14 – Journey to Jeddah, chapter 2

Happens to me every now and then: easing down the aisle with my carry-on held carefully to avoid bumping people, counting rows, searching for the empty seat that will be my little home for the upcoming flight, and … somebody’s already in it.

Now, I asked for a window seat on this trip because I want to stare at some of the largest deserts on the planet.  I’m a map geek; aerial photos and Google Earth quicken my pulse, and this is my first trip to the Middle East, and parts of Saudi only get a couple of inches of rain every TEN YEARS, and, and, and, and someone is sitting in my spot.  My heart sinks, because I see the family stretched across six seats and I’m not a homewrecker, even when the definition is stretched to fit this situation.

Since I don’t speak Arabic, I spin back toward the flight attendant and relate my issue.  I tell her I’ll give up my valued window seat and sit where the inerloper should be sitting, if someone identifies the interloper’s seat.  “But you have to ask because I don’t speak Arabic and the interloper’s a woman in a burka.”

I got moved one row back on the inside of the port aisle.

Stashed everything except my book and my passport (believe me, that passport isn’t leaving my possession until I get back through immigration at Logan Airport) and found the emergency exit card to study.  Before 90 seconds have passed, the flight attendant returns and asks if I might like to follow her.  “Uh, OK.”  Dumb question.

I did not propose marriage.

My beautiful German flight attendant speaks Arabic and English flawlessly, has a great smile, and is comfortably beyond 40 years old.  I’d follow her anywhere, and I suppose it’s pretty obvious that I would do so.  (Her black hair and olive complexion are because she’s half Portuguese – but that's another, much longer, story.)  She smiled warmly and said, “I was saving this one just for you!” and pointed to an empty window seat on an exit row with 6 feet of leg room!

Profuse thanks in English and German – except I probably said “Thank you, sir” in German.  Gotta study that emergency exit card again, because now I’m responsible for several hundred passengers and I will NOT disappoint my newest favorite flight attendant if things get dicey.  Yeah, Jason Bourne's got nothing on me, baby.

The plane has one of those “you are here” computer-updated maps, and I follow the plane’s circuitous route to Riyadh.  We definitely stayed outside of Syria, and I am sure it was intentional.  The Jason Bourne side of my brain started wondering, “Exactly how dangerous is it to be flying in a Euro airliner over the Middle East?”  I settle on, “Better than being on a US carrier,” and accept that it’s too late now to change things, anyway.

Riyadh appears after a half-hour of sand: brown, tan, orange, beige, eggshell and all the shades in between.  I mention the white-capped mountains to my seatmate – Faisal, a Saudi from Jeddah – who assures me it’s not snow, but powdery, white (surprise!) sand.  I realize the plane’s been going about 500 mph during that half hour, and wonder what living things might survive in 250 miles of sand.  I mean, even with the occasional rock, that's a mind-blowing amount of sand.

Even if I described it faithfully and accurately, you wouldn't believe me.

A dozen women hit the bathrooms during the hour before we land in Riyadh.  They go in with a dress and come out with a burka.  Faisal assures me it’s cultural and no one sees it as hypocritical.  These women understand the way the game is played: wear your burka in Riyadh, and holiday in places where you don’t have to.  Seems they’re all traveling with their husband and three or four kids, which means they’ve given some hefty money to Lufthansa, and I begin to understand.

If life sets you up pretty nicely in Riyadh, you make some sacrifices to enjoy the benefits accruing to your family -- in Riyadh -- and elect to stay there even if that society's rules are oppressive.  

I suppose most of us make similar choices.  Wonder what those women will do when the kids are grown and gone?  Who knows.  By then they will be very different people.

Riyadh came and went, and took 80% of the passengers and 100% of the sunlight.  The flight crew relaxed, us passengers relaxed, and we flew over the dark Saudi desert for an hour to Jeddah.

Rough landing, and a couple of airport guys pushed stairs against the plane.  I stepped out into hot humid air – very like flying into Tampa or Houston.  We climbed on a couple of buses for the five minute ride to the terminal, and I was struck by the placards that said, “seating for elderly and women only.”

Passport control: passport guys in olive drab, soldiers in powder blue with red berets and pistols.  There are only men in the “Diplomats and Business” line.  However, that same line holds a very wide assortment of tunics, thawbs, pantsuits like pajamas or surgical scrubs, terrycloth towel wraps like togas, bare bellies and shoulders peeking out from the togas, taqiyahs, ghutras, and everyone wearing sandals.  Well, almost everyone.

All alone, there is me: bareheaded in blue jeans, boat shoes, and a button-up shirt with a button-down collar.  I tried very hard to be inconspicuous.  Yeah.  It wasn't working.

The only women I saw were the occasional parade of a flight crew.  Everything else was so strange, it took a while before I noticed that there weren't any women around.

Forty-five minutes later, a little after 11 pm, the gentleman took my passport, took all ten fingerprints, took a photo (“Glasses off!”), and asked to see my boarding pass.  The heavy stamp clunked down on my passport and I went to find my baggage.

