Originally built in 1382, and partly named after its creator (Khan, meaning “caravanserai”, Khalili being the name of the builder), Khan El Khalili is one of the biggest attractions in Cairo, spanning a wide-ranging area, split into a tourist area and that of locals. In Khan El Khalili you find an enormous spectrum of hand-crafted goods, from the cheapest, poorly made quality, to the finest. Before you go to Khan, there are two major things you must understand/expect:
1. Everybody is after your money, meaning don’t expect one minute alone, and don’t bring your hot temper – which I’m still working on.
2. If they tell you it’s a good deal, cut the price in half and that’s the good deal. Just because I’m American doesn’t mean I have money to waste on your scheming a**, homie.
If just going for a stroll, Khan can be quite nice, though a bit tiresome with people constantly trying to get your attention, whether for your money (the most common for most) or to make in appropriate, harassing comments (my most common). If you’re lucky, you’ll hear my favorite noise in the world: the hair-raising, murderous-temper-inducing hissing noise, used both to make you get out of the way, and to woo girls as they walk by. (This is the most aggravating noise on the Earth, and I have come very close to laying waste to so many Arab men that make the noise, whether directly at me or mistakenly believed to be at me.) And if you walk with a boy, you’re congratulated for your being on your honeymoon, and your walk-along is congratulated as a casa nova, for getting “a brown one”. If you’re going to Khan to buy gifts, whether one, or the 15 I found myself in search of last week, it is incredibly overwhelming and tiring.
Good thing there’s the oldest café in the area (250 years old, oh baby) to sit and relax. Oh wait, if you sit there, it just makes it easier for people to corner you and try to forcibly put henna, bracelets, and scarves on you. The best part, is if you have food, most are courteous enough to stop trying to sell you things, and just attempt taking your food instead – even if you’ve already eaten half of it.
As much as I complain about it, Khan El Khalili is actually a must-see in Egypt, if you can keep your cool.
Unfortunately, one time without a loss of calm was my limit. As my visit back home in six months nears, I have begun collecting gifts for friends, family, and Nelson. Naturally, having been gone for six months and owing a lot to these two, I spent an extra amount of time bargaining for high-priced items for my mom and Nelson. It was from my greatest bargaining moment that I would get their presents, which I’m quite proud of. The following is a true story.
Skipping opening scene and introduction, cue in moment when I tell all my friends to go to the café, where I will meet them after this, and I walk to the small, cramped upstairs compartment of a shop with its owner. Zoom in on a broke, strapped-for-cash Jen picking items way out of her price range, smiling, and asking for more than 50% off the original price.
- Ah, ghali gidan (very expensive), give me a good price, how about (enter price here)?
- (Clutches chest) Ah, you hurt me, but I want to make you happy. Wallahi (I swear), you are very pretty. I give you best price (enter price that is most certainly not the best, here).
- Why are you trying to cheat me? I am not a foreigner, Ana sakana fi masr (I live in Egypt). I will pay (my, much better, price), no more, give me (my good price) wella khallas (or finished, no more).
- Who are these gifts for?
- My mom and my habibi, huwa fi amrika (my love, he is in America).
- Habibi? Oh, I want to make you and you (this is not a grammar mistake, this is his direct quote) habibi happy.
- Then don’t give me a foreigner price, I want Egyptian price.
*** throughout this entire exchange, he is doing “math” on my shoulder with his fingers, and not-so-subtly backing me into corners while I get progressively angrier***
- Okay, how about (just a little bit over my price by 100LE) and a kiss?
- … Excuse me?! Didn’t I just tell you I was buying this for my habibi? Did you not hear me? Do you understand?
- Wallahi, you are beautiful, just one kiss and I give you good price.
- (obscene cursing and yelling)
- (looks scared) Okay, okay no kiss.
- (yelling angrily) Do you know what this gift is for?!
- (looks more scared) No…
- My ONE YEAR anniversary. I have been in Egypt for six months, do you know how many Egyptian men I have kissed?!
- No…
- NONE. Not ONE. Now, give me the price I want, no kiss, not one pound more, or I swear I will go down and tell everyone what you said to me. Wallahi, begad. (I swear, really)
- Okay, okay (price still 50LE over what I offered), last price.
- No, I want (my price, apparently easily attained through blackmail), last price. Khallas.
