That Time a Guy Tried to Buy My Boots at the Grand Bazaar

The Grand Bazaar was massive - much, much larger than I had anticipated. In fact, when I later researched it, I learned that it had over 60 covered streets and 3,000 stalls. It really was grand.

And bizarre, too. (Nice play on words, right?) The shops and corridors were full of eclectic people, colorful goods, and enticing smells. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to take it all in, especially, in just the few hours we had available.

Jule had been here before though and knew exactly what she wanted. So, as soon as we stepped through the doorway, she was off, diving into the crowd, and I didn’t have time to get overwhelmed or distracted, as I scurried after her, determined not to lose her in the masses.

As we rushed down aisle after aisle, weaving through bags and bodies, on a mission to find Jule’s ‘Turkish towel guy’, I was amazed at the wide variety of goods available. Beautiful, stained glass lamps hung from the shops, rich, wool tapestries were draped over tables, and multitudes of ceramics were heaped in precarious piles all along the passageways - there was even a shop selling luxury saddlebags for camels. It felt like I could spend days in the bazaar and not get close to discovering all it had to offer.

The shopkeepers embraced the craziness of the market. They knew they had to stand out among the multitudes of people and products. And after years of practice, they each seemed to have their own signature strategy for capturing people's attention.

At first, wandering along, it sounded like the sellers were just hollering at the general public, but then, we began to realize that many of the lines were specific to Jule and I. Even more surprising, the lines often worked, causing us to stop and smile or even shop for a few minutes.

“Can I sell you something you don’t need?” one man shouted, laughing as he pointed to the many t-shirts hanging on his walls.

“That is a beautiful purse you have, can I show you one even better?” another man offered, motioning to Jule's purse.

“You are both very pretty. Shop?” said a third, managing to make the compliment sound sincere, even as he gestured to his wares.

Or, my favorite, a lamp dealer who caught my eye and asked, "Mets or Yankees?"

Smiling, I threw my fist in the air and cheered, "Giants! All the way!" but this was simply met with a head shake and a finger wag.

Some shopkeepers were less funny and more sleazy, though. One such guy, a tapestry dealer who had earlier shown us his gorgeous, handwoven merchandise, caught us on our way out. Stepping between us, he turned to face me and asked for a date - trying repeatedly to convince me to go to dinner with him.

When I said that I couldn’t, and explained that I was married, his face suddenly split into this giant grin. Taking a step back, he whipped his hands out of his pockets and wiggled his fingers just in front of my nose.

”Me too!” he shouted excitedly, “I'm married, too!” He flashed his gold wedding ring in the lamplight and jumped up and down, laughing. I wasn't sure what to make of this reaction, I guess I was happy we both had someone, so I just smiled and nodded and we continued on, just a little disconcerted.

A few minutes later, another, much more timid, man approached Jule. Sidling up beside her, he looked her over appreciatively and then hissed annn-gggeee-lllll in a way that sent shivers down both our spines.

But, the most confusing and captivating seller caught us just after we had successfully purchased our Turkish towels and were about to exit the market. As we walked past, deep in a conversation about how amazing our towels would feel, a man stepped out, grabbed my arm, and excitedly gestured to my short, black boots.

“Where did you get those boots?” he asked.

I smiled and said nothing, well used to the way this worked now. I knew that this was just a ploy to get my attention, and I also knew that we were in a hurry to get to the Blue Mosque before dark, so I thought the fastest way to deal with the seller would be to say nothing and let him move on to the next shopper.

He wasn’t so quickly appeased, though. “Those boots,” he tried again, “where did you get your boots? They’re very nice.”

I laughed and shrugged, honestly a bit confused. Why was he still asking? He already had my attention, was he serious?

“My boots are three years old," I responded, "I bought them at Aldo - a shop in Kuwait. I like them very much,” I added, half laughing, half trying to untangle myself from his grasp. Jule had wandered ahead by now and was looking in a ceramic shop a few stalls down.

“I like them, too,” he responded. “I will buy them, ok? I will buy them from you for a hundred euros. You will sell them? Right now - a hundred euros,” he said, letting go of my arm to enthusiastically motion at my feet again.

I gave an awkward laugh. He couldn't be serious, I thought, and anyway I had no other shoes, and I really loved my boots, but still, the offer of one hundred euros stopped me from responding too quickly.

