It’s Hard Out Here for a Bint

Three 6 Mafia started it. Lily Allen reinterpreted it. Each have claimed it’s “hard out here” — here being the world at large — for both pimps and b*tches. I am here to tell you that it is really the HARDEST out here for a bint.

[Note: I really really hate tacky asterisk use to make written swear words acceptable but I just feel like it needed to be done since this is supposed to be a family-friendly blog aka friendly to my family aka my parents who didn’t even let me say “that sucks” or “fudge” or even “poop” to express my anger growing up. Instead I had to call poop “BM,” meaning “bowel movement,” and until I was a junior in college or so and decided to look it up for fun I literally thought there was a word spelled “beam” that meant poop and was just pronounced slightly differently from “beam” meaning a plank of wood/a ray of light/a smile. A website entitled “Fun with Words” tells me this is called a heteronym. I would like to point out that yes, I am aware that I not only didn’t realize that this mysterious “beam” word was actually just an acronym for “bowel movement” until college but I also didn’t know the definition of “heteronym” until one minute ago, which would probably make you wonder whether or not I even went to college as I have claimed. And yes, you would be correct in assuming that there were many confusing times in my life B.B.M. (Before B. M., NOT a reference to the antiquated BlackBerry Messenger system that I longed for until I actually had it and then immediately wanted an iPhone instead) when people would refer to “beaming” and I would have to focus closely on context and subtle vocal inflection to decide whether or not they meant smiling joyfully or dropping the kids off at the pool, as they say.]

For those who don’t know, bint is the Arabic word for “girl.” Used in a sentence, it could look something like this:

Scene: the beach. Allie and Noah from Nicholas Sparks’ The Notebook are running around playfully on the screen while you watch from the couch with a pile of snotty tissues and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s close at hand. You wonder if you could ever pull off that classic 1940s bathing suit look. You glance at the nearly demolished pint of Ben and Jerry’s and realize that no, no you could not.

Allie: Now, say you’re a bint.

Noah: If you’re a bint, I’m a bint.

I might have mixed up a small portion of the dialogue, but that was from memory so you should be impressed either way.

Allie is a bint, Noah is a bint, and I am a bint. And in Jordan, it is hard to be a bint sometimes. Take the events of two weeks ago, for example.

I have started working with a new program called Sound it Out! (SIO) as a coordinator. It is an initiative operated by an organization started by a friend of mine here on a Fulbright MTVu grant. Our goal is to use music, theatre, and the arts to help enhance creativity and language ability among displaced and disadvantaged children in Jordan. We will be running classes that use arts-based activities to teach English and improve the overall confidence of the children we work with. These children will be primarily Syrian and Iraqi refugees, but we will also be working with Jordanian children who have been unable to maintain their education in the public school system here. I am extremely excited about the project and the people I am working with, and I could not have been more lucky to find an opportunity that aligns so well with what I was hoping to be involved in when I came to Amman. Given the immense numbers of refugees that continue to try to find safety in Jordan, I am thrilled that I can help facilitate some kind of light-hearted play for children who have faced more serious danger at age six than I probably will ever experience in my entire life.

The director of/creative genius behind SIO, my friend Garrett, forwarded me an email this week about a really interesting lecture taking place at the Queen Rania Teachers Academy (QRTA) in Amman to be given by a British musician and educator named Richard Frostick. Mr. Frostick has developed an incredible curriculum of teaching methods based on the idea that music is a powerful tool for engaging students’ creativity and that musical memory lasts longer than any other kind. This would explain why I could not begin to tell you how to calculate the force of gravity on an object given its mass and the incline of the surface upon which it is sitting but can instantly remember the lyrics to Mya’s classic hit “Case of the Ex” off my Now 5 CD from the year 2000 after having not listened to it for at least a decade or so. Which reminds me that I can’t believe I was allowed to listen to someone sing about how she doesn’t know why her boyfriend is talking to his ex since they “didn’t have no kids” together and yet I WASN’T allowed to say “poop.”