- Okay, okay I want to make you happy. I give you (my price, as if he offered it in the first place – just to piss me off some more, Wallahi).
- Show me the ATM now.
*** I walk to the ATM, him telling me to slow down, me telling him to hurry his a** up, I get money while he waits a considerable distance away, where I tell him to, and we go back.***
- Smile, I give you good price.
- Take the money and put the stuff in a back so I can leave, now.
- Okay okay here. Take woman’s galabeyya for free. (I had been looking at galabeyyas for my parents as sleep gowns earlier).
- I’m not paying you one more pound than the price I said. Put the stuff in a bag now.
- I want to make you happy, here I put galabeyya in, for free, same price. Enti mabsuta? (You are happy?)
- (without even a hint of a smile) Ana mabsuta. Put it in the bag so I can go.
- You are not smiling, I want to make you happy, here, another one for free.
- Put whatever you want in the bag, I’m not paying you a cent more than what we agreed on.
- (puts galabeyya in the bag) Smile now, two things for free.
- Let me ask you a question? Do I look like I would ever kiss someone like you right after I say I have a habiba (love) in America? Because I smile and I’m nice to you? Take the money so I can leave, don’t say anything else to me.
*** exit stage right, fuming***
These last six months, I have really loved being abroad, despite missing my boyfriend like crazy, that being the sole but rather enormous downside to my travels. But there is one thing, that I experienced a little bit of in the US, and very heavily in both Jordan and Egypt: creepers. This is more so harassment out here than the straight creepin’ that I got in the US, but one or another, however you look at it, they all add up to my life being one, giant awkward moment.
Sure these stories make entertaining ones – well, for other people – but I think with most of them, I’d rather they just never happened. The following is a detailed profile of every awkward moment dealing with creepers in my life that I can remember, from Egypt, all the way back to 2009, Junior year in high school. For future documentation, here we go.
1. Egyptians are Very Strong, so I’ve Heard
Location: Taxi, on my way home to Mohandeseen, Cairo, Egypt
Time: 2:30 AM
Perpetrator: Large Cab Driver
Crime: The following lines:
“Egyptian men are very strong. (uh, okay? What the f*** is he talking about?). My dick is very strong. (two, three seconds… wait what the F***, did he REALLY just tell me what I think he did?!). I can go two, mumkin (maybe) two and half hours. (get me the fuck out of here)… (we get to my street) Where do you live? I can come up to your apartment to have drink? (no, you fat f***, no thank you, I’m going to get out here, thanks) Mumkin, kiss before you leave? (no. – walks away without paying, takes long shower until doesn’t feel gross anymore… it was a long shower).
End Scene.
Special thanks to the boldest fat man who ever lived. I hope you choke on your own dick, fat a**.
Special Note: I don’t quite want to go into the details of every awkward cab ride I’ve had in Egypt and Jordan, it would take hours to do so, however some of the highlights include: being proposed to, telling the driver I was married, THEN being proposed to, being told I should have the driver’s babies, being asked if I’d like to have fun with an Egyptian man until I go home to my habibi, the driver reaching his hand around the back of his seat to try to stroke my legs, being incessantly stared at through the rearview mirror whilst driving, and the one to take home the gold: being driven past where I want to go and told that the driver was divorced and he was going to take me home with him, to have tea. Alright buddy, I’m sure you wanted tea – but you’re brewing your own tonight, home slice. There is one particular cab experience I thought might be nice to detail. Anddddd ACTION.
2. Three Words You Never Want to Hear from an Arab Man
Location: Taxi, near my apartment in Amman, Jordan
Time: 1AM
Perpetrator: Skinny, ridiculously tall cab driver
Crime:
Cue stopping cab about five minutes-walk from my apartment. Driver asks me something in Arabic. Confused, I linger and say “Shou?” (What?). Holding my phone loosely in my hand, I ask again, and he turns around and grabs the phone. Angrily, I try to grab it back, and he holds up the infamous Arab hand gesture for “One Second, hold on.” I then watch him enter his number into my phone and then – he calls it. Sneaky bastard. Hurriedly, I exit the cab, wait til he drives away, then walk to my apartment.
Later that night – I’m doing homework and I get a call from a number I don’t recognize. Foolishly, probably delirious from the utter lack of sleep, I pick up and hear Arabic – only understanding bits and pieces that add up to “What are you doing now? Can I come?”
