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Any Landing You Walk Away From….

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Pilots tend to have a dry sense of humor. The unnatural act of placing yourself in a tin can and being propelled through the air at hundreds of miles per hour leads to a disconnect between one’s opposing senses of wit and self-preservation. A popular cliche is that a successful landing is one you walk away from; a really successful landing is when the plane is still in one piece.

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Following that unassailable logic, my wife and I have been thinking about writing a self-help book based on what we’ve learned from our “take-offs” and “landings”. Having been intermittently separated, we’ve found that cruising altitude is usually smooth and turbulence-free. Like any flight (or fall), it’s the nature of the sudden stop at the end that is critically important. It is so easy to get caught up in the details (buckle your seat belt, here are the exits, can I get some peanuts?) that we lose sight of the headwinds that reduce our relationship groundspeed to a crawl.

There are several things I’ve tried; some successful, others resulting in a flaming pile of debris on the runway. Giving your spouse attention is not simply buying something at the duty-free shop, unless they really like whiskey, in which case you’ll be just fine (or probably not, to be honest). It’s also not like the trash-hoops game the flight attendants play. You know the game, the one where they hustle down the aisle at a half-sprint with the trash bag and you have to toss in your empty cup and napkin as they go by. Three points if you make it from the window seat.

I think we’ve been happiest during aimless walks through the Ozarks, cutting lazy figure-eights while tubing on the lake, or on endless ski runs in northern New Mexico.

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Selfish itineraries, poorly-scheduled connections, and a general tendency to focus on the destination seem to be effective metaphors for all the things we allow to come between us. With all of the tragic imagery on the news the past few days (and our prayers go up for those whose families are forever shaken by the recent AirAsia crash), this is an ideal time to look over at our co-pilot and make sure we do whatever it takes to bring everyone home.

 

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Many Meanings

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Inshallah is a word you hear at the end of every third or fourth sentence in Saudi Arabia. The actual meaning, I’m told, is “God willing”, a nod to the uncertainty of life and our place in the cosmic pecking order. However, there are nuances and undercurrents to how this phrase is used, so I’ve put together a list of the many meanings of Inshallah.

1. When spoken by a friend it means “I hope so.”

2. From an acquaintance: “Good luck with that, you’ll need it.”

3. In meetings: “That idea has a a snowball’s chance in hell, but I’m going to smile and watch you fail.”

4. From a teenager: “Whatever…”

5. From a bureaucrat: “That’s not my job”

6. From a taxi driver: “With this traffic, there’s no way we’re getting there on time, but I’m not admitting that. And I’m going to charge you more and hope you don’t notice.”

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Riyadh- a “Land of the Lost” rerun

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You might not remember much about 1975. If you happen to be a Millennial, Gen-Y’er, hipster, or other person who looks longingly back at the idea of the 1980’s as the pinnacle of American pop culture, there is a unique opportunity to go back in time and experience the gold-dusted decade that kept us all waiting for Prince, Ronald Reagan, E.T., and all that 1980’s awesomeness. It might even be the most under-appreciated decade; where would society be today without the contributions made by Battlestar Galactica, Watergate, the fall of Saigon, and Farrah Fawcett’s hair? To take a tour of America in the 1970’s, buy a ticket to Saudi Arabia today. You might see why the 80’s looked so good in comparison.

Your tour begins with going for a drive. Don’t worry about a fuel-efficient car; full-service gas is still less than $1 a gallon, so hop into that V8 Suburban and hit the road. If you’ve never heard of full-service gas, it was this quaint experience wherein you paid a little more money for someone from a lower socioeconomic class to pump your gas. Very Victorian if you think about it.

Back on the road, but don’t turn the radio on; it might not be disco, but it’s just as bad. Don’t bother buckling your seatbelt either, no one else does. Your kids will enjoy roaming around the interior of the car like those adorable hamsters your parents never let you have. So where should you drive? To the mall. Huge malls, because that’s where everyone wants to be. However, GPS maps don’t work particularly well here, so unfold that origami from the gas station and make like Lewis and Clark.