[This theory of musical memory also explains why the only thing I DO remember from high school is about when Henry Clay ran for office for the third time in 1844 because I wrote a rap about it to Eminem’s “Without Me” (now this looks like a job for me/so everybody just follow me/cause we need a little stability/White House feels so empty without me). My friend and I borrowed basketball jerseys from her friend from another school and wore flat-brimmed baseball hats while we rapped in AP US History class. I told her after that I thought the cologne her friend used was really really strong because the jersey I wore smelled pretty awful. She told me that this is what weed smelled like.]

The lecture announcement said we would be learning about the many ways music can be used to improve literacy, numeracy, and really any other possible subject. It also included a small picture showing where to find QRTA in relation to some other landmarks. A sort of map, if you will. I saved the picture on my phone and ventured out into the pouring — yes, pouring — rain. Don’t get me wrong, for as the great philosopher Luke Bryan once said, I really do believe that rain is a good thing. Especially in Jordan, where water scarcity is a huge issue (have I mentioned how infrequently I shower yet in this blog?). But trying to go anywhere in the rain here without having your own car is somewhat difficult. There is little to no drainage system on the streets, so you literally just wade through small lakes and frantically flail your arms in the direction of every passing car in the off chance that it is indeed a taxi (which you can’t tell because the rain mixed with the usual dust and smog is obscuring your vision).

A cab driver thankfully responded to my pathetic gestures and we started on our way. I told him to drive in the direction of a popular mall in Amman that is a fair distance from where I live, and once we got closer I would direct him based on the little map I had. A while later we were near the first landmark, so I opened the picture and gave him some instructions in Arabic about when and where to turn.

“You know where this place is?” he asked me in Arabic.

“Not exactly, but I have a picture here,” I told him. He nodded.

“Great, pictures are very helpful,” he said.

The picture showed that we would go past four traffic circles and take a left after the last one. We did so successfully, and for once I was feeling pretty satisfied with my navigation and translation skills. I saw that we then needed to follow a road until a set of traffic lights, at which we would make a U-turn and head back in the other direction to be on the correct side of the road for the academy.

“I know where we are going now,” the driver told me. What luck!

“Great!” I said, and sat back. We drove on, reached the traffic lights, and then kept going. No. I cleared my throat. “Um, I think we need to actually go back the other way,” I told him.

“Okay, we will turn,” he said. So much for knowing where you’re going, pal. We made the U-turn and passed the lights. I noticed that everything on our right, where the academy supposedly would be located, was mostly residential. I told him it would be on one of these streets but that it looked like it would be at the very last one. So naturally he stopped at each street and peered out the window to see if it was the right place. It started to hail. “Ice, ice from the sky!” he shouted above the din in English. We moved to the next street and stopped again.

“I think it’s the last street,” I reminded him in Arabic. He stopped at the next street. I leaned forward with the picture open on my phone. Pointing, I said, “I think it’s the last street.” He looked down at my phone.

“Why didn’t you say you had a picture?! You have a picture?!” he exclaimed, as if just hearing this news. Huffily snatching my phone, he made a big show of counting the streets we would need to pass before getting there. I didn’t know how to explain in Arabic that I didn’t think the picture was exactly to scale so I just let it go. We continued to make our way down the road and peer into people’s houses as we went until we finally arrived at QRTA. Obviously I felt guilty for no reason and overpaid him.

Once inside, the lecture was fantastic. Mr. Frostick is such a dynamic and fun speaker, and he had us all up singing and clapping within the first five minutes of his talk. I never knew how positively enchanting it could be to hear someone recommend in a British accent that classes with older children for whom nursery rhymes would not be appropriate should make use of some of “Jay-Z’s songs off of the YouTube” as a “delightful alternative.” He even used some ABBA songs to demonstrate how lyrics could be switched around to incorporate relevant class material, but not until he made sure ABBA had “made it to Jordan yet.” Mama mia, I thought to myself. But in all fairness it can be very hard to gauge just how pervasive Western culture is until you have spent significant time in a different region of the world. Hint: for better or for worse, it’s pretty pervasive.