Obviously creeped out, I say “Ana mashghula. Maa salaama.” (I am busy, bye.) Of course, this does not work, and I receive about five or more calls, which I do not pick up. Then, a text: “Please pick up.” Response: “Please leave me alone, I did not want to give you this number.” Counter-response, and the money-maker of the evening: “I love you.”… Final Response: “Don’t ever contact this number again. Enta majnun. (You are crazy, in the worst way.)”
And there it is ladies and gentlemen, the most pathetic, and hardcore creeper who ever lived… or so I wish.
3. Got Jesus on My Necklace
It’s my first week in Amman, walking home alone, in broad daylight. A car pulls up next to me, the guy rolls down the window, and I pretend like I can’t hear him and keep walking. He drives ahead, stops the car, and waits as I inevitably walk in that direction – the only way home. He follows me, making that intolerable “sssss sssss” noise mentioned earlier, until I turn and say, “La, shukran.” (no thank you). Silly me to think that might work. Hearing my accent immediately, he switches to English, and actual words:
“Excuse me. Please, excuse me.”
“Do you need anything, sir?”
“I am good man, see? You are from America, yes? I have necklace with Jesus on mirror.”
***Sure enough, he had a wooden rosary on his rear-view mirror. Whoopdie-f*cking-doo.***
“That’s great, too bad all Americans aren’t Christians.”
“Look, I have tattoo, too.”
“Look, I have tattoo, too.”
*** And, delivering once more, he rolled up his sleeve to reveal an appalling-ly huge tattoo of Jesus’ face on his arm***
“Okay.” I kept walking until he started to get out his car. “What do you want?”
“Take my number, I show you around Amman, we are friends.”
“If I take your number, will you stop following me?”
“What are you doing now, I show you around now.”
“I’m busy.” Clearly, I was still inexperienced in these matters.
“What are you doing now, I show you around now.”
“I’m busy.” Clearly, I was still inexperienced in these matters.
“Okay, take my number, call me later, we get drinks, party, go back to my place.”
***They really don’t beat around the bush, here***
“Write your number down, then.”
“Where is your phone?”
“I don’t have one.” – Sadly, I had been texting moments before that, but I stuck by my declaration.
“Where is your phone?”
“I don’t have one.” – Sadly, I had been texting moments before that, but I stuck by my declaration.
“No?”
“No.”
“Okay, here is my number. Call me, you promise? Let’s go now, I give you ride home.”
“No thank you, I can walk.”
“No thank you, I can walk.”
***As I begin walking once more, I notice that he is about to follow me up the hill that only leads to one place – my u, so I take a quick detour and zigzag around, looking like a crazy person, until he drives away***
The audacity of some idiots, huh? End Scene.
In Jordan, especially at night, I had a hard time with people following me in their cars, walking behind me trying to get my attention, some fools even thinking that somehow getting out of their cars and saying “Please, I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you.” is going to get them further. If you don’t want to bother me, then don’t, dumba**. Often, seeing where I was headed, they would drive ahead, and wait on the massive hill that I had to all but hike up to get to my apartment. Most of the time it was just annoying, and I easily got them to go away, whether it be by picking up a giant rock, and just walking with it while they distanced themselves and yelled “Leish, leish!” (Why, why!), or walking past the hill on the one-way street until they followed me, and doubling back once they did. The times that were the worst were the ones who got out of their cars in packs, the ones that were willing to drive backwards and follow me up the hill, sometimes pushing me off the road, into the dirt, and one time in particular.
4. Double-Dose, Don’t Poke a Snake with a Stick, I’ll Bite Your F*cking Hand Off
Location: both atop and at the foot of the massive hill guarding my apartment, Amman, Jordan
Time: 8PM, then 3AM (the writers of How I Met Your Mother were right, nothing good ever happens after 2AM, or in my case… ever)
Perpetrators: Random guy on the street, guy in car with tinted windows
Crimes:
First, I have to admit these two incidents might have been instigated by my own accord… long, pathetic story short, I wore my only nice piece of clothing out that night, a dress with a top that stops at my shoulders with a short skirt with a small slit in the front. Despite the tights and cardigan worn to offset such haram (forbidden) clothes, I knew I was starting a little bit of trouble with my outfit, though I wasn’t much in the mood to care.
