My friend Anoud has tons of really interesting and cool friends in Amman, and probably the coolest one is her friend (and now my friend, too) Saif. The first night I met both of them, they were coming from some swanky event at an embassy and Saif had taken Anoud as his plus one. They met me on the side of the road at a halfway point to the bar we were going to. I was wearing baggy jeans and one of the many long cardigans that covers my butt that I stocked up on before coming here. Saif was in a chic suit and Anoud was wearing an adorable little dress. In the car, they told me about how great the open bar at the event was and I told them the falafel I had eaten for dinner wasn’t settling well in my stomach. Our permanent dynamic was pretty much established right then and there.
Saif works for a really hip magazine here in Jordan that is basically the Middle East’s version of GQ, so he always has these cool events to go to. Dinners, photo shoots, car test drives, plane test rides (not joking at all airlines actually offer to fly him places so he can try out their redesigned airplane interiors)…the list goes on and on. He always takes Anoud along with him as his plus one, but we started a running joke that when I finally mentioned him in my blog he would take me as well.
Finally, a few weeks ago my day of sophistication and prestige arrived. Anoud passed along the message from Saif that I was invited to a dinner his magazine was having at a Thai restaurant in the most upscale part of Amman. She texted me the details, adding “But he says you can only come if you blog about it! Hahaha.” I laughed to myself. Okay, fine, Saif. I guess this is a fair trade.
Anoud told me the dress code for these things can be tricky, since usually everyone who goes is pretty dressy but also sometimes they aren’t, so you kind of have to pick something that could go either way. I had a flashback to the time my roommate Jordan and I went to dinner at the US Embassy here and since we were told it was business casual I wore a pencil skirt and a silk top. We arrived to find children running all over the place in sweatpants and parents in jeans and t-shirts ignoring them. One kid was in pajamas. I cuffed the sleeves of my not-over-the-butt J Crew cardigan in an attempt to look more casual. I’m going to continue living under the illusion that this made a difference and I blended in very well after this quick and clever fix.
For the dinner I selected a dress that could be dressed up or down depending on jewelry, shoes, or personal hygiene. I chose to shower, so to compensate for this fancy edge I donned a more casual necklace and flats. The fabric of the dress would also expand nicely as I stuffed free Thai food into myself. Seemed like a win-win.
Thankfully it was cold enough for me to still wear my long winter coat which covered more than the dress would by itself. Though street harassment seems to happen no matter what you have on unless you’re wearing a full jilbaab and niqab (a combo of a sort of robe and head covering that obscures everything but your eyes and that I have often been tempted to buy for myself so I don’t have to keep swearing like a sailor at the disrespectful youths who like to suggest that we engage in inappropriate activities via a combination of English and Arabic words and kissing sounds as I walk by them in both dresses that touch the ground and make me trip or skirts that go so far as to daringly reveal my calves or seriously even sweatpants coming back from the gym), it doesn’t hurt to be as bulky and shapeless as possible when venturing out in the evening…or morning…or afternoon…etc. So with my legs covered to my knees and my stomach ready for battle, I hailed a cab and headed to the restaurant.
I met Anoud outside and we walked in the door and confidently up the first flight of stairs we saw. We ended up on an empty platform connected to nothing else. We turned around and went back down the stairs and then realized we should probably just walk straight into the restaurant. Turning the corner, we found a long table set for twenty people and about half full so far. Saif came over to greet us, obviously having struck the perfect note of casual sophistication in a chic blazer and dark jeans. Everyone else I could see was also wearing dark jeans and some kind of effortlessly dressy top. I cursed my continued inability to dress myself appropriately.
“Hey, guys, so glad you could come! Listen, about the blog…”
I interrupted Saif with a laugh. “I know, I know, don’t worry, you’ll be in there!” I reassured him. He leaned in urgently.
