Thanksgiving with Other Americans

On Thanksgiving, the Ranges got on a plane and went to Chicago. We drove across the gray plains toward Wisconsin, mile after mile of road, exit, road, the soft rolling hills punctuated with the sharp edges of the harvest's skeletal remains, dried stalks jutting up into the gray sky. It was Thanksgiving day, early afternoon, and only a few cars whooshed by us. We pulled off to a rest stop to get something to eat since we hadn't eaten since morning. A few snow flakes meandered down around our scarves as we entered the only restaurant that was open: A combination Diner/Popeye's/Burger King/gas station.

And here, in the middle of America, in a gas station in the middle of the plains, were scattered couples, truckers, single women working the counter, eating their Thanksgiving meals. Music tinkled from the ceiling and the lights were cold, not the warm Thanksgiving lights of home on a snowy day, and the air was tinny and smelled of fried chicken and convenience store preservatives. Weathered men with hats and layers of flannel and corduroy and wrinkles across their brows folded into plastic booths behind plates of turkey and gravy, boiled green beans, pumpkin pie. An middle-aged couple, her black hair just set, both wearing thick-rimmed glasses, shared a piece of pie and two cups of steaming coffee. A small boy and his mother decorated the Burger King/Popeye's seating area with Christmas decorations. Two languid young men slouched behind the counter. Some looked so weary.

Popeye's fried chicken basket is...not my ideal Thanksgiving dinner. But I felt a strange sense of camaraderie with the other solitary figures in that plastic oasis, and I wondered to the point just short of getting the nerve to ask them -- Where were they going? Why were they here, of all the places to be on Thanksgiving? What did she do? Where are their children? Which truck is yours? How long is your drive? Do you want another cup of coffee?

And it felt very American, somehow, the weary, independent loneliness of Thanksgiving dinner in a truck stop, with strangers you'll probably never see again, on a holiday that is neither sacred nor profane. And I felt a heartbreaking urge to hug everyone and listen to their stories because the sum of all the lives and experiences in that room could add up to a storybook of laughter and sorrows and love and hate.... But we sat alone, with our own thoughts, taking a mealtime to nod to the holiday and our fellow travellers, and then dribbling out, speeding away and leaving that very temporary place with its oddly permanent smell of ice and plastic under the fluorescent humming of the lights.

Do you need another reason to avoid Air France?

There are some flights that go exceedingly smoothly: the ying. I boarded my flight from Colombo to Doha to Amman with no hiccups. I saw the sun rise over the impending chaos of Colombo as I sat on my scarf to protect my jeans from the dampness of the taxi seat, as if it had been washed carefully but had never quite dried in the intense humidity. Skinny men in colorful wrapped skirts stepped lightly along the sides of the road, men whose arm veins I could see from the car, so little fat did they have. Young girls in blue and white school uniforms that looked all shades of gray in the morning light, darted between the traffic like it was a game, a real life pacman, and their long black braids swung back and forth. It smelled like rain, heat, gasoline, rain, heat, fish, mangoes.

The new Colombo terminal boasts a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, shiny and new, and the mocha-colored cushions and smooth wood and wicker feel very colonial when you sip your cappuccino from a thick white mug while looking out over the South Asian jungle. I tell the barista that even in DC we don’t have a Coffee Bean yet, and why on earth did Sri Lanka, arguably the Tea Capitol of the World, get one before we did? He shrugged and handed me my debit card. I bought souvenir tea from delightful young women whose skin was the color of the tea they were selling, and they explained with the trademark South Asian head bob the difference between the types of tea: U.V.A., Kandy, Ruthuna, this one comes from the south, this one from the mountains...this one is light, this one is dark, this one is a little stronger, and this is a very nice assortment...

The connection to Doha, with its high ceilings and sparkling duty free, and then to Amman, was seamless. My suitcase was the first one out, and I was picked up right away. It was a lovely Jordan afternoon, and the landscape rolled away from the highway in amber waves with golden froth of the sun sparkling on the windows of the distant houses. That strangely fresh smell of soil, desert and diesel whipped around our heads as we sped across the plain.

And then the yang, a week later. I arrived at 1 AM for my Air France flight to DC via Paris. In the Amman airport, there are a variety of men milling about in blue jumpsuits, and they will help you (often whether you like it or not); one of them informed me that the Air France counter had already closed. So I rushed through, and yes, it was closed, leaving me and a bunch of French guys stranded, asking anyone who looked like they knew anything, How can we get on the Air France flight...? WHY DID THEY CLOSE THE COUNTER? The French guys yelled at the only man who looked like he had any control, who insisted repeatedly, “SHU MALAK, I don’t have any idea about Air France, I’m with Royal Jordanian! I have no idea! Get a hotel!” He muttered angry Arabic and sucked his cigarette. The French guys yelled some more, then gradually disappeared, presumably to get a hotel.

Luckily, I have a travel agent, and they have a 24-hour emergency number, and Vita, who is my favorite person right now, confirmed me on the Frankfurt flight leaving in an hour and a half, although the man in the blue jumpsuit tilted his head in a tick of disbelief and raised his eyebrows as he inhaled, “It’s overbooked maybe 30 person.” I pointed at the Blackberry pressed against my ear and whispered, “Si7r...” Magic.