The company driver  -- a company driver?!?! -- met me just outside baggage claim.  (The general public is not permitted to enter baggage claim or the arrivals terminal at King Abdulaziz International Airport.)

Jet-lagged view out the windshield.  Exit here or not?

We began our trip into the city, and Jeddah is a big city with a population of about three million.  We drove for at least 45 minutes through heavy traffic with crazy people everywhere and more honking than a flock of geese headed south for the winter.  Familiar logos with squiggly Arabic letters marked outposts for Baskin Robins, Dunkin Doughnuts, Pizza Hut, Pepsi, and (OMG!) Krispy Kreme.  Purple and pink neon is everywhere.  Guys were washing cars in the parking lots as their owners were shopping or dining.  Thousands of cars.  Don’t these people know it’s almost midnight?

All of a sudden, Rasheed the driver said, “Hold on!” and we swooped a right-hand turn from the far left lane, veered across two lanes of traffic, honked at a car waiting for a parking space, and careened into a very dark street.

“That’s the office,” he shouted over his shoulder as he looked out the window to make sure we avoided the concrete median.  “And here’s your villa.”  He pulls up on the left sidewalk at an ornate wrought iron gate in a nondescript 8-foot concrete wall.  A steel storm-shutter garage door was adjacent.  Before I could process his words (24 hours on a plane, remember?) he popped the trunk and grabbed my bags.

“You’ll like it, sir.”

13 – Journey to Jeddah, chapter 1

The trip to Jeddah started auspiciously.  The taxi dropped me at Logan’s Terminal E about an hour and ten minutes before departure.  A Lufthansa representative greeted me at the ticketing kiosk and pushed all the buttons to get my boarding passes.  I stepped up to the counter to check my bags (two checked bags = $zero) and a nice young man performed the actual ticketing and bag checks.

Immediately after issuing my tickets and baggage claim stickers, he said, “Let’s get you to the boarding gate.  Please follow me, sir.”

 

He then led me past the crowd of people in the first class security line, flashed his badge at the passport checker, and placed me squarely at the front of the line.  After the Homeland Security dude performed his perfunctory 30 second perusal, my Lufthansa guide led me to the front of the ‘take-off-your-shoes’ line.  After a quickie X-ray check, we took off for the gate.  He said, “Looks like you can walk fast, so we won’t need a cart.”

"Multi-Pass" for Munich to Jeddah

Booyah!  Less than five minutes after issuing my ticket, I’m standing in the boarding line at gate E7B.  Was that a miracle or what?

 

I love Lufthansa!  Head of the line twice, two checked bags cost zero, two glasses of red wine cost zero, fabulous cups of coffee until I couldn't hold any more, dinner, breakfast, a couple of snacks, a screening of Identity Theft and Don’t Trust the B in Apartment 23, and we landed in Munich.

 

Two brave and beautiful girls sat beside me: Aria is 10, Aya is 5, and they were flying to see grandma and grandpa in Sarajevo.  Aria confidently informed me that she’s done this a lot, since their grandparents live in Bosnia.  They appeared unaccompanied, so I happily adopted them.  We had some fabulous conversation (and silly stuff) before Aria announced it was their bedtime and arranged the two of them to rest on each other, under nice (and also free) Lufthansa blankets.  My newest lady friends had chaperones, though: two well-worn bunny rabbits, one of which talked, and a small fuzzy cow.

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Flughafen Munchen (does that rhyme?) provided both wonderful and disappointing experiences:





a)  Lufthansa offers free newspapers and magazines to passengers.  Almost took a few even though they are German language.  Mom can once again tell the story – because she tells it so well! – about my German 101 final exam.
 

Der Spiegel, anyone?

b)  Even though I wasn't entering Germany, the pleasant German passport control guy stamped my passport with no hassles without leaving the secure area.  I'm finally getting some stamps in my four-year-old passport.

 

c)  There are LOTS of Americans.  Someone should tell them this is Germany, and I want to see folks not from the US.  The older gentleman sitting directly across from me at the moment is wearing a North Carolina Tar Heels cap.  He is oblivious to my Georgia Tech bag tag, probably because I’m an American and he, like me, only wants to see foreigners in this airport.

 

d)  They served me a Spaten at 10:30 in the morning.



Cannot take photos of women, so, thanks internet!

There are lots of Arabs at the gate, but that’s not a surprise since the flight goes to Riyadh and then to Jeddah.  I’m practicing the art of ignoring women in burkas, but it’s hard because they look so much more unusual in person.  Imagine being immersed in a Kung Fu movie with ninjas, since ninjas also wear black cloaks and head coverings with only an eye slit.

If you think burkas are plain black shrouds, like I did, you're wrong.  Some have muted dark colors, like purple, grey, or navy blue, but almost all have delicate embroidery, glittery beading, shiny piping at the seams, or other adornments, and none of it is subtle.  Some of the women wear almost opaque veils with draping pieces to cover their necks and throats, while others wear small veils that cover very little of their faces.  And some wear perfume -- wonderfully smelling fragrances that rival what I'd expect to smell at a Boston Symphony performance.

Not at all what I imagined about burka wearers.