“No,” I said slowly. “No, I don’t think so. I like my boots. Plus, they are my only ones. What would I wear?”

He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the plight of my feet. I began to wonder if he had some sort of bet with the other shopkeepers, like how long he could keep a tourist talking or if he could really convince a tourist to part with her shoes. There were a few people watching us now, and even Jule had returned to see what was taking me so long.

“No. No.” I tried again. “I think I will keep my boots. Thank you, though.” I smiled and laughed, reaching out toward Jule, hoping she could pull me away from this surreal conversation I seemed to be having.

The shopkeeper suddenly let out a huge belly laugh and threw his arms in the air.

“Okay, okay, you keep your boots. I would like them, but you keep them. Remember, I offered a hundred euro,” he said laughing. Then he turned, still laughing, and waved to his shop, “Would you like to come in?”

I had to laugh, too, but politely declined. I wasn’t sure what would happen if I entered his shop. It was quite possible I would end up selling all of my belongings to him, or maybe, buying all of his. He was a smooth talker and I was already deeply confused.

Jule started down the aisle and I turned to wave goodbye, still not sure what had just happened. Had I really just passed up a chance to sell my old boots for one hundred euro? And what would he have wanted with them anyway?

This last question would provide hours of good fodder for a feisty fetish conversation later that night.

A Day in the Desert

The weather has been beautiful this week. Absolutely gorgeous. It is so great, that no one wants to stay indoors. This is a rare - almost never - feeling in Kuwait. We get maybe 20 days a year that make people want to run outside, and I swear, nineteen of those days land on work days - sunny days where I sit at my desk or stare out my classroom door and dream of a game of beach volleyball, just to finally have Saturday roll around and the whole city be enveloped in a sand storm. That is the springtime norm in Kuwait, five nice weekdays followed by an overcast, sandy weekend.

However, this Saturday, the mythical gorgeous weekend appeared and the whole of Kuwait raced outdoors.

On a beautiful Saturday in March, there are a surprising number of options for how to spend your day. You could BBQ on the beach, take a boat out to Kubbar, go visit the farmer’s market downtown, or even just hang out in the courtyard. However, we chose the best option of all, a desert day!

The country of Kuwait is 95% desert and therefore I was under the impression that finding some desert to play-in would be a simple 10-15 minute drive from our apartments. We did have some expectations, though, we wanted no people, no trash, and lots of sand dunes. This seemed like a simple wish – but in actuality it was difficult to find.

The deserts near the city are full of wind blown litter and electrical poles. They are also filled with canvas tents – hundreds of them, maybe even thousands. There is a culture in Kuwait of desert camping, of going off into the desert with just your family and finding your Bedouin roots. This is a cool idea but the reality is miles of canvas cities, with electricity and mini-water towers, situated one after another, mere steps from each other’s doorways.

This tent-filled, litter-covered desert was not the desert of our dreams and so we carried onward, toward the Iraq boarder. We passed the last buildings, the last highways, the last buses,  even the last camel caravan, until we started to see nothing, and then, before we could get excited, we saw something again.

Signs, huge signs, everywhere, stating: No trespassing. Military Installation. No photography. Big signs, little signs, red, yellow, blue – it seemed really clear we were headed into an area we were not supposed to visit, but we drove on.

 Now, before my bravery is spread throughout the interweb, I need to correct a misconception. I would have turned around. I would have turned around immediately. I would have never known the sheer number of signs and tanks and roadblocks and guard towers down the road because I would’ve flipped a U-turn at the first tiny red sign we saw.

But I was not driving, B was and he was following our friend Mace. And Mace is a true adventurer, a man of spirit and bravery and a man holding a Google map that clearly showed how cutting through this military installation would save us many, many minutes and miles. And so, with Mace at the wheel we drove on.

Pulling up to the guard tower we expected to meet some resistance. Off to one side was a desert army tank and all along the road were the numerous signs. A guard walked out in full military fatigues and glanced at our vehicles.

There wasn’t any way he could mistake us for military. The girls wore tank tops and ripped jeans. Our feet were propped up on the dashboard. The guys wore t-shirts and cargo shorts. Pop music was playing on the speakers. We were definitely not military. The guard looked again and waved us through. Clearly, the signs were overkill.