Although I was confirmed on the flight, which was indeed magical, this was only the first hurdle: the Lufthansa computer system was down, resulting in a crowd at the counter that had been growing for thirty minutes. As departure time approached, they announced that there would be free seating for those who did not already have their boarding pass. This was good news for me because, well, first come, first serve, so I paid for my ticket with my own credit card because my government card’s limit is low, low, and I got a blank boarding pass with FREE scribbled on it.

Being on a flight with free seating means a mob at the counter and then the same mob at the gate, random blue jumpsuited men who take you to the WRONG TERMINAL, and also only being able to check your bag one leg, which in turn means picking up the bag, then entering the airport again to find the correct terminal, which may involve a variety of stunts, like climbing up a down escalator because I had gone into the wrong baggage claim. This, my friends, is much harder than it looks, and not as much fun.

But not as hard as the young Palestinian woman next to me in the airplane from Amman, who had never flown before and was wide-eyed, overwhelmed. She and her shy three year old son Hamza, dressed impeccably in a tiny black three-piece suit, were en route to Sweden. She didn’t speak a word of English. I knew I had a while to wait in Frankfurt, so I told her to follow me, and we’d find her plane together. Frankfurt airport is a maze of hallways, checks, arrival and departure computer screens, passport controls, German women in navy suits who speak quickly and unforgivingly. My baggage claim and her gate were in the same place, roughly, which was good, because it was completely confusing to figure out which Lufthansa counter she needed to find to get her boarding pass, and how exactly she was to get to her gate--and I am a veteran traveler who speaks English. I saw her off at the security gate and watched her glide into the crowd, Hamza trotting dutifully behind her in his tiny blazer, four steps to her one.

I wouldn’t have had the chance to help her on her maiden voyage if I had made the Air France flight, and I don’t know why things happen the way they do, but sometimes your inconvenience doesn’t matter in the long run after all, and sometimes you get a glimpse into someone else’s life that makes you think deep thoughts about destiny and chance while you wait with your laptop and German gummy bears at Gate 55.

GOALS.

One day in third grade, we had a lesson on GOALS, written boldly on the whiteboard in squeaky blue marker. “GOALS,” my teacher warbled, “are very important. You can’t accomplish anything unless you first establish some GOALS.”

I had never heard this, or if I had, I didn’t know that it was so terribly important. I knew that I certainly didn’t have any GOALS. I listened intently, trying to understand this important concept to which I had somehow never been exposed.

My teacher explained further. “You should be able to measure how far you’ve come in accomplishing your GOALS, to check your progress.” I understood this, ok, fine. “Now let’s everybody write down three long-term GOALS. Make sure you have checkpoints. The checkpoints are like mini goals, and every mini goal should lead up to your main GOAL. It’s good to have a checkpoint once a week or once a month, depending on how long your GOAL will take.”

I got out a fresh piece of paper, a sharpened pencil, and stared at my fingernails. My heart began racing and my face flushed in panic, as it always does when confronted with a task I have no idea how to complete. I had no GOALS! My third grade self couldn’t think of any thing I needed to set a goal for, especially not one that would take months to complete. A month in third-grade Catherine time was...well, it was impossible. I concentrated really hard, trying to think of something that I needed to improve about myself, something that would take a long, long time, like a month. Maybe I could make a GOAL to ride my bike faster. Or maybe I could make a GOAL to read more books. I recognized that both these GOALS were very silly and not really measurable, and it seemed like cheating to make a GOAL of something that I would do anyway, regardless of checkpoints.

I don’t remember what I wrote down for my goals, but I do remember that it was basically BS. It is the first time I remember making something up to accomplish a task, just because I knew that if I didn’t write anything down, I would get a bad grade, or, worse, come off as thinking that I was already perfect and didn’t need to set any GOALS. (Even at this age, I was aware that humility is a virtue that will always eventually work in your favor.) I was a good kid, and an impeccable student who got hot, sweaty palms if there was even a chance that I was unprepared for a class, an assignment, a presentation. (Until I got to college and realized that I could procrastinate and still get straight A's...) I was afraid my teacher would see that my GOALS were counterfeit, and then I’d have to admit that I had made them up, or that I didn’t really have any. I would have to think on my feet. I hate thinking on my feet.

But she didn’t see through my fake goals, and I’m sure no one ever thought about my GOALS after that day, but for the next few years I felt anxious dread whenever I thought about my lack of GOALS, because what if I never accomplished anything with my life because of my distinct lack of GOALS? Was I doomed to failure because I simply didn’t know WHAT to do? Did a successful person like the President make more GOALS as a third-grader than I did?

Clearly, I have accomplished some things in my life, whether or not I had clear GOALS: sometimes I did and sometimes I didn’t. Mostly, I think I trust my gut more than my to-do list and mostly, it works out, because my gut usually self-organizes and creates a mental to-do list which threatens me with that anxious dread if not immediately addressed.

