Few of us would have the urge to travel to foreign destinations if we claimed to know it all. Even if we do know a thing or two, travel allows us the opportunity to test that knowledge, to see how much of it is true or not. Before I came to the Middle East, I had preconceived notions about what the people would be like. It couldn't be helped since neutrality is not my strongest suit. Despite all my better judgment, I was equipped with biases. For one thing, I hadn't realized that the East wouldn't be so distinctly East, but an amalgam of Eastern and Western influences.
One day, Bea and I slipped into a bohemian looking café with a rather creative menu in English meant to accommodate English-speaking, non-Arab patrons who were not expected to take the trouble to become acquainted with the local language. Customers could have their choice of "mashed potatoes cornered by yellow cheese," "pearls of couscous chased by bold tomatoes", "wicked eggs," or "dainty fish cutlets cooked over a fine fire."
Not in the mood for taking any chances with wicked eggs or dainty fish, we simply ordered cheese toast and shai bin sukur or sugarless black tea. A duo of fresh-faced college boys eyed us from a corner table. The duo dodged my gaze, but I caught one of them re-position his chair for a better look when he thought we were not aware. They kept shifting their heads up and down, pretending not to let us know that we were the object of their attention. Paying for our food, Bea and I left the cafe and strolled down the main downtown thoroughfare on our way to mail some post cards. Our admirers tailed us about a half block back. I quite liked their perseverance.
They were waiting for us when we came out of the post office.
"Scuse me," said the tall one with black curly locks.
He rolled his head in circles and fiddled with his shirt collar as if trying to work up his nerve.
"Err . . ."Another roll of the head. "Can we eat you?"
Bea and I exchanged smiles.
The request was clarified. "You like chicken shawarma?"
Having already eaten, we declined the shawarma, though it was bound to be tasty stuff, and settled for some coffee instead. In the next instant, the four of us piled up in a taxi and headed into the hills high above Amman. The café occupied the ground floor of a modern high rise. It had the look and feel of the corner Starbucks back home. We all ordered cappuccinos and waited for the scintillating conversations to begin.
"You are from where?"
"America."
"Australia."
"You are tourists?"
"Well not exactly." Bea responded. "We are just traveling around. You know, seeing the sights, getting to know the people."
"You mean like cultural diplomacy!" Salim, the shorter of the duo, with a stronger grasp on English, coined the phrase. "It is so sad. Americans know so little about our culture and we know little about yours except what we see on TV."
"Well not every day in the States is like a scene in Baywatch." I tried to steer him away from the one-sided views he must be receiving.
Salim wasn't buying it. He rattled off his favorite episodes of Baywatch and asked me how many times I had roller-skated on Venice Beach. In addition to Baywatch, he was also a fan of Joey, Rachel, Phoebe, Ross, Chandler and Monica, talking about their made up lives as if they were his very real next-door neighbors.
I had the sudden urge to hire Salim as the spokesperson of American public diplomacy to win Muslim hearts and minds.
"The other day in the chat room, this girl from Texas asked me how many camels I had and if I slept in a tent. I mean does she really think I'm sitting here on my own camel sending her instant messages?" Salim turned to me with a pained expression.
"Do you realize that the things that interest that Texan girl sound as ridiculous to you as your impressions of America based on a few TV shows sound to me?"
"It is so sad. There is ignorance on both sides. I see it at university whenever we have visiting foreign students. They are expecting to live like Bedus in the desert. They find it hard to believe that we have highways and mobile phones with GSM technology, even better than the ones you have in USA!"
He had missed my point. US ignorance of Arabs was the issue for him. Arab ignorance of the US was not so important. The spokesperson was hereby fired.
"But how can anyone change their attitudes if they don't know any better?" Bea jumped in. "I mean if it hadn't been for my Lebanese friends back in Sydney, I would be just as clueless about the Mideast as your friend in Texas. But I certainly wouldn't judge the entire place based on what I saw on the nightly news. That's just buying into propaganda!"
"Exactly!" Salim banged a fist on the table.
A tall blonde with smoky green eyes sashayed by our table. She wore leather pants and a halter-top. The boys stared hard. Bea and I stared harder.
"That's how the girls dress in Beirut!" Salim said knowingly. "You won't need your hijab there!"
His friend with the inventive English cleared his throat. "Err. . . My name is Ali. Please, I'd like to say something."
Ali cleared his throat again. I couldn't really understand what he was trying to say, but he got more excited and then he pointed to a newspaper ad featuring a bearded, half naked Tom Hanks. Ali was a big fan of the famous American actor and he wanted to see Castaway, his latest film playing in Amman. It would be an "experience" to see Hanks marooned on a tropical island. Upon learning I was from Seattle, Salim mentioned how much he had enjoyed Sleepless in Seattle. Wasn't that also with Tom Hanks? And who else, oh yes, Meg Ryan. She was one of his favorites. I told him I had liked her in When Harry met Sally. He hadn't seen it, but he jotted down the title in his little black book.