyes, red hair, 5'8" stature and American passport, the guard still needed a translator to figure out that I am not a Southeast Asian maid-to-be. Idiot.

There are a lot of things I would be good at in this life. Being a maid isn't one of them.