Popular culture hasn’t recognized that just because you can afford 4000 calories per day of fried food doesn’t mean you should. Start with a coffee and donuts at Dunkin Donuts (remember the commercial with the guy who always got up so early? You can’t let his perseverance go to waste, can you?).  For lunch, drive through McDonald’s, saving room for some KFC and all the Pepsi your pancreas can handle. Don’t order anything organic, vegetarian, locally-sourced or even slightly untoxic. Remember when bottled water was for foreigners with questionable masculinity?

Reading a newspaper, you might find an occasional patronizing mention of women’s changing place in society, but it will be written by a guy who looks like every other guy writing for every other newspaper. Immigrants are a population to be kept under control, even feared a little, but they are better than the alternative of doing the work yourself. After reading Peanuts, throw that paper in the trash. Do not recycle, as that might accidentally reduce consumption and therefore the need to produce more oil. Since in the 1970’s Bob Barker hadn’t yet gone on his personal campaign to spay and neuter your pets (and I don’t think The Price is Right is all that popular here anyway), stray cats roam the neighborhoods, each one trying to look more mangy and hungry than the last.

As your tour of the 1970’s ends somewhere around the Jordanian border, you find yourself thinking that in a garage somewhere in Riyadh there’s a Bruce Springsteen honing his sound, a whole generation of corporate raiders getting ready to skim other people’s money, and a burgeoning media industry making a determined effort to mass-produce mediocrity for the lowest common denominator. Put on your MTV T-shirt, put away the bell bottom jeans, and wave goodbye to the decade that wasn’t as revolutionary as the 60’s, wasn’t as corporate as the 80’s, and maybe deserves its reputation after all.

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Two Rules, Three Right Turns

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We have all been given more advice than any person could possibly absorb. Wisdom is something that is gained by experience, which means you have it right after you needed it. That’s no excuse, however, for the fact that we ignore most of the perfectly good advice we hear. One such gem of wisdom is regarding social interactions with people of a potentially different mindset; do not ever, ever, talk about politics or religion. Another shiny nugget I heard recently was to never get into the car with a strange Arab and let him drive you to an unknown location. Just like turning left in Riyadh involves three right turns most of the time, combining a disregard for the above advice made for a wonderful afternoon.

Do you turn down an invitation from a Saudi prince for lunch at his palace? Of course not. Around noon today a nice young Somali man showed up at my door, and he was eager to show off his driving skills that he has undoubtedly honed over many weeks of practice; before that I think he had mostly driven cattle, but that is probably a decent preparation for driving in Riyadh (see other posts). I was the only one who put on my seat belt. I don’t care if they think less of me; my life insurance probably has a “stupidity” clause somewhere. More about seat belts, Pepsi and related issues in a future blog.

Upon arrival at the palace, we drive through the open gate. Evidently my host always keeps his gate open, so that friends can enjoy his hospitality at any time. The prince and his entourage greet us and welcome us into the tent he uses for greeting guests. You can understand the cultural identification with traditional Bedouin tents, but they haven’t let the nostalgia get out of hand; this tent has air conditioning and a flat screen TV. An hour filled with warm hospitality and hot Arabian coffee ensues, with laughter and manly cheek-kissing. After that, we retire to the dining tent:

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This is obviously not my old camping tent with a Coleman stove and a can of Vienna sausages. As disappointed as I might’ve been over the lack of Smores, those feelings were smothered with an amazing breaded-and-fried-cheese-covered-in-sugar dessert that melted my taste buds. And there was cheesecake. Now I know why 25% of the population has diabetes.

To this point, no universal rules of family reunions had been broken; thoughts of religion and politics were as distant as tofu and Jenny Craig. Then, one of my host’s sons began discussing a recent trip to the Sinai peninsula, where he climbed Mount Sinai to visit the monastery there. This led to a comparative discussion of the three faiths descended from Abraham. It was at this point that my greased tongue moved faster than my brain; I joked that it seemed typical that it was Sarah and Hagar not getting along that started all the trouble… and then held my breath, not able to bring the words back after they had escaped. The ten seconds of translation were more than enough time for me to imagine my imminent discharge from the house, possible arrest, and ultimate public humiliation on CNN as the State Department has to negotiate my release. Smile, sip my coffee, please laugh  please laugh  please laugh   please don’t leave my fate in the hands of John Kerry…

And they laughed. Not as much as they should’ve, because that was a really funny joke, but they didn’t put a bag over my head so I’ll call it a win. The slightly wiser me eventually left with an armful of books gifted from his library, thankful for an uncommon display of grace and tolerance where I never expected to find it.