“No, no. Okay, so this is like a thing the restaurant is putting on for people from the magazine so we write about it and other people here are writers and photographers who will also give them publicity. I really wanted you to come so I told my boss you’re a travel blogger who goes around and writes about food and culture and stuff. And that you like tap into the expat scene here because a lot of our publications don’t really address expats in the region who want to explore the food and art scene but your blog does.” I froze and stared at him.
“I-I’m sorry, are you joking? This is a joke, right? Like you know my blog is a complete joke? It’s just embarrassing stories about my life. Have you ever read it? Like have you even MET me?”
“I know I know but just go with it okay? I need to go mingle!” And with that, Saif had scampered off to talk to some other people and left me stunned next to a giggling Anoud.
I took a moment to evaluate. I did theater in high school and college. Cinderella pretended to be a princess when she was a servant. She didn’t dress herself, but still. I could pull this off. Right?
We went and sat down at one end of the long table. A few more people trickled in, looked at us, looked at the other end of the table, and then went and sat down there. Off to a good start. At least my natural ability to seem unappealing and uncool was somehow serving to help me for once. If no one came near me or tried to make conversation, I wouldn’t have to pretend to be some legit travel blogging professional. I could inhale my free Pad Thai in peace and solitude, just like in college when I ordered takeout from Spice in Harvard Square and ate it in my bed where no one could say anything about my outfit because it was my room and I decided what was an appropriate dress code. And because, as I mentioned, I was alone.
Anoud and I sat next to each other and left a chair on her right open for when Saif decided to come over and pay attention to us while taking a break from mingling with others. No one was sitting in any of the three open chairs across from us.
The first course arrived, some kind of soup. Everyone whipped out their phones and frantically started taking pictures to live Instagram the meal (not a joke, they were actually doing this). I got ready to dig in, but then I noticed Saif staring pointedly at me. Oh right. I reached for my phone and made a big show of taking a picture of my tiny cup of soup from five different angles. I spotted mushrooms in the soup. I hate mushrooms so much that I have a recurring nightmare about them growing out of the wall around me and slowly suffocating me to death. Cruel, cruel fate. Please, please let the rest of the food make this all worth it.
I decided to continue practicing my new persona with Anoud. Picking up my curved Asian soup spoon and dramatically inhaling the scent wafting upwards, I closed my eyes. “You know,” I told her, “this takes me back to my travels in Thailand. It was years ago, when I was first starting out, but this aroma makes it feel like yesterday.” (I have never been to Thailand obviously). She chortled into her soup bowl and picked up her own spoon.
“Indeed,” she agreed, taking a sip. “And Serwin, did you know that the shape of these spoons actually was inspired by the elephant tusks you find on those beautiful creatures throughout that stunning country?” (Anoud has actually been to Thailand). I laughed and snorted. Someone down the table stared at me with slight disgust. We continued making similar remarks to each other.
They brought out a salad and spring rolls. We noticed that there was also an open buffet right across the room. We additionally noticed that no one from our group was going over to it. Too low brow, I suppose, and I had to keep up appearances now more than ever. Didn’t stop me from drooling every time a different restaurant patron opened the lid on the Pad Thai while I picked at my “gourmet” salad with feigned gourmand gusto.
Two girls arrived and sat down across from Anoud and me. Stay calm. You can do this. We all exchanged introductions and I learned one worked in marketing and one worked in design for the magazine. We were served some more small appetizer dishes with chicken. I cleared my throat loudly as I picked up my phone and took pictures to make sure everyone noticed. Then I saw that everyone was reaching for the chopsticks. I felt my hands begin to cramp up. I am absolutely hopeless at lots of stuff, and using chopsticks is very high on the list, right above “basic addition and subtraction” and below “everything.” But a true food and travel blogger would obviously be more than proficient with foreign eating tools. In the Arab world, that means your hands, which I have managed to make work because I have always found cutlery to be somewhat overrated aside from Little Mermaid impressions of Ariel combing her hair with a fork. Similarly, except for channeling Mulan and sticking chopsticks into my hair (everyone went through that phase in middle school OKAY), I have no use for chopsticks as a means for getting food into my mouth. Any utensil that forces me to take smaller bites and makes consuming food stressful is my enemy.