And yesterday when I thought, “I really want to write a decent op-ed and get published somewhere,” my 3rd grade teacher’s thick, quivery voice echoed in my head: “You can’t accomplish anything unless you first establish some GOALS.”

So, internet, here’s my GOAL. It doesn’t have checkpoints yet, and I hope it won’t take months, but I intend to write more, an op-ed, to get into a newspaper or a magazine, something modest, but something I can use as a checkpoint for a grander goal, because seventeen years later my GOALS (always, always capitalized in my mind) are too numerous to mention, and some of the harder ones require some sort of published accomplishment. I want to improve my Arabic, become a *real* tanguera, keep a cleaner apartment and a stricter budget, go to Argentina and gradauate school, pray more, read more nonfiction, get published, write better poetry and more letters (combined, if possible), improve my photography, keep up my French, get a decent 6 pack or at least a 4 pack (don’t laugh), be a better sister, daughter, friend, girlfriend, neighbor...

You can be my checkpoint. Next time you see me, ask me how my GOALS are coming along. And when my op-ed is published, you can be sure it’ll be on this blog and you, my checkpoints, will receive due credit. Checkpoints really do make it so much easier.

The More Things Change

Over a year since my last trip, I landed again in Amman yesterday night. It's the same. It smells the same, it feels the same, the sunsets are just as rosy pink, the houses are just as limestone white, the taxis still honk as they pass you at 40 mph, just in case you want them to stop. It's election season, and banners fly above the roads advertising candidates and slogans: "We won't settle for anything less than the stars!" My taxi driver shakes his head, "Big nice promises," he sniffs, "But you can only be elected if you have money. All of them, rich men." Sounds familiar.

The Holiday Inn is pleasant, nothing remarkable, but the breakfast, as unremarkable as it was, so so refreshing: tomato, cucumber, and green pepper salad, mana'eesh, shai bi n3n3. Laughing cow cheese. Pita. It never tastes quite as good in America.

But Amman has grown, and seems to be swarming with people, ideas, frustrations, like bees who have outgrown their hive. The traffic is backed up all day: before I could take a cab for a quick Swefieh shopping trip and back to Webdeh; now that ride takes at least 15 minutes longer and costs double. The hotels are always fully booked, the Iraqi accent floats around the city. There are towers under construction, huge, stark metal and glass towers, blatantly defying the city rule that all buildings must be limestone, and under 6 stories. They look like transplants from Doha. There are new pedestrian walkways, to be lined with glamorous shops,under construction: transplants from Beirut. "Everything changes," my taxi driver says, sighing glumly as the traffic comes to another halt, his cigarette dangling out the window.

I told a colleague that in DC, smoking has been banned in restaurants and bars. He looked at me in blank surprise. "This," he said, gesturing with his cigarette, "is the only thing keeping most of us sane."

After I checked in at the hotel I wandered up and down the nearby thoroughfare. I don't know the street's name, if it has one, but it's busy, and lined with a random assortment of shops and restaurants. I didn't feel like playing frogger with the traffic, so I stopped in the restaurant nearest to the hotel, a quick meat sandwich place advertising shawerma and kebab. My Arabic fell off my tongue hesitantly, and the consonants sounded all off to me, like I was speaking through cotton balls. "You speak Arabic?" the meat man asked. "Well...yes, but I studied here a long time ago, and I don't practice a lot." He shrugged, "Soon you will remember." I sat outside and watched the cars zoom pass while the waiter stopped by occasionally and enthusiastically told me Arabic words. (He gestures to the bottled water: "Water: maii. MM-AA-YYYY." I nod pleasantly, "...yes, shukran.")

I remember certain things distinctly: the Burger King sign at the intersection where AMIDEAST was, and perhaps still is, located; the that one block next to my house in Webdeh, with the Jasmine spilling over the edge of the walls; the block between the Zara and the Mango stores in Swefieh, where there is now *gasp* a Starbucks; the street at the North Gate of the university with the Turkish Pizza shop and the smell of that falafel/shawerma stand where we ate every lunchtime with a bustling crowd of students; the hill up to CSS at the University, the smell of those trees, the crunch of that mulch under my feet; the November rain and wind mixed with the clear, dusty, only vaguely polluted smell of Amman's streets, whipping around my umbrella. Memories are rarely one-time events, but those events which are repeated daily, so you hardly know you're creating memories until one day after your habits have changed, you're struck by a smell, a sight, a voice, and you remember...

I don't have any claim to this city, except that I studied here once, and I have visited twice, and that I know some families, and that I speak some language, and that I really like mansaf. But I often feel that the whole of Amman, or Jordan, is greater than the sum of its parts: I don't particularly love the language, the food, the people, the politics, the limestone, the jasmine, by themselves: there are other places with purer language, better food, prettier flowers. But together, they create something so beautiful that I often stop as I'm walking down the street and take a deep breath and look at someone's white porch overlooking a crowded street and a herd of sheep, and all the beauty and nostalgic pain of my memories settles on top of my eyelashes and in the middle of my chest, and for a second, it doesn't matter that my memory is often faulty or that things change so drastically so quickly. I feel that tingle of deep, dizzying recognition, and think that maybe...maybe I'll extend my trip a few days.