I also found out that he runs an organization called World Voice that does music workshops with children around the world, and for the past several days he had been working with refugee children in United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA) schools in Amman. During our refreshment break, I sought him out to tell him about SIO and ask when the performance with the children in Amman would be held. He was engaged in conversation with a few of the teachers at the workshop, so naturally I awkwardly lurked a few steps behind his left shoulder and watched as a little boy piled about 15 tea cookies from the table behind me onto a napkin and then attempted to carry them away. Mr. Frostick charitably took notice of my lingering shadow and was very excited to learn about SIO and tell me about the children’s singing performance the following day. I then went to the bathroom where I discovered that I had mascara all over my face from being rained on. Lesson learned: trying to look presentable will always backfire. After the lecture was over and the incredibly kind director of QRTA had given me both her contact information so she could ask teachers about working for SIO and information about where to find the World Voice concert the next day, I emerged back into the pouring rain to make my home.

This time, however, it was pitch black, and it slowly dawned on me that I was basically in an isolated, residential area. The closest busy street was blocked by a series of fences, meaning I would have to walk the length of several residential streets up and down before getting somewhere I could actually find a taxi. There was no other real alternative, so I set off in the downpour. A journey of a thousand puddles begins with a single splash, as they say. A kingdom of isolation, and it looks like I’m the queen, I hummed to myself.

I paused for a moment while walking to see if any of the few oncoming cars in the neighborhood were taxis. None of them were, but one of them slowed down to a stop next to me. The man driving rolled down the window. “Hello, you need help?” he asked me in English.

“Oh, no, that’s okay!” I said. “Just trying to find a taxi.” He leaned forward.

“Where are you going?” he asked. I told him which part of Amman. “I am going to Mecca Mall area, I can take you there to find a cab the rest of the way?” he offered.

This is the dilemma of the foreign girl/bint (and also possibly any girl/bint, though I can only speak to my experience) in Jordan. On the one hand, Jordanian hospitality is unparalleled. People are so unbelievably kind and charitable here, especially if it’s clear you are far from home and don’t have your family nearby to support you. Something that would seem incredibly creepy in the states, like a random person you meet once taking your phone number and then calling you every once in a while just to make sure you’re doing okay, is a common and beautiful practice here. On the other hand, not a day goes by that I don’t become incensed and uncomfortable walking down the street as a woman and receiving inappropriate remarks and looks from boys and young men alike. Especially when I am balancing a million plastic bags of groceries between two hands and sweating profusely and they really should raise their standards a little bit. So it is difficult to know when something is being offered due to good or bad intentions when it is being offered by the opposite sex (though one can argue that this is a somewhat universal struggle and not specific to Jordan).

And, let’s be real, we’ve all seen Taken.

I think it was pretty clear from my change in facial expression, despite how hard I tried not to waver, that I was both suspicious and a little afraid, because the man immediately said, “Don’t worry, I don’t have the bad intentions here.” I considered this. I was soaked to the bone, it was cold, and it would be a much longer walk before I found any other way home. At the same time, images flashed through my head of me finally making it to my parents after years in captivity and having to somehow explain to my mother that yes, I did in fact get into a car with a strange man in a foreign country. If I was even still alive and could speak at that point. Which wouldn’t last long, because once I told her the truth she would kill me herself. I kept stalling.

“Listen,” he said again, leaning even closer. “I am not the Muslim, I am Christian. I will not hurt you.” Oh my gosh. Literally never would have thought about this like that. You’re just a man. No religion makes that more or less threatening.

“Um, no, don’t worry, that isn’t — I’m not — I don’t care — I just don’t want to inconvenience you, so, thank you anyways!”

