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.”