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Istanbul (Not Constantinople)

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I was complaining to one of the scientists here about my recent travel, and she shared her recent family vacation experience. It involved 6 hours in a bus trying to cross the Israel-Palestine border, losing luggage, and threats of imprisonment. I stopped complaining to her at that point, as my problems sounded really lame. Instead, I’ll share them with everyone else 🙂

Returning from OKC to Riyadh, I was delayed in DFW; it was not because the 6-pack of bar soap in my bag resembled a bomb (which evidently it did), but due to mechanical problems with the plane. After missing a connecting flight in London, I was rerouted to Istanbul. Delirious with fatigue, two thoughts kept repeating in my mind; first was that I don’t know any Turkish, so I hope I don’t have to ask where the restrooms are. The second was the song “Istanbul not Constantinople” by They Might Be Giants. Great song the first few times you play it back in your mind, but the romance fades after 20 hours of air travel. Upon landing, an American gentleman who had a very tight connection made his way to the front of the plane, hoping to be the first person to leap through the door and dash to his gate. After 15 minutes, we realized that the front exit was malfunctioning, and everyone was deplaning from the back of the plane, where he had started; due to his new position at the very front, he was the last one off the plane. There’s probably a lesson there somewhere.

Luckily the restrooms had adequate signage, and I didn’t accidentally get on the plane to Tehran at the next gate. I was given a special red card that signified my status as a business class traveler. This means I was allowed to get on the bus first, then wait while everyone else boarded the same bus to take us out on the tarmac to the waiting plane. We then elbowed our way up the stairs and found our seats. Turkish Airlines defines customer service as “the plane landed and you walked away from it in one piece, shut up.” I enjoyed a little sleep on the flight, and beat the mad rush through immigration, no red card required. Watching a baggage carousel for 20 minutes after 30 hours of travel induces vertigo. Not finding your luggage is even more nauseating. Evidently my bag had decided to spend the weekend in Istanbul, drinking coffee and smoking Shisha by the Bosporus.

When the airline called to let me know my luggage had been found, I rushed to the airport for our reunion. I stumbled through the door, a father looking for his prodigal bag. The map legend revealed an icon for “baggage services”, but that icon was not anywhere else on the map ($@#*&!). After giving me two separate sets of bad instructions, the manager of the Turkish Airlines desk grudgingly walks me to the hidden entrance to customs; it was a door placed at a perpendicular angle to the hallway, with a small sign that said “customs”. It was like finding the entrance to Rivendell. I endured a thorough security check, and was then released to the land of lost luggage.

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I was prepared to describe my bag and its contents, bringing all of the ID that had been required to get through the secret door of customs. Instead, the disinterested guy says “Oh, you have a bag?”, opens the door, and motions me into the storage area. I grabbed my bag and left. I could’ve grabbed any bag or three. I suppose nobody wants to take a chance with going through customs with someone else’s bag. I’m just relieved my suitcase didn’t come home with any contraband or social diseases; all is forgiven.

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Cars in the Kingdom

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If you imagine news footage of the average smoldering civil war in Africa or central Asia, you will see a bunch of guys with guns riding around in the back of a pickup. In Oklahoma we just called that “Saturday”, but that’s a different topic. The ubiquitous white four door pickup that has transported so many revolutionaries is the Toyota Hilux. It has such a reputation for durability, the brilliant team from BBC’s Top Gear tried to destroy one, and couldn’t. Search for “top gear killing a toyota” on YouTube and you’ll see the results. No television show or puppet government can stop this little truck.

The problem in the magic Kingdom is that I can’t buy one. It’s not the limitation of sharia law that argues against the inherent evils of charging interest; the banks have found ways around that (they always win, right?). Maybe they assume we can’t start a revolution if we don’t have any pickups. The barrier is that they are classified as commercial vehicles and regular citizens (or immigrant hired help like myself) can’t buy one. Along the same lines, you have to prove you have a family before buying an SUV. I wonder if you have to have 2 wives to get one with a third row seat…

Traffic rules here are easy to learn. The lines on the road are just decorations, don’t pay them any mind. Similarly, traffic lights are just suggestions, you really can drive through an intersection whenever you feel you can get away with it. The mass of cars juggle for position like a herd of camels trying to squeeze through a gate. Honking is random; I’m not sure if it means “the light has been green for 12 milliseconds, GO!”, “excuse me, coming through”, “go ahead, I’ll let you change lanes” or just “Listen to me honk. HONK! HONK! HONK!” In the next month or two I hope to update you with more on buying a car and driving in a very foreign land. Most likely followed with a post on what it’s like to have a fender-bender in said foreign land. Stay tuned!