Now that that’s off my chest, I will get on with the stories. Upset from an argument over skype I’d had moments before, I waited at the bottom of my oppressive and incriminating hill for a taxi, though at 8PM, that’s quite a hopeful, ambitious endeavor. Whilst waiting, a man walking towards the gas station with a gas can asked me if I wanted to get in his taxi, at which he pointed at a blue Cadillac…next to the gas station. I said no and turned away, already highly annoyed and feeling murderous. Of course, he, being an Arab who has gotten any… ever, didn’t take the hint and continue to ask me if I wanted in his sketch-mobile. Annoyed, I began yelling “Hadahi leisat taxi, hadahi saiyaara!” (That is not a taxi, it’s a car. – excuse my limited Arabic) The man, unable to re-catch my attention, then grabbed my arm and started pulling me, while cars continue to whiz by – yeah f*** you all, too. Taken utterly by surprise, I ripped my arm loose, and all hell broke out… of my mouth. Every curse word I could think of, both Arabic and English, spewed out of my mouth in rapid-fire succession, my voice gradually rising to the equivalent of a blow horn’s magnitude. Visibly taken aback and scared sh*tless, the man backed away, then walked to his “taxi” bisura’a (quickly). Great start to a crummy night.
But it was only going to get better from there.
That night, I ascended the hill to my apartment once more, and, as usual, a car followed closely behind, then alongside, then slightly ahead, all the while, the man from inside the car kept repeating “Lousomaht, lousomaht, lousomaht,” (Please excuse me, etc, etc.) Annoyed, and growing angrier by the second, I ignored him and switched sides of the roads, as I usually did, so we could not drive alongside me. Silly me for expecting an Arab man to follow basic traffic rules, and he just easily switched sides, driving the wrong way up the hill, against all the invisible traffic present at 3 in the morning – you really outsmarted him, Jen. He got gradually closer and closer to me with his car, and eventually, drove at an angle, so as to block me from walking anymore. Feeling slightly uneasy, and woefully alone, I side-stepped the car, stepeping into the sand/dirt alongside the paved road, and continued – as did he. Then – the part I had been dreading: as I began downhill towards my apartment, I ran out dirt road and literally, was stuck between a rock and a hard place – the rock being the stone wall on one side, the hard place being the sketchy car with tinted windows and a relentless man inside, on my other. Finally, he pulled the move I had been dreading, and boxed me in. As I began to back up so a to walk around the back of the car, he grabbed me from out of his window, and let go of the brakes. Instantly, the image of him slamming on the gas and dragging me like a rag doll along with his car flashed through my mind, and I just saw white. Yelling at him to f*** off, I brought my elbow down on his arm as hard as I could, went for a slap, which (to my luck) turned into my long, sharp nailsscratching right under his eyes, and my final act of desperation before running the last long stretch to my apartment: I grabbed the nearest rock, threw it down at his windshield, and took off. Sadly, I doubt I did anything more than a small scratch on his windshield, but it was enough for him to drive quickly past me as I ran, call me a crazy bitch, and then drive away. Never before had I felt as alone and shaken as I did that night, sitting in my apartment, no one to talk to around me, not wanting to tell my family, Nelson having just left to see a friend. I was so angry and frustrated – and it still makes me see a small flicker of red when I think/talk about it, and I hope wherever that man is, he gets what’s coming to him – hard.
One of the funnier experiences I had in Jordan, revolves around a man named Mr. Raymond. Enter scene in downtown Amman, walking around, taking pictures with Brandon, Jessica, and Brett. In comes a Peruvian man, who calls himself Mr. Raymond, and asks to take pictures with us, then proceeds to follow us around while we explore. After asking me for my number, and I've told him I don't yet have a phone (I did, but I wasn't about to take it out), he scrambled to find a piece of paper and scribble his email on it for me. The rest of afternoon is spent with him stopping us to take pictures with me, Brett having a ball with it, of course, and encouraging it at every possible moment. Upon parting, Mr. Raymond turns to me and says, "Tomorrow night is Salsa night at my hotel" and he proceeds to Salsa in the middle of a crowded Jordanian street, cars honking and swerving to miss him. Not letting that golden opportunity pass, Jess and Brett begin a wild tale of my famed perfection in the arts of Salsa, Flamenco, and various other Latino dances, all of which, upon hearing the name, Mr. Raymond began dancing to the music playing solely in his own head, causing an even bigger scene and attracting a lot of unwanted stares. After assuring him I do not like to reveal my "moves" outside of competition or practice with my partner, he finally walked away, a little deflated. Good 'ole Mr. Raymond, thanks to Jess and Brett, I'll never forget you.
