Once Upon a Time, On a Flight to Jordan...

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The Arab womb being what it is (i.e. willing and expected to perform at high inexhaustible capacity), meant that the child-to-adult ratio was unbelievably high. This further ensured that the twelve red-eye hours to come would be fitful, and would be filled with very much noise and little sleep. The flight had Jordan as its final destination, and so uncovered female hair was a rare sight amongst the passengers, as were non-Arabs, Jordan being light in tourist traffic.

Human beings were coupled like our 767 had become a modern-day version of Noah’s ark – all of the animals wedding-ringed, all slightly irritable, all too-willing to go forth and further multiply to ensure uncomfortable flights for the childless among us for many more generations to come.

The woman at the boarding gate questioned me twice with eyebrows raised as to whether I was boarding alone, having noticed this trend of coupled-ness and/or childfullness. I was clearly old enough to be fertile, yet had neither a hairy man nor a hairy child to show for it. I looked around the New York airport, slightly shocked that I had yet to set foot in the Middle East, but was already sticking out like a sore thumb amongst my fellow Arabs – a throbbing-bruised-single-25-year-old-Arab-female-traveling-alone thumb, the dodo reincarnate.

The couples were seated with notable uniformity, as if directed by an unseen hand. Women occupied middle or window seats, with their mates sitting resolutely on the aisles. I wondered for a split second whether the women were being afforded the better view in a gentlemanly show of indulgence. I then realized that the trend was likely an organic and inevitable consequence of ensuring male comfort and freedom of movement, rather than the female visual amusement. It is not for men to negotiate knees and under-the-seat baggage on their way to the bathroom – they must roam free, like the cougar, with only the regulation seat belt (unbuckled) between them and their will. It is also not for men to allow their wives’ shoulders to be brushed by other passing cougars…so their wives are relegated to the nice view far from the aisle and its dangerous impropriety.

Airline regulations didn’t apply, this being an Arab flight. Children and adults alike wanted-needed-couldn’t-wait to visit the bathroom just as soon as the seat belt lights went on, even our bowels thwarting all authority and hope for order.

Flight attendants were cajoled into this seat switch, and then another, and then oh bleaze bleaze won’t you put zis bag in za storage bin at za front, sbecial storage bleaze it’z crowding my legz bleaze.

“Wein rohty?”, the man on my left and across the aisle demanded of his wife, who mumbled an explanation (since clearly her options of destination were limitless thousands of feet off the ground in a closed airplane) before sliding past his unmoved and unmoving knees – for it is not for men to scootch-make-way-shift-to-faciliate-female-movement.

The man on my right had taken pills that promptly lodged in his throat the minute our attendant took up her tray of sleep masks and headphones to distribute.

Puma Socks: “I need water.”
Female Flight Attendant: “My hands are full right now, sir.”
Puma Socks: “I asked the other one but he didn’t bring me.” (For it is not for men – even flight attendants – to serve)

She set her tray down, interrupted her routine, and brought him a glass of water, taking the time to add ice. The obtrusive pill, which had interfered not at all with the processes of breathing, demanding, and complaining, was washed down with ice water, for it is not for men to wait.

I am in the middle row of seats, one of those rare female dodos sitting in an aisle seat. I am alone and my hair is uncovered, so people speak to me in English.

The man on my right has a man on his right, and they start a halting, accented conversation in English. One sneezes – nose and mouth uncovered, for it is not for men to hinder their breathing passages, nor is it for them to keep their germs from flying forth and multiplying.

Puma Socks: “Aatchoo! Al Hamdo-lillah!”
Bearded Man: “Ah akhi, enta ordoni? Yarhamokom-Allah!”

Pegged thus, they continue in Arabic.

Bearded Man: “Men wein?”
Puma Socks: “Irbid!”
Bearded Man: “Blah blah Irbid is awesome, ahsan nas blah blah.”

Later…

Puma Socks: “Are you married?”
Bearded Man: “No, but I hope to be soon. It is hard to marry, hard to find a compatible one.”
Puma Socks: “Yes, yes, but you can marry one and teach her?”
Bearded Man: “Esh? I didn’t hear you?”
Puma Socks: “Ya3ni you can marry one and teach her to mold to your attitudes.” (For it is not for men to mold)
Bearded Man: “Yes, yes. I intend to take a village girl.”
Puma Socks: “Yes, yes. One of those would be best.”
Bearded Man: “Yes, yes. Probably tawjihi age.
Puma Socks: “Yes, yes. Not too young for you?”
Bearded Man: “No, no. Eighteen!”
Puma Socks: “Ah! Yes, yes. Thaz good.”
Bearded Man: How about you? Married, children?”
Puma Socks: “No, no. But someday soon, I hope. I left Irbid to work and ma hasal naseeb. Anyway, I am still young, there is time.”
Bearded Man: “How old are you?”
Puma Socks: “54 in June.”

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Female Flight Attendant: “Excuse me, sir, chicken or pasta?”
Puma Socks: “Chicken comes with rice?”
Female Flight Attendant: “I don’t know, sir, the meals are covered.”
Puma Socks: “You don’t know? How about the basta? You don’t know whazz in there also?”
Female Flight Attendant: “…”
Puma Socks: “Chicken.” (For it is not for men to say blease)
Female Flight Attendant: “Here you go, sir.”
Puma Socks: “…” (For it is not for men to say thank you)

Female Flight Attendant: “How about you, sir? Chicken or pasta?”
Bearded Man: “What you say? I was listening to my headphones?”
Female Flight Attendant: “Would you like chicken or pasta?”
Bearded Man: “Chicken. And Coke. And Eye-ess.” (For it is not for men to wait to be asked)

Female Flight Attendant: “How about you ma’am?”
Me: “Chicken, please. Thank you very much, I really appreciate it.” (For it is for me to overcompensate)

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