“Okay, fine, good luck,” he said, and he drove off. I immediately started second guessing myself. I could be stuck in the rain for hours. Why did I do that. No, no, you did the right thing. Better freezing and soaked than dead or chained in a basement somewhere. I turned and continued on my long journey.

Suddenly, out of the mist, as if sent by a higher power, a taxi emerged and dropped two girls off at a house down the street having some kind of gathering. I rejoiced and waved my arms crazily until the driver flashed his headlights at me. He pulled over and I climbed in, trying to temper my gratitude in case he took advantage and tried to get me to pay more. He peered back at me in the mirror.

“You are Russian?” he asked. Most people here say this is code for “are you a prostitute?”, and given the number of times I have been asked this and the tone of voice usually employed when this question is posed I also subscribe to this belief. Nope, I literally was just standing alone on a deserted street in the pouring rain because I am stupid and didn’t think of arranging another way home before I came here. Not soliciting myself.

“No, American,” I said curtly, all appreciation for his existence gone. I made it home safely without further inquiries into my line of work.

The following morning, I received an email from the woman in charge at QRTA with information about the World Voice concert with the UNRWA children. It was at 1:00 pm that afternoon in one of the centers for art and culture near where I live. I called a cab driver and asked him if he knew exactly where the specific place was so I could avoid wandering around in the rain trying to find it. He said yes, came and got me, and dropped me off at a place a few streets away from me at exactly 1:00 pm. I ran through the rain inside and asked at the front desk where the concert was. The woman didn’t speak any English, so in Arabic I tried to explain what I was looking for. Turns out there is another place not far from this Royal Cultural Center called the National Center for Culture, and that’s where I needed to be. If Jordan was actually my boyfriend I definitely would dump him at this point for naming two buildings basically the same thing.

The woman nicely called the other building of culture from the building of culture we were currently in and handed me the phone so I could get directions. Suddenly, a man came running around the corner on the far side of the reception area.

“Hello, yes, hello, you are speaking English?!” he said rapidly. Still on the phone and trying to hear directions, I nodded and looked at the woman for help. Before I could figure out what to do, he had grabbed the phone from me and told them goodbye. “You want this other place, yes? Yes. I give you directions now, okay? What is your name please?” At this point it was ten past 1:00 and I really just wanted to get to the correct place, but I had to be polite.

“I’m Sarah,” I told him. He smiled widely.

“Sarah, yes hello Sarah, you are welcome, you are very very welcome here! I am Naser.” I told him thank you and asked about directions. “You will tell him Star Hotel, Sarah, you will leave here and you will tell the taxi to take you to the Star Hotel, Sarah, okay? Then you go inside there and anyone in the Star Hotel can tell you where you must go from there. Anyone in the Star Hotel can help, Sarah. Sarah you are welcome. Tell them the Star Hotel then go and ask them for the building. You are welcome.”

“Thank you so much!” I said, turning to the door and ready to run back through the rain.

“Sarah you are welcome, you are very, very welcome,” he called after me. I scurried down the sidewalk to the front gate of the center and waited for a taxi to drive by. I saw an empty one approaching and held my hand out. From behind me, a voice called in Arabic, “You have a telephone call.” I turned around and saw a man leaning out of a little, almost totally hidden security hut by the gate. I shook my head.

“I don’t think so…” He walked closer.

“Yes, you are Sarah?” Um.

“Yeah, I’m Sarah, but I don’t think –”

“Come, the phone.” The rain continued to pour down as I let the taxi drive on by and followed this man to the hut. No one else was around, and even if they were the rain and smog were so thick they wouldn’t have really been able to see anyways. Okay, I’m just going to stand in the doorway of this strange man’s little secluded hut. I won’t go in and I can easily get away. Following my plan, I lurked in the doorway as he walked to the phone. The phone with a cord. On the far side of the room away from the door.

“Here, you take this.” So much for that idea. I ventured into the room, grabbed the phone, and tried to stretch the cord as close to the door as possible. The man eyed me strangely.

“Hello, hello Sarah??” the voice on the other end of the phone said.