One of the funnier experiences I had in Jordan, revolves around a man named Mr. Raymond. Enter scene in downtown Amman, walking around, taking pictures with Brandon, Jessica, and Brett. In comes a Peruvian man, who calls himself Mr. Raymond, and asks to take pictures with us, then proceeds to follow us around while we explore. After asking me for my number, and I've told him I don't yet have a phone (I did, but I wasn't about to take it out), he scrambled to find a piece of paper and scribble his email on it for me. The rest of afternoon is spent with him stopping us to take pictures with me, Brett having a ball with it, of course, and encouraging it at every possible moment. Upon parting, Mr. Raymond turns to me and says, "Tomorrow night is Salsa night at my hotel" and he proceeds to Salsa in the middle of a crowded Jordanian street, cars honking and swerving to miss him. Not letting that golden opportunity pass, Jess and Brett begin a wild tale of my famed perfection in the arts of Salsa, Flamenco, and various other Latino dances, all of which, upon hearing the name, Mr. Raymond began dancing to the music playing solely in his own head, causing an even bigger scene and attracting a lot of unwanted stares. After assuring him I do not like to reveal my "moves" outside of competition or practice with my partner, he finally walked away, a little deflated. Good 'ole Mr. Raymond, thanks to Jess and Brett, I'll never forget you.
*** My last few weeks in Jordan, which included this incident, were some of the worst, in terms of things back home, and the intensity at which I was harassed. One more thing happened in those last two weeks that I still have a hard time letting go of, because had I reacted the way I should’ve, there would be a man in Amman who would never see his own testicles ever again***
5. The Case of the Lucky Penis
Location: Bridge near Jebel Houssein and my apartment, Amman, Jordan
Time: 3PM, broad daylight
Perpetrator: One lucky, sick son of a b****
Crime:
As I am doing now in Cairo, my last days in Amman, I spent a lot of time buying gifts. On this particular day, I spent a large amount of time in the August sun, during Ramadan (so no water, or food available or allowed) with Ben, carrying big, bulky, heavy bags, one or two in each hand. Exhausted, not feeling well, and hot as the sandy desert, I just wanted to get home, so I had the cab drop me off on the side of the bridge opposite of where I lived. The thing about pedestrian bridges in Jordan is that they are above all the streets and traffic, fairly empty, and have high, solid walls through which no one can see – makes for a good combination with my luck. As I walked across the empty bridge, I made no attempt to hide my exhaustion, my cardigan was falling off my shoulders, and I looked just like a hot mess, though I was still properly covered, in a high-neck shirt with sleeves. My eyes closed for a few seconds, and as I opened them, I watched an obvious creeper walking up the stairs, so I walked to the opposite side of the walkway (the whole, three feet) and watched him out of the corner of my eye – just in time to see his hand very clearly for my chest. Doing the only thing I could, I used my shoulder to ram his hand and arm away as hard as possible, and I began cursing (my specialty in the Middle East, apparently) loudly and rapidly. He walked away quickly, and knowing I wasn’t really going to be able to hold him off if he came at me, I did the same in the opposite direction. Feeling him standing and staring at me, he made that infuriating “ssss sssss” noice as I turned around – just in time to see him frantically and openly masturbating, right there, at 3PM, on a bridge – good thing I was in a country full of strict Muslims – yeah, right. Intensely disgusted and seeing bright red, I looked desperately for a rock to chuck at his little friend, and I swore like I never had, and still never have. He quickly packed up shop and went on his merry way, and I was left, on the edge of angry tears to speed walk back to my apartment, and for the first time, I broke down. Funny, when I told Nelson about it, he made a comment about almost being used to all the harassment I got now, and being desensitized to it. I would like to say that it doesn’t bother me, but it does, even now, after six months of constant whistling, “sss sss sss-ing”, and “yellla-ing”, I feel myself on the verge of a breakdown every so often, or conversely, on the edge of buying the biggest gun possible and going on a horny-Arab massacre. I often walk around with my keys in between my fingers, or wrapped around my knuckles. Sometimes I check for rocks around where I’m walking, and on some occasions, I find myself unconsciously sizing up any guy I catch looking at me, whether with a passing, uninterested glance, or that creepy look that makes my blood boil and bubble. The truth is, yes, you can get used to it in the sense that you become less “deer in the headlights” and more “killbill-status”, but regardless of where you’re at in your reaction time and extent… it bothers you just as much, it makes you feel just as disgusted with yourself, and just as much of a piece of meat (at the expense of using a cliché). Everyone tells me to take it as a compliment, but I don’t. The fact that I’m very obviously a foreigner, giving me the automatic stigma of a whore, while having the facial features of an Arab, sometimes with the added bonus of my smile I can forget to wipe off my face when I walk on the streets, all add up in an Arab’s mind as “she’s easy, and will open her legs for anyone.” Yea, big f***ing compliment. If anything, it makes you feel more insecure, and increasingly worst about yourself – and honestly, it makes me want them to do it so much more so when the right moment comes, I can take out all six months’ worth of harassment out on one horny bastard. At least then, I’d be on a sort of reset mode, and more able to ignore it. One can only hope.