From the times I was forced to pretend to like sushi in college so that people would invite me places, I knew that after breaking chopsticks apart it is recommended that one rub them vigorously yet gracefully against each other to remove splinters or perhaps start a small fire over which you can cook the raw fish you are about to consume on purpose and should be seriously rethinking.
I opened my chopsticks and tried to pull them apart. They were really connected. I pulled harder. I looked desperately at Anoud. But I knew I had to do this myself. With one last burst of strength, I yanked them apart. Hoping no one had noticed this pathetic display, I quickly moved on to the shaving stage of the chopstick preparation. I wondered if I could spend the whole time doing this so I never had to actually use them. Just as I was getting going, the girl across from me picked up her fork. Catching my eye, she said “Oh, I hate those! I can never get as much food as I want. I’m definitely using my fork.” AN ANGEL FROM HEAVEN. I laughed aloofly.
“Haha, yeah, I mean, you know, it um, it’s a part of the experience, but, still, SO hard to master, even when in the actual country where they use them, you know?” She smiled and passed me some chicken. I quickly added her to my tally of allies. Three at this dinner. Maybe just three in life more generally. But now isn’t the time to go down that road. I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry!!!!
Saif’s boss arrived as we were still working on the appetizers. He brought her over to me to introduce us. She was the very image of everything I had tried to be: perfect hair, perfect outfit, perfect hygiene. Great belt to dress down her outfit appropriately. OBVIOUSLY I should have belted this dress that is always the answer to the casual yet dressy look. Why didn’t I??? Oh right…less room for food.
She smiled a beautiful smile. “You’re the blogger, yes?” Game time.
“Yes, that’s me! Yes, it’s a…it’s a blog about culture and food, and I travel, and I write about the culture, and the food, and especially while in the Middle East I try to help break down stereotypes about what people in the West think about the culture and tourism and food scene here, so, yes, lots of culture…and food, too.” She was scrolling through Instagram on her phone.
“Mhmm, how nice, great to meet you!” With that the terror was over. My breathing began to regulate. Then they started bringing out the main courses and my pulse quickened once again. Our table was filled with amazing dishes: half of a pineapple filled with rice, an elaborately constructed noodle tower, two halves of a coconut cooked only in the middle with some kind of delicious cream. I decided that, for one night only, I could be better than just Pad Thai. L’Oréal had been telling me for years, but now it finally clicked: I was worth it.
Brandishing my fork as Prince Caspian of Narnia would brandish his sword upon entering battle, I attacked the vast selection of Thai treats before me — not before taking as many conspicuous pictures as possible of all the food. I turned to Anoud and remarked, “You know, this reminds me of the few nights I spent cooking only over a small pile of burning embers on the beaches of Chiang Mai. They have really managed to capture that indigenous smoky essence in this dish, though I do recommend everyone experience the traditional cooking method at least once in their life.”
The girls across from us sort of smiled in polite confusion. Anoud nodded in solemn agreement. “And did you know these coconuts actually get their specific mix of flavor because of the elephants that swing their trunks and hit them as they make their way across the land?” she added.
“You know, I had heard that, but I was sure it could only be legend,” I responded.
“So, what do you do here, Sarah?” the graphic design girl across from me asked. After briefly summarizing my work with Sound it Out!, the ESL/arts program, and mentioning taking Arabic, I quickly launched into a detailed explanation of my “blog.” And what I told her wasn’t exactly a lie, because I do write about my experiences and I do hope that people who only have vague ideas and stereotypes about the Middle East will learn that, just like any other part of the world, it has both beautiful and challenging aspects. And that, just like in any other part of the world, I fail on a regular basis to represent America in a competent or encouraging way.