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The Calculus of Philosophy (or “I need to get out more”)

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Fair warning- this post is going to be tagged “#unrelated topics”. And it gets really geeky. You’ve been warned.

When thinking about an ethical or philosophical issue, a fun exercise is to take your position to its ridiculous extreme and see if it still sounds reasonable, or is left gasping for air like the flabby rationalization it really is. Speaking of ridiculous, I just used “fun”, “exercise”, and “philosophical” in the same sentence. Those three words may never intersect again, and I’m just glad I got to be part of it.

Anyway, if something claims to be Truth, it should always be true no matter how you push, pull or twist it. One of the principles of calculus (which never ever lies) is that if you want to really define an equation, you see what it does as it approaches infinity. Interesting that mathematicians, not philosophers, realized that we can never reach infinity, but we can imagine what happens as we approach it. What is true right here and right now should be true in the most extreme of circumstances.

To apply this theory, imagine the competing truths or ideals we all juggle. Family, fatigue, faith, career, all combining in complicated permutations. For the sake of this experiment, let’s remove a few variables from the equation. Oh I don’t know, for demonstration’s sake remove family, cable TV, a car, outdoor activities, and bacon. You are left with career, faith, and… Well, that’s about it. What is the “truth” of career when it is put in such a prime position? How does it look as work approaches infinity?

Before you pound the keyboard and declare that work is evil and must be scoured from this earth, reverse the exercise. Remove career from the equation, and you have a not-so-pretty image of someone sitting on their couch watching televangelists, eating bacon, surrounded by 12 dirty children. I would assume a car is back in the picture as well, but it’s on blocks in the front yard.

Now the solution to this problem is that there must be an equilibrium; some point on the chart where the values of career and family and everything else can be in the correct proportion. This is when most people would say “Well Duh!”. During medical school we were constantly told to keep our lives balanced; in residency and then in our jobs, at church and in our neighborhoods, everyone repeats the mantra of finding balance. Our little math derivation has proven this to be true. But why didn’t anyone tell us how to find that balance? Now that we know there’s a formula, what is it?!? I think they don’t tell us because nobody really, truly knows. We are all missing the target in our unique way, filling out the scatter plot of life. Maybe we are supposed to make the most of what we have, and look with faith towards infinity. That’s where the truth will be.

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Right on Cue

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Familiarity can happen in the funniest places. There is a recreation center here on the hospital compound, and despite having the exact same equipment as American gyms, it feels foreign. This is partly due to the lack of women, which probably results in less mirror-flexing than in US gyms. The majority of the guys working out are Filipino, and they take a break between each set to grab their phones and text someone back home. As an aside, this method must work, because they’re all really buff. The end result is an atmosphere that’s a little melancholy, because you can sense that everyone would rather be wherever their texts are going.

After running on an American Cybex treadmill and listening to my American music, feeling very foreign, I wandered into the billiard room. At first I asked about playing pool, but they kept trying to send me outside to the large hole in the ground full of chlorinated water. Billiards? they asked; yes, I’d like to play billiards. There isn’t anyone else around, so the young Filipino guy asks if I want him to play. Three games later, I’m convinced that he just let me win the last one so I wouldn’t complain to his supervisor. It turns out that in the Philippines, the favorite sports among young men are billiards and basketball. He also mentioned whiskey and chasing girls, which is probably why he’s in Saudi Arabia paying off his credit card debt and child support. He asked about Kevin Durant, and why OKC traded James Harden. That, I told my new friend, is a question that has been asked over thousands of billiard tables; usually as part of a greater conversation about other regrets (like drinking whiskey and chasing girls). Throw in a juke box playing classic rock or Willie Nelson and we could’ve been anywhere between Eagle Pass and Fargo. Maybe next time he’ll tell me more about his six year old son, and maybe I’ll win two out of three.