*** The last story I have to share from the Middle East, before I move on to the much funnier, just ridiculous ones of the US, is from my first full week on my own in Cairo. Six of us, Justin, Stan, Dan, Greg, Derrik, and I, went to Dahab. It was absolutely the sketchiest, most ghetto, and best trip I have ever had, one that I will definitely remember for a long time, and which I’ll be writing about soon, so I can get as many details in as possible, as opposed to the lack of detail in all my other posts ;) ***
6. Aren’t You a Little Short To Be Doing That?
Location: Red Sea, Dahab, Egypt
Time: Mid-day, not exactly sure, but the sun was up
Perpetrator: Midget Egyptian
Crime:
It all started with a boat. Sitting on the beach… with our famous Egyptian friend, Stella, we saw the smallest, most boat in the history of boats, and the best idea brainstormed: we should ride it to Saudi Arabia. Alas, fate was not on our side, when just as we were ready to go board the Titanic, a workder from a resort directly behind us came and told us we weren’t allowed to sit on this particular spot of beach unless we paid. So, naturally, we got up to move less than a hundred feet to the right, until another worker came out and invited us to use their pool for free. And so the craziest beginning to a four-day trip possible, began. Uninterested in the salty pool, Justin and I spoke with the workers about perhaps moving out of our towel-less, jenky harry-potter-in-a-cupboard-under-the-stairs-status rooms, into their much nicer ones, but not at their not-so-nice prices. Somehow, this endeavor translated into the tall worker trying to get a picture of both Justin and I in our swim suits. When that failed, he and his co-worker, the Midget Arab, then proceeded to get into their swim suits and challenge us to a game of… well some obscure water sport that they made up. Avoiding what was an obvious creeper move, Justin and I walked around, getting prices from all the other resorts, then coming back to find that the rest had informed the workers of our ambition to sail to Saudi Arabia upon Old Reliable, and coincidentally, Midget Arab, owned the boat – how incredibly luck, or not so much.
So, the seven of us, considerably inebriated, piled into the boat, along with the small worker, and began the most treacherous and unsuccessful journey to Saudi Arabia in this history of everything. Even worst was the fact that we were right atop a HUGE coral reef, and it was having no mercy on our feet. In an attempt to prevent capsizing, I got out of the boat, and floated around a bit, only to find the boat, and my five guy friends adequately far away from me, and the worker. Lovely.
I began swimming/walking into shore and as I was walking, the worker stopped me, pointing at a rather large cut under my foot, from which blood was gushing profusely. Double lovely. The small man, two feet my dwarf, and probably half my weight, then proceeded to pick me up and carry me honeymoon-style, while I struggled immensely, as did he, under my enormous weight. Finally, we got to shore, and that should have been that, but, remember, I’m in Egypt. He then started washing my foot... which strangely turned into some sort of weird leg, then shoulder massage, all whilst I’m fighting him off with one hand, and gesturing for one of the boys to bring my sandals and come help me, who in turn, just waved at me. -____- Good thing I have five boys with me at this point.
