Beyond the doors: Part 2

Once in a while I had seen a door open, and I turn my head as far as possible, dying to see what is in there. These houses are very close together. But cement walls separate them. I guess what we might think of a neighborhood with small lots, big houses, separated by a fence.

I arrived at the perfume shop and waited. I was feeling a little nervous, not knowing what to expect going into a local’s house and what not. I had grabbed my phone, knowing it was a little low on the time card. But I thought I had at least one call left.

I waited and waited. We had talked about a couple of options for meeting. “I’ll be there at 4:40.” And, “Call me when you get there.” Which one was it?!!! I couldn’t remember. I start getting a little panicked. I am looking at every black cloaked woman. They all look the same. Okay. Don’t panic. Just call her. She’s not here. Just call her. I rummage through my bag and find my phone. It’s getting later by the second. I can’t find her number. I EMPTY out my purse on the counter of the perfume shop, where two thobed men are getting very annoyed with me. I finally find the tiny scrap of paper, torn from a wrapper, written on with pink ink, from a couple of nights earlier. Note to self: If you are going to a strange location, clean out your purse, rewrite the phone number on a big piece of paper, and DOUBLE check your phone status BEFORE you leave the house!

Yep. I dial the phone, and all I hear is a recorded message in Arabic. As far as I can tell, there was about a penny left on the phone card. So now, I have no phone, my taxi left, the big Arabian sun is setting in the distance and the droned sounds of call to prayer are upon me.

And I almost start to cry…

Do you ever find yourself saying this, “please Heavenly Father…please. Oh please. Oh please. Oh please.” This has kind of become my mantra since leaving the states. Airplanes taking off, baby crying in crowded locations, turbulence, making connections, lost baggage, horrible taxi drivers, strange illnesses, fear and sorrow for my children. Do you ever do this? Well, I do. And I went into full swing here.

I left the perfume shop. Light’s out, gotta go. I look up and down the street. It’s filled with people scurrying home for prayer. The few women around are bustling away quickly. I start begging them. “Excuse me.” “Please.” “I need help.” “Please” “Help me.” “Help” “Help.” These are all in different quotations, because I was asking everyone I saw. No one even looked at me. Not even ONCE. I am obviously in a bad spot. Nothing. They averted their eyes and hurried on. Again, NOTE TO SELF: If you see someone in need – make an effort.

I take a deep breath. It’s getting darker now. I pull my wits about me. I’ve been here before. It’s the short prayer. If I have to wait on the street for 20 minutes I can. I was feeling worried about the religious police. I wore my abaya and had my scarf, but you never know. And then, I realized, ‘I’ve been to the singer store several times. And they’re really nice.’ I head in the doors just as they’re letting the last customers out.

“Excuse me. I need help, sir. I need to use a phone.”

“Yes. English. Over here.” He takes me to another man. And the heavens opened, and I felt peace. He did speak English, that dark skinned, white robed modern man with his blackberry at the front desk. Hooray!

I asked if I could use a phone, he hands over his blackberry without even thinking. “Of course.” He says. Now my chubby fingers are shaking, so I am helpless. He dials the number for me and Fatimah answers. Yeah!

I have to wait outside, as it’s the law. Moments later the man comes out of the shop on the phone to Fatimah. She phoned back and said she would send someone. How nice he even answered the unknown call and came to tell me. Seeing my nervous way, he said. “Don’t worry. I will wait here with you until someone comes for you.” Could have hugged him. Probably would have gone to jail. But still.

A few minutes later, a little tiny woman from across the street starts beckoning to me. Kind of like what I imagine the witch in Hansel and Grettle does just before she puts them in the oven. She was wearing a red hijab and abaya, face uncovered. I hadn’t seen Fatimah’s face, but I was pretty sure this wasn’t her. The man says, “I think that woman wants you to go to her.” “Do you think I should? You think it’s safe?” I say. “Yes. You will be fine,” he says. I really and truly said, “Alrightie then.” And off I went, careful not to be hit by the crazed local drivers. She reached out her hand, lead me down the cement lined street, shortly we reached one of those mysterious doors – and took me inside.