“Hi, yes, this is Sarah,” I said.

“It is Naser, from the culture center!” he told me. “Sarah you are very welcome. I give you wrong directions, it is not near Star Hotel, you come back and I will drive you in my car.” Again? Seriously?

“Oh, no, you know, I wouldn’t want to, you know, be an inconvenience, you know, it’s fine, I will just take a taxi!”

“Sarah, YOU ARE WELCOME. Come, come inside, I take you.”

Okay, well, this is different than last night. I know where he works, it’s daylight, I’m not that far from where I live, other people have seen me, it’s fine. Right? Yeah, it’s totally fine. He’s a nice man. Not a problem. Okay. I hung up the phone and ran back inside the building. He was nowhere to be found. The woman at the front desk eyed me suspiciously. I asked her where his office was and she told me to take my first right and then it would be on the left. I followed her orders and found myself in the middle of a large exhibition room full of workers unloading Jordanian artifacts while a collection of security guards looked on. This doesn’t seem right. I turned around and went back to the woman.

“I’m sorry, where is his office…?” She gave me the same directions. I went back and asked the museum workers where Mr. Naser’s office was. They pointed to the back of the room where a temporary partition wall was set up. I could see a door on the other side. Trying to look confident, I strode across the room and attempted to gracefully squeeze through the tiny crack between two sections of the partition wall without knocking everything over and without audibly singing lyrics from Beyoncé’s “Partition” and instantly getting kicked out of the building, not to mention the country. Bad enough that the week before I had caught myself unintentionally singing “Naughty Girl” while standing behind a Muslim woman on the floor praying in the locker room at the gym.

Finally getting through the wall and on the other side of the door, I turned left into the first office and almost tripped over Mr. Naser praying on the floor. At least this time in close proximity to a praying person I wasn’t muttering sexually charged lyrics. I quickly retreated back outside the office and stood there wondering what to do. It was already 1:20 by this point, so there was no point in going to the concert. Should I just make a run for it? No, I can’t just run through that room again. Also, that would be rude. More rude than hovering here while he prays? Why did he tell me to come here if he was praying? Why does no one ever tell you how to navigate these social situations when you move here? Why did I even bother getting out of bed today?

Before I could come to a decision, Mr. Naser had poked his head out of the door and was shouting “Welcome Sarah, you are welcome, come, welcome in here, you are welcome, you will sit here, I will pray, you will sit here, and after we will talk, exchange the address, I will drive you, you are WELCOME!!!!” Next thing I knew I was sitting in an armchair in his office surrounded by pictures of the late King Hussein literally just watching him pray and mutter to Allah while occasionally reminding me that I was welcome. My stomach growled. I realized I had forgotten to eat lunch. I opened Instagram to distract myself. Everyone was Instagramming food. I closed Instagram. Okay, I will just lie and tell him my friend at the concert just texted me that it’s over, so I should just leave, but thank him for his time. Yeah, that will be fine. I’ll just do that.

Mr. Naser popped up from his prayer rug. “Sarah, welcome! My friend Sarah!” Indeed.

“Listen,” I began, “I think the concert is over now, so thank you so much, but I think I will just go home.” He stared at me blankly for a few moments.

“Sarah, I am one of the people in command here. I have family here, wife, and daughters, like this,” he showed me their heights with his hands. “And also a son, here!” he pointed to a picture front and center. No pictures of the daughters, obviously. “I work here, the cultural events, and Sarah, I also write the political analysis. I write on Palestine, and Syria, and these, because I don’t write about Jordan, because better not to write about domestic things for no trouble!” he laughed heartily. Gotta love the monarchy! I was nodding and smiling and wondering where this all was going. He was just getting started, apparently. “And my political analysis, not for anyone, just for people who read, you see, sometimes published, but I write them, I post them on the Facebook, and the email, and in Arabic but maybe you read and get idea, you can get general idea, of the political analysis.” He leaned in closer. “Sarah, you know, I have American friend. You know the Ambassador John, from before?”

