How many dates can I stuff into my mouth before this man leaves?
THIS IS A LONG ONE DAD. JUST READ IT.
If you ordered my $5 mini book, 80 Simple Yet Powerful Lessons I’ve Learned in my 30s, you might recognize this statement as one of my personal life lessons. (If you’d like to order it, send just 5 little dollars via Venmo to bplatanella or Zelle to bplatanella@gmail.com and include your email address. I’ll send it on over).
Since a few readers asked about the origin of this lesson, allow me to elaborate.
I try to be as culturally open-minded a person as possible. Much of my brain power is spent analyzing the different ways people from other countries do things.
Why do Mexicans eat on the street, perceivably all day long?
Why do Turks drink tea instead of coffee?
Why are Polish generally classified as cold?
While I do stereotype (It’s been my experience that most stereotypes stem from somewhere and they often aren’t negative. In fact, many are quite charming and traditional.) I truly enjoy researching a country’s history to make sense of its present. It’s fun, insightful and I’ve learned so much along the way.
When I flew Qatar Airways to and from Southeast Asia on a product development trip with Craft Travel (highly recommended), I made it a point to stop and spend a few days in Doha.
There is something about the Gulf that intrigues me and I’m especially drawn to Muslim culture. The haunting echo of the Call to Prayer, the way worship is interwoven with daily life and reason…it’s a completely different world within this world that we all live in and I want to know all about it.
After 2 weeks in Vietnam, Myanmar and Laos (ask me anything, I loved them all) I landed in Doha for a 3 day stopover. I arrived at the Marsa Malaz Kempinski looking a hot mess. No lipstick, disheveled locks, face as red as a freshly cut watermelon.
In accordance with Murphy’s Law, one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen EVER walks up to me directly. This Indian God, with his perfectly chiseled jaw, dark eyes framed by luscious, thick eyelashes, donning a smartly tailored suit, crooned at me! “Miss Platanella, I’ve been waiting for you.” (ME TOO! I have been waiting for YOU. All my life!!) “You came at a good time of year, it’s not too hot yet.” He turned to usher me toward reception so I promptly checked the temperature on my phone. 113 degrees Fahrenheit. Not.too.hot.yet.
The Indian God was not hitting on me, unfortunately. He was the hotel’s General Manager and in 5 Star hotels like this one, it’s customary to greet your incoming guests. Plus, I got this room through a mutual connection so he was obliged to receive me.
As I slithered into a cushiony brown seat in front of the receptionist, yet another gentleman approached me with a large, ornate silver platter with a lid. The type you would see on a Netflix series about the Ottoman Empire with hand-crafted carvings embellishing the handle. He grinned, raised the lid and exposed a delightful mountain of my favorite Middle Eastern delicacies, second only to baklava. “Date?” Why yes, I would love one! Or 17! How many dates can I stuff into my mouth before this man leaves?
After checking in, belly full of dates, I was escorted to my rather opulent room complete with a water view. Strolling past the billowing king-sized bed to my personal balcony, I noticed that on the table in the sitting area was a shiny, 3-tiered tray positively overflowing with various local desserts.
>MAJOR EXPLETIVE< I said to myself. My trip in Asia had all but transformed me into an elephant. What my body needed was a break. But it must be offensive for me NOT to eat this ENTIRE 3-tiered tray of sweets, right? (They refilled it the next day. I continued eating it.)
Immediately after drowning myself in baklava, I went to the souk.
The giddy anticipation I felt upon landing in Qatar was quickly replaced by another, almost unrecognizable feeling upon arrival to the market.
Because for a full hour, I was the only female there. Men of all shapes and colors and ages surrounded me. Smoking, chatting, setting up their stalls. The heat of mid-afternoon was scorching, seemingly penetrating my skin directly to my organs. Was my liver cooking? Was the sun frying my kidneys like eggs on a non-stick Viking pan? I covered myself with a pashmina and continued my walk, growing more uneasy step by step. Being surrounded by exotic men should be my dream come true, why am I so uncomfortable?
As the heat calmed, women began to surface. Just scuttling out of the woodwork in full burkas, only their eyes showing. (I’m sure you know this but it bears repeating - Qatari women are blessed with stunning eyes. And I mean S-T-U-N-N-I-N-G). I still didn’t feel any better. That weird, unrecognizable feeling lay active in my tummy.
Upon distinct investigation, I uncovered the culprit of my jitters.
Fear.
But this fear was not mine.
Qatar is safe for tourists. According to World Population Review, it ranks 23rd on the world’s most secure countries. The US Department of State ranks it a Level 1. As per Islamic law, men rarely make eye contact with unfamiliar women and cameras are visible on every street corner.
So why do I feel this way?
Upon continued investigation, I uncovered the root cause.
Conditioning.
In all my curiosity about Islam, it never occurred to me that I would feel anxious here. So when I did, I knew it wasn’t me.
I continued to walk and window shop and people-watch. Parents with their children, men selling jewelry and rugs, women setting up food stalls on the street so meals could be ready after the final Call to Prayer. It was beautiful. Everyone was being human, but wearing different clothing.
As an American, I’ve been fed years of narrative about Islam that caused me to react with trepidation to throngs of women in full burka and avoidant men smoking shisha together. The negative news, movies and series so prevalent in my country surfaced as discomfort as I dove headfirst into the Muslim world.
I did NOT want to give in to that nonsense.
I’m not blaming the USA (outright) but this did strike me as a big lesson. We are subject to constant conditioning and aggressive opinions coming in many forms - cinema, social media, books, advertisements, even school curriculums. It’s becoming harder and harder to form, and shift when necessary, our own and VERY personal beliefs.
However I think, as long as we’re aware, we can distance ourselves and reclaim our human right to digest this crazy ride of life in a way that works for us. Which turns into a game of sorts. When I find myself feeling a certain way in a certain place, I dig a little bit. Ask myself where the feeling is coming from. If it’s not coming from ME, I step away from it to create space to form an opinion that’s MINE and only MINE. Further, I allow myself the (what is now a) luxury to CHANGE that opinion should my experience so warrant.
So hard, so worth it, so human.
No one outside of yourself has the right to dictate how you interpret life.
So don’t let them.
With love,
Bethany