But since you are reading this you are very aware that I am not a travel blogger with an extensive ex-pat following and I have zero legitimacy as an expert on food, culture, travel, or life. Just try to tell me with a straight face that if YOU showed up at a free delicious dinner and were told that in order to eat you had to grossly exaggerate about your life and validity as a person you wouldn’t do the exact same thing. People do this every day all over the world — it’s also known as “going on dates.”
“So, who reads your blog?” the graphic designer girl asked. Good question. My parents, and then they send me emails admonishing me for continuing to turn them prematurely gray.
“Oh, you know, friends, family…mostly family…maybe some other people. Still, you know, getting it off the ground. But I want to help bring more tourism to this part of the world, because it is truly incredible and Jordan in particular has so much diversity that people don’t know about.” Nailed it.
They brought out more food, and by this point I was just holding up my phone and hitting it repeatedly as if taking a picture but actually just pressing on a locked screen. You can only make so many sacrifices in this life.
Shortly thereafter Anoud had to leave to meet up with a friend, and the graphic designer girl did as well. I realized I would literally be left all by myself at the far end of the table. I also realized that they would continue to bring out just as much food to my end of the table and not notice the rest of them weren’t coming back, and since we had arrived at the dessert course I decided this would be acceptable compensation for looking like a supremely deplorable dinner guest.
“Before I go,” the graphic designer girl said as she put on her coat, “I’d LOVE to get the link to your blog! It sounds amazing.” I think time stopped for a moment, along with my heart. Anoud was frozen mid-goodbye hug next to me. Okay, an unforeseen obstacle. You cannot under any circumstances give her the link to your blog. Don’t blow your cover. You watched Spy Kids all the time growing up. You can figure this out.
“Oh, that’s — that’s so sweet of you! Actually I think it will just be easier if I email it to you, how does that sound? Here, give me your email address and I’ll send it when I get home!” Sarah you cunning little DEVIL. You get to eat all the dessert for that genius move.
With that, I was left alone with five empty chairs around me. Six fried bananas with ice cream were placed in front of me. I grudgingly realized that I could slide down a few seats to sit across from at least one other person and still reach my personal platter of dessert. It seemed like the kind of a compromise a real travel blogger would make, so I followed through. I found myself across from another young woman. She asked me what I did in Jordan. I told her I was a blogger. I asked her what she did in Jordan. She told me she was a blogger. This isn’t happening.
“That’s so cool that you also blog! I go to these kinds of things all the time, aren’t they great? I love being able to write about them and spread the word to my readers,” she said engagingly.
“Oh, totally, me too!” I said, frantically spooning crispy banana into my mouth so I wouldn’t have to talk that much. She began to tell me all about her deep love of books. She asked me if I had read Fifty Shades of Grey yet, and I shook my head.
“They’re making it a movie, you know. You kind of remind me of the girl who plays the main character…you look a little like her.” I sent a chunk of ice cream flying off the plate with my spoon. She watched me scoop it back up off the table and put it in my mouth. “But I guess you don’t look like her that much actually. She’s gorgeous,” she clarified. I was reminded of the time my friend in high school told me I reminded him of Phoebe from Friends, and also a little of Monica, but “only in the episodes when she’s fat.”
We moved on to chatting about our ideal fantasy fictional boyfriends (disclaimer: I did not choose this topic). Realizing that being honest and saying Benji from Pitch Perfect would probably do me no favors, I said William Darcy. Classic (literally). She launched into an explanation of how he is by far her favorite male character and did she mention she loves books and that they are truly her whole life and if she couldn’t read she would have nothing? I decided it was time to go.
I got up and thanked Saif’s boss profusely for including me and, by extension, my readers (aka Aunt Mary in Delaware and sometimes Mom in Maine) in this wonderful event. “Truly delicious,” I gushed, the one truth I really spoke all evening. She smiled and waved me off. Saif brought me over to a table with a bunch of gift bags for everyone who had attended. Rarely am I ever deemed important enough to receive free swag, but I guess professional blogging has its perks!! (Anyone hiring??)