“No.” He seemed rather discouraged but recovered quickly.

“Well Ambassador John, he was ambassador, he is friend, he come over for dinner, he is very, very good man. He was ambassador, you know? But listen, I have the American friends, yes, but I don’t agree with what you do here. Syria, Palestine, the Iraq — they are not good, Americans not do good. Sarah, I have friends, I like your people, I like the Americans, but you not do good things sometimes. I write these political analysis and you will see.” It’s not like I hadn’t had these conversations with people before about the US and its foreign policy, and it’s not like I entirely disagreed, but I had never been told so exuberantly with an accompanying offer of a lifetime subscription to someone’s political analyses. I just kept nodding. He reached into a drawer and pulled out some paper and a pen.

“Sarah, here, you will write your name, and the email, and the phone, and I will also write here. You are welcome, Sarah. Sarah, you are very welcome.” At a loss, I just decided to start writing my personal contact information down. I know, but this is normal here, and also please kindly recall that I hadn’t had lunch. I can’t think straight on an empty stomach. Or really in general. He began talking again.

“Here, look here, we have the king here, other king there,” he was saying, pointing around the room. Seeing photos of the men of the royal family around Jordan is very normal — in fact, it’s weird to walk into a building and NOT see three framed pictures of the late king, the current king, and his son, the heir to the throne. But Naser’s collection was by far the most extensive and impressive I had ever encountered.

“And here,” he said, pointing to two framed photos on his desk of an older man and woman, “Mama and Baba. BABA DEAD!” he shouted with vigor. I jumped a little bit.

“Oh, no, I am so sorry,” I told him sympathetically. He shrugged.

“This is life!” he exclaimed. Okay let’s get the show on the road here.

“Well, thank you so much for everything! Like I said, I think the concert is over, so I can just go home.”

He stared at me blankly again. Then, after a moment, he asked, “where are you living?”

“I live right behind the Marriott Hotel, so it’s not far at all!”

“Come, I take you.”

“Oh no, no no, I can just take a taxi! But thank you!”

“Sarah, you are welcome. You are very, very welcome. The taxis, they try to make you pay more, it’s not good.” I mean I’ve been here since September, so I finally have figured out how to handle that. Please just let me leave.

“I really can just…” But he was already gathering his things to go. I dutifully followed him back out into the museum space. Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched us pass. I didn’t want to know what they were thinking. We walked outside and around to the parking lot while he began talking more about his political analyses. He explained to me that he would be returning to the office tomorrow as well, even though it was a Friday (in the Arab world the weekend is Friday and Saturday because Friday is the holy day in Islam), because he had to have a quiet place to write the “political analysis” and couldn’t focus at home with his children saying “Baba we need this and Baba we need that!”. I continued to just nod and smile. At one point I asked him if he had published anything in a newspaper or magazine. He stared at me blankly and did not respond. I was beginning to realize that perhaps his rapid English speaking ability was not indicative of his English comprehension ability, though I couldn’t judge since none of my Arabic abilities are rapid in nature or even “abilities” to begin with.

We set off and after exiting the parking lot we turned away from the direction of the Marriott. Okay, Sarah, just chill. Maybe he goes a different way or is avoiding traffic. He’s not going to take you somewhere and enslave you. Relax. And you can just have him drop you off at the store down the street so he won’t even see where you actually live. Great thinking ahead. We continued on our way to wherever we were going and he explained that Ambassador John was quite a smoker and that I was — you guessed it — VERY WELCOME!

We found ourselves somewhere quite residential, and the car started up a big hill. Halfway up, it stopped going up the big hill and slowly rolled backwards. Naser continued to speak a mile a minute as he shifted the car in and out of different gears and slammed on the gas. I did some calming breathing exercises. I apologized to my mother for getting into a car with a strange man. I apologize to her again now while she is reading this. We made it up the hill and he pointed to the left.