Anyways, finally, taking a hint, Greg brought my flip flops over, as Horny, the eighth dwarf, proceeded to lift me up again and fight a valiant fight to get me under the shade. I then put onmy sandals and finally, realizing that this was all not okay, Justin and a slightly oblivious Derrik, followed us as the worker pulled me toward the resort’s empty restaurant, into the bathroom. Lucky for.. well Lucky the brown leprechaun, I did not here when we told Justin (who thankfully, did not listen) to wait outside of the bathroom while he helped “clean my wound”. Funny, I wasn’t aware that cleaning a foot wound with a small water hose constituted yet another unwanted leg massage, as well as wandering hands that I fought off, struggling to call Justin and Derrik, over the worker’s louder Arabic conversation with my favorite photographer (from earlier).
Finally, my foot wrapped, zi got up, pushed away all help and went outside, ready to leave, but of course, I wasn’t going to get away that easy. Insisting we stay, and convincing Derrik of their extensive medical knowledge, the two workers managed to get us into seats and talking about tea and Hash. Good Lord.
Later, another man came, who was much nicer and not (as far as I knew) too eager to keep it in his pants for a few seconds, and he tried to teach Derrik, and my crippled self some Arab dancing – very unsuccessfully I might add. And, all harassing hell broke loose. The newest guy, just having fun, tied a bellydancing skirt for Derrik, out of a table cloth, which Mini Me then took and tried to tie around my waist, his hands very un-subtly wandering south, so I ripped off the cloth and tried to sit down – and who makes me stay, other than Derrik. Admittedly, it would’ve been really fun to show Derrik that I still had more rythmn than he did, even on a crippled foot, if had not been for the double team the first worker and the short one now had working on me. The next gimmick: taking the cloth and rapping it on my head like a Bedouin headscarf, then forcing me into a back room, with the help of Derrik, and now Greg -__-, to “look in a mirror”. As I did so, and tried to walk out, the Midget Arab began to push himself against me, very obviously trying to showcase his even minier-me, and I got angry, pushing him back and walking away, pulling off the cloth, just as he had the f***ing nerve to try to slap my ass. Completely and thoroughly through with all of them, I walked straight out and the six finally left the magical isle of wandering hands, to get ready for dinner. Gooooood start. Next time, I’m bringing five chicks with me. For reals.
***And so is the brief history of my awkward life yielding high crop in the Middle Eastern Region. The following are two incidents in the US I remember the clearest, and to be the funniest, bereft of any college experiences I’d like to keep to myself, though equally hilarious, with one particular one ending up in a river of strawberry ice cream spewing suddenly from my mouth – but this one’s staying between Tania, Tina, and I. These are the two moments that started a legacy that would follow me across the world, here are there stories (cue Law and Order courtroom gavel noise)***
7. Where It All Began – With a Gold Grill, a Du-Rag, and a Piece of Bait
Location: 7-Eleven near my house & my laptop in my room, Fremont, California, USA
Time: the God-awful hour of 5:30AM & the other of about 2 AM
Perpetrators: Chhi City’s biggest fan, dorkiest fool from my karate dojo, to whom I hadn’t spoken in over five years, and was about four/five years my senior
Crimes: Part 1.
Have you ever had one of those mornings after which you’re just not sure how to about your day after? Yeah, I had one of those. It was just a regular morning, going in to do some student government work early, before school started, and I practically lived on all of 7-Elevens unhealthiest items. I walked in to the store, texting on my phone, and very painfully unaware of Fremont’s own Atoinne Dobson walking behind me. Lucky for me, he was persistent enough to get past that. As I grab a pineapple soda and a Nos (yeah, I was pretty damn health back then), I turn to find myself very nearly running into a wayside of 30-year-old black man, wearing a red du-rag, and sporting an extremely gold tooth in his creepy smile. Just.my.luck. Very conspicuously flustered and at a loss for what to do, he swooped in with a very well thought out and flattering line:
“Hey girl, you wanna be my girlllfriend or my wife?”
Perfect. Even more flustered I answer, quite brilliantly, “Uh….. what?... Neither.. No thank you.”
Good one, Jen.
“Hey girl, I seen you driving up in your car, you’s an independent chick, you gotta job? How o are you, what do you do?”
“I’m 17, I need to get to school.” – Naturally I was witty and quick in response.