We cruised through the military installation. The desert stretched endlessly in both directions. There were no tents, no litter, and no electricity poles. It would have been the perfect place to play except for the signs. These were new signs, and they didn’t warn us that we were on a military installation, no, they warned us that we were on an active bombing site and that we should touch nothing. The signs were very clear - written in both English and Arabic with little drawings of explosions they made their point. We stayed on the road and then the sand track, hoping to find a place without bombs in which to spend our desert day.

Eventually, we came out the other side of the military installation. The desert was vast and empty. We began off-roading. Mace’s truck was much sturdier than ours and he climbed dunes rapidly, coasting down them casually, while we listened to his passengers’ cheers echo across the desert. We stuck more to the track, occasionally climbing a small dune and getting a rush when our jeep landed on the hard sand again. After a few hours of this, we were ready for a break and found a nice desert berm to picnic near.

Mace had brought an instagrill, a common contraption Kuwaitis use when BBQ-ing on the beach. We had also stopped and bought kebabs. The kebabs were simply labeled “butter and garlic” and were a bright green color. As we tossed them on the grill, we all took bets on what type of meat they might be. The girls were pretty sure they’d be chicken; Mace thought beef and B was starting to be concerned they might be a form of vegetable. Upon biting into one though, we all realized we’d missed the obvious choice – they were lamb.

 After a picnic lunch of lamb kebabs, pistachios, grapes and water, we were ready for our final adventure: magic carpet rides.

Mace had recently watched a YouTube video of some girls in abayas riding a carpet through the desert. He had thought this would be fun and so had decided to recreate it. The night before he had bolted a small carpet to a PCV pipe. He then ran a towrope through the pipe and attached it to his back bumper. One by one we climbed on while he pulled us behind his Pajero and through the soft sand. Watching the rider it looked slow, almost comically so, but when you climbed on the carpet yourself, it really did feel like you were flying. Racing over the sand, the camel dung and the random blocks of concrete that occasionally appeared, you were torn between joy at a carefree afternoon and fear that if you rolled off the carpet you might rip your face off.

We all rode the carpet successfully and no lasting injuries were sustained. In fact, we all felt so capable we agreed that on a future weekend we might have to take the carpet down some dunes. But that was a future plan. For now, we simply packed up our picnic and drove off. Back through the military installation, back across the minefield, and, eventually, back to the city, the buildings, and the people.

On Infinite Moments & Happiness

There are these moments in my life that I wish I could just freeze and live in forever. These moments where all my senses are in perfect harmony, the sounds, the smells, the sights all coming together in a way that fills me with this sense of never-ending happiness. It is almost indescribable. I love these moments, I call them ‘infinite moments’ and although they are rare, they are perfect in their completeness.

This isn’t to say I am rarely happy. If anything the reverse is true. I truly am a happy person. But these ‘infinite moments’ almost transcend happiness, it is in these moments that I really am “living in the moment” and experiencing all the best parts of life.

One of my favorite ‘infinite moments’ happened in 2001, at the end of my freshman year of university. Some high school friends came up to make the drive home with me, heralding my triumphant return to my parent's house, after successfully navigating a whole 9-months of living on my own – albeit in a dorm room with 3 other girls.

We packed into my blue VW beetle, which was stuffed with dorm remnants, two full-sized college boys and me. We were cruising down 9^th Ave., taking the back roads, when Summer Girls by LFO came on the stereo. Immediately, our windows were down and our voices were being carried through the orchards, creating an anthem of freedom and experience and summer for us. We were grown-ups, driving in our cars, choosing our paths, living our lives. It was amazing. I genuinely remember looking out the window and thinking that this moment, with the radio blasting and the summer air whipping around me, was one I would always remember, one that would live with me forever, one that would be infinite.

Since then, and maybe even before then, I have had more of these moments, although not many. Just a few, scattered throughout 30 years of life. They always seem to have some poignant song that comes on at just the right moment, adding the perfect amount of nostalgia to the present, as it slips away becoming my past.

I had one of these moments just the other day. B asked me to go on a boat ride in the gulf. I was hesitant because as nice as the boat ride is, the set-up and cleanup almost never seems worth it to me. I can totally see why owning a boat is not just simply buying one. But none of this matters to B, all he cares about is the sense of freedom he feels when he is out on the water; the wind, the waves, the hope of catching a fish, seem to make him so much more content then anything else does. So I agreed to go.