“See, Star Hotel, not close at all,” he explained. Oh. Oh no. We are going to the other cultural building, aren’t we. Well, okay, that’s nice of him, he just wants to make sure I know where it is for future reference. That’s actually so nice and really thoughtful. We turned right and drove along another residential road toward a big mosque. We then stopped in front of a small building nestled among a group of houses and apartments.

“Here, here is center! Come!” Okay, so he wants me to also see the inside and everything. That’s nice. I mean, it’s 1:45, so he knows this thing is over. We walked in the door and he charged straight into the center of the reception area shouting in Arabic for the location of the concert. I meekly walked over to the front desk and asked if the concert was still going on. The man smiled nicely.

“Of course!” he said. “I will show you.” Alright, so this is fine! A ride here, a ride home, and I still get to see the kids sing. Everything happens for a reason.

“Sarah, you are welcome! I will call you another day. Goodbye.” With that, Mr. Naser turned and exited the building, leaving me stranded in the middle of some random neighborhood I had never been to. Panicking about how I was going to get home and how far I would need to go in the rain to find a cab THIS time, I helplessly followed the man to the performance room. Opening the door, I realized I was basically walking right into the space between the audience and the stage. And the kids were in the middle of singing a song. And everyone was staring at me. Mr. Frostick glanced over from where he stood directing and seemed to frown. Perfect. I conspicuously stood in front of the door next to people involved in running the event all dressed in black and tried to blend in while wearing my bright blue L. L. Bean raincoat. I definitely wasn’t blending in.

The kids were adorable, though, and for a moment I forgot all the mishaps on the way to the concert and just appreciated being there. Until about ten seconds later when the song ended and Mr. Frostick said, “Well, that’s all we have for you today!”. Panic immediately set back in. The last thing I wanted was to be with a crowd of people going to their personal cars while I pathetically set off in the downpour to find transportation somewhere. But I couldn’t duck out early because they were still acknowledging everyone involved and opening the door again would result in Disruptive Irreverent White Girl Part II.

By some miracle of God, one couple in attendance decided to leave while people were still being thanked. They opened the door and I moved to slickly slide through behind them. I promptly knocked into the wall with my bag and made the whole door frame shake. No way was I going to turn back to see the looks happening in my direction. I ran down the hall and back outside. I took stock of where I was. On a hill, far away from any main roads, and rain. Pretty much what I thought. Pretty much just like last night. Nothing to do but start walking.

I began to head down the street, avoiding looking at the couple who had enabled my escape and were curiously watching me walk away as they got into their car. I decided to head in the direction of the mosque. When in doubt, follow God.

Suddenly, out of the mist, as if sent by a higher power, a taxi emerged from the road behind the mosque. Once again, I rejoiced and waved my arms crazily until the driver flashed his headlights at me. He pulled over and I climbed in. I tried again to temper my gratitude in case he took advantage and tried to get me to pay more. He peered back at me in the mirror.

“You are Russian?” he asked.

I finally made it home, crawled back into bed with a pile of food, and resolved never to leave again. The next day I received three phone calls, four text message invitations to WhatsApp, three Viber phone calls, four Viber messages, and two Arabic “political analysis” emails from Mr. Naser. He also sent me a friend request on Facebook and sent one to my friend Anoud whom he has never met. Though up until now I had struggled to determine where this all fell on the spectrum of typical American wariness of normal Arab hospitality, I was pretty sure that by any cultural standards this had truly become too much. Especially as a bint. Thus I quickly also resolved never to return to the Royal Cultural Center ever, ever again.

The following week, Garrett and I were working on setting up our training that happened this past weekend for our program teachers and volunteers. He asked if I wanted to go to a debate on women’s rights happening that evening and said he would come pick me up to go. “Sounds great!” I said. He arrived at my apartment that night and we set off.

“So, where exactly is this taking place?” I asked him.

“Oh, it’s at the Royal Cultural Center, just a few streets away. Have you been there before?”