(random friend with corn-rolls in the corner – like really? Did I walk into a bad Tyler Perry movie?) “Leave it dude, she’s jailbait.” – the second time I had been called that in the matter of a month.
“Nah, man, she can’t be 17. How old are you, girl? You real pretty.”
“Thank you, but… I have a boyfriend, sorry.” – That wasn’t an obvious, desperate attempt at the oldest lie, used since everyone was up in Helen of Troy’s grill until she found the one… who ended up being a wimpy pretty boy, but that’s besides the point.
“Thank you, but… I have a boyfriend, sorry.” – That wasn’t an obvious, desperate attempt at the oldest lie, used since everyone was up in Helen of Troy’s grill until she found the one… who ended up being a wimpy pretty boy, but that’s besides the point.
“What you think I don’t deserved to have a girl like you? C’mon, at least take my numbah.”
“No thank you.”
“I’m not takin’ no for an answer.”
“uh, okay, I’ll save it in my phone then.”
- as he gives his number, I type in random numbers and pretend to save it… until he pulls my phone down to see the screen, and…
- as he gives his number, I type in random numbers and pretend to save it… until he pulls my phone down to see the screen, and…
“That’s not my number.”
“Oh…. Uh…”
“Oh…. Uh…”
- takes my phone, and enters his phone number and name… Travis, I still remember it. Good lord.
As I paid for my stuff, and walked out, with Travis following close behind, at least ten people watching, and the cashier, painfully oblivious, in his thick Indian accent, asks “Is that your friend?” – oh yeah, we go way back, idiot – the corn-rolled sidekick held the door for me, gave me the good up and down as I walked past him, and Travis followed me all the way up to my car door, which I opened, got in, and closed very quickly. Then I put the key in the ignition, started the car, put my music on full blast, and drove away as fast as humanly possible.
Too bad I saw him the next day, same 7-eleven completely different time of day. This time, I was confronted for “not callin a brothuh” – swear to God that’s what he said – and he chased me around nearly the entire store, trying to give me hug, while I dodged and ran, in heels.
But, I offended him enough to win enough quiet time to get a drink and peace out – crisis averted. However, I avoided that 7-eleven for a very, very long time.
Part 2:
It’s about a month after my junior prom, I’m 17 now – big difference from 16, obviously – and I’m hanging about on facebook, nothing better to do, except schoolwork, I get a message from this guy I used to train with when I did karate – when I was 11 and he about 15/16, I kicked his a**, if that tells you anything about him. Anyways, here’s the conversation that ensued, and started it all:
“Hey how are you?”
“Hey! Good, and you?”
“Good, your sister’s in the Marines now, right, how’s that for you?”
“It’s alright, she’s outta bootcamp now, so it’s chill, I saw her during my spring break.”
“Hey, I saw your profile picture, you look really pretty.”
“Hey! Good, and you?”
“Good, your sister’s in the Marines now, right, how’s that for you?”
“It’s alright, she’s outta bootcamp now, so it’s chill, I saw her during my spring break.”
“Hey, I saw your profile picture, you look really pretty.”
“lol, everyone looks pretty at prom.”
“No, really you look really good.”
“You would too with about an hour’s worth of make up and another for hair :P”
“Is that your boyfriend in the picture?”
“LOL definitely not, just a friend.”
“LOL definitely not, just a friend.”
“Oh, too bad for him. Hey, how old are you?” – not wasting any time…
“17, why?”
“So you’re like jail bait, huh? :P” – clearly the pick-up line of the year.
“Uh, not for other people in high school…”
“Well, we should hang out … you turn 18 soon, don’t you?”
“Uh, not for other people in high school…”
“Well, we should hang out … you turn 18 soon, don’t you?”
“Nope, just turned 17 a month ago.”
“Damn… well I saw a post on your wall that said you want to learn how to drive stick shift, I can teach you, I have a BMW with tinted windows and all that.”
“… (congratulations, douchebag, do you want a prize?) No it’s okay, my friend is going to teach me.”
“Well, we should hang out now (it’s like 2AM right now), what are you doing?”
“Um, bro, it’s like 2 in the morning. I got stuff to do :P”
“Bro? Ouch, not what I wanted.”
“Lol, well alright then sista, I’m going, bye.”
End my first awkward encounter ever.
And that’s the complete history of the creepiest moments of my life… I would say I should write a book, but it seems that I just have. Whoops.
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