We hooked the boat up, drove to the launch and were ready in record time. B handed me the CD player and his phone and told me to choose a song while he primed the engine. When it is just us, I almost always choose a song by Kidrock or Roger Clyne, as those are the anthems of our relationship, and this morning was no different. I scrolled though the music and stopped at the first Kidrock album I saw, Born Free. I hit play and turned the volume up. B hit the throttle and we shot out of the marina. And in that instance I experienced another ‘infinite moment’.

There we were ripping through the waves with Kidrock’s words ripping through the air around us:

Fast, on a rough road riding

High, through the mountains climbing

Twisting, turning further from my home.

Young, like a new moon rising

Fierce, through the rain and lightning

Wandering out into this great unknown.

And I don't want no one to cry, 

But tell 'em if I don't survive:

I was born free! 

It was perfect. B was driving, savoring his sense of freedom and I was beside him savoring mine. We were literally on the other side of the world from our homes, wandering out into the great unknown. Kidrock was speaking to us, about us and if I could have, I would have happily lived in that moment infinitely. But, of course, the song ended, the boat slowed, and life continued. And although it is always sad to say goodbye to something so wonderful, it’s happy too, because the only way I can ever experience my next ‘infinite moment’ is by stepping out of this one.

And I'm not good at long goodbyes, 

But look down deep into my eyes, 

I was born free!

-Kid Rock

xo.

The Ruins of Jerash (Jordan, Part II)

If you ever get a chance to visit Jordan, I definitely recommend you rent a car and drive. The country is beautiful and full of so much history. Also, car rentals are insanely cheap -$25-dollars-a-day-cheap – awesome, right?

I also recommend you get a GPS, as there aren’t always signs indicating proper directions for cities and landmarks. However, I will warn you that your GPS will be wrong as often as it is right, if not more so.

Our GPS would often point us in the right direction but eventually lead us to a dirt track in the middle of desert. Now, had we rented a 4-wheel drive truck, this wouldn’t have been a problem, but out tiniest-car-on-earth, just couldn’t hack it. At this point we would have to turn around, curse at the GPS, fiddle with the directions and eventually find out, that although we were only 30 minutes from our destination, we would need to backtrack 2 hours to get there. Needless to say, we developed a very strong, very confusing, love-hate relationship with our GPS.

That first day though, we still had absolute faith in her. And as we cruised down the highway, all we could do was gush about our GPS and her perfect directions. Once we had finally escaped Amman traffic, the drive was smooth. We sailed down the highway heading to the ancient ruins in the city of Jerash.

Jerash is a city located in Northern Jordan. Although it is a modern city, it is a huge tourist attraction due to the ancient ruins located within the city limits. These ruins date back to the rule of the Romans and are some of the best-preserved ruins in the world. More amazing is the lack of rules regarding the ruins. Although, it is clear that the government has carefully maintained them, guests are welcome to climb on the ruins, touch the ruins and crawl through the ruins. It was such a rush to know that the buildings around us had stood for close to 1000 years.

As we walked among the structures, we read about what each portion had been used for and why it was important. My mind struggled to imagine chariot races and festivals being held on these very grounds. The history that I read about and teach about was all around us – it was unbelievable.

As we reached the amphitheater, a local man approached us and offered to take our picture. This was a common offer throughout the day, and although I had declined numerous times before, I suddenly decided to go for it.

I handed him my camera and he immediately took over instructing us. We had expected him to gesture to us to stand there and then he would take one or two photos, but he had something else in mind entirely.

He began by directing us to stand above the amphitheater so he could take a shot with it in the background. He became very agitated when he realized I didn’t have zoom and began mumbling under his breath. He took a few photos and then stepped away. I reached for my camera and he shook his head. Instead, he told B to sit down and then placed me in B’s lap. Next he wrapped B’s arms around me. Both of us were so caught off guard we just followed his directions, laughing awkwardly. Next, he had us stand in an archway and again he wrapped B’s arms around me. By now, we had both begun to feel like we were at prom getting our photos taken. The poses were so uncomfortable and feigned. As he began to move to a different structure, I ran up to him and assured him that those photos were more than enough. I praised his professionalism and gave him a tip. I then took my camera and jogged back to B, trying not to break down and laugh until we were out of earshot.

Once we reached the car, I turned on the camera to review the photos. They were terrible. The settings were all wrong and we were either too dark or too light or too silly. In the end though it wasn’t the photos that made the day, it was the memory. And for the rest of the trip we always debated taking every photo in awkward-prom-pose, but thankfully it didn’t happen.