Gift bag in hand and long coat over knees, I hailed a cab and headed for the sanctuary of home where no one was under any false illusions about my line of work or my legitimacy as a dinner guest at a free Thai banquet. The cab driver took one look at me and switched off the Arabic music he had been playing in order to blast the song “Low” by Flo Rida, apparently in my honor. We cruised through Amman hearing about the subject, Shawty, in her apple bottom jeans, and I decided that on the scale of Songs Cab Drivers Have Played For Me Because I Am Clearly American And They Have Just The Music To Make Me Feel More At Home, this fell somewhere between “Smack That” by Akon and “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston. There are definitely worse things to listen to while driving through a Muslim country late at night; for example, the soundtrack to Rent. Just kidding, that’s awful to listen to no matter where you are. Although that is the only reason I know how many minutes are in a year.
[I also sang “Take Me or Leave Me” (the only song from that show I actually like) with my female friend for my senior year Spirit Week karaoke competition without having ever seen the show or the movie (it will come as no surprise that I was strictly forbidden from doing so) and thus I had no idea it’s a song sung by two lesbians. Which is great, but not knowing this left me very confused after the performance when all these teachers came up to me and told me confidentially how very brave and courageous they thought it all had been. I was like nbd guys it was no different from any of the other times I have sung in front of the school except for we were all wearing ridiculous red costumes for our class color! They just nodded and gave me knowing smiles while I uncomfortably adjusted my shiny red leggings and removed my itchy red plastic fireman’s hat before getting in my car to go home and not watch any movie rated above PG-13 as usual.]
I finally made it home after listening to a few more pieces of information about the people in the song. Apparently Uggs are back in because I was told Shawty also had on dem boots with the fur — did they actually ever go out of style? Idk I still wear mine a lot and see people wearing them but I guess it depends on how you wear them? Ugh (get it? Don’t admit it if you do because then you have to admit you read this blog).
I opened my gift bag to inspect the contents. There was an exclusive calendar from the magazine, along with two copies of the magazine and some letter in an envelope. I opened the envelope, saw that the letter was in Arabic, scanned for familiar words, unsurprisingly saw none, and then tossed it into the trash. Probably was nothing important.
Like Cinderella transforming back into a servant girl when she returned from the ball, I also quickly transformed from an unqualified, unimportant and bloated American girl posing as a travel blogger into an unqualified, unimportant and bloated American girl posing in sweatpants. Luckily, unlike Cinderella I at least had enough wits about me to not leave behind any glass slipper equivalent (read: contact information or link to fraudulent blog) with my fellow dinner guests. I settled into bed, proud of myself for having completed my mission successfully and still riding the thrill of being an international travel blogger, if only for one night.
A few days later Anoud called to see how the rest of dinner had gone. I proudly told her that I had kept up my part even in her absence, and it was good that when I said I was studying Arabic here too at least that part wasn’t a total lie. She congratulated me on my performance and asked if I wanted to use the gift card to the restaurant we had been given in our little swag bags at the end of the evening.
“What gift card? I don’t think I got one.”
“Yeah,” she said, “all of our bags had them I think. It was like a letter in an envelope or something?”
I then spent the next half an hour digging through various trash bags in my apartment. While I may have initially congratulated myself within my Disney princess trope for leaving no trace of my identity fraud behind, in the end Cinderella actually became a princess and I was digging through banana peels and empty yogurt containers so that I could have a free dinner. Anyone that criticizes Disney for giving girls unrealistic ideas about what kind of life they should aspire to has clearly never been so low that removing a restaurant voucher from a pile of chicken fat creates what I can only assume is an equivalent emotional rush to having a handsome prince propose to you and I suggest they all be quiet until they can understand what this feels like.
Jordan is not my boyfriend 