JFK Airport; New York, New York.

The delays in Dubai caused me to miss my connecting flight. The kind old man in Dubai who changed my flights warned me that this was a possibility.

We land; de-plane, and start going through customs. There are hundreds of people in front of me; many families, many children; all brown.

This is what I worried about; I didn’t want to believe that racial profiling exists. Unfortunately it does; and at this particular airport; it was in full force. Hundreds of non-caucasian people lined up ahead of me.

At customs; there were three lanes starting on the right; US Citizens; Diplomats; Non-US Citizens. There were almost no Americans on the flight; nor diplomats. While travelling; I always wore my NATO badge and passport around my neck. The Department of Homeland Security agents started at the front of the line and began working their way back. I watched them checking the identification and bags of children and families. It didn’t appear friendly; at all.

One of the men makes his way to me. “What’s that?” he says as he grabs my badge. He reads it.

“Where you coming from son?” he asked.

“Kandahar, sir.”

“How long?” he asked.

“Three months so far, first trip home.”

“Where you headed?” he asked.

“Halifax, my flight’s in about 30 minutes.”

“Go there, someone should be there in moment. Tell her you’re connecting to Halifax and she’ll show you where to go. You’d better hurry.” he pointed to the Diplomat queue, which was empty.

I go over; she doesn’t even look at my passport. He must have called someone to meet me there. She knew exactly where I was headed and who I was.

“Go down there, quickly.” she points, “Take a left and check your bags. You’re going to have to get on the airport subway.” she says. “When you check your bags; ask for directions.”

I thank her and start running.

Turns out that travelling through JFK Airport while on leave from a theatre-of-war is a pretty smooth experience; despite the racial profiling I’d witnessed.
________________________

Lost on the airport-train; I missed my flight. Two flights missed in two days; I’m quite good at this.

I get to the gate and have to go through security again after slipping outside for a cigarette. There are uniformed US soldiers; armed to the teeth; standing by some of the exits.

Little extreme, no?

I’ve got hours laid over; to sit and wait in this airport. This trip home was only for a week; really only five days.

I search for a power outlet to plug in my laptop. I find one beside a series of elevators; no benches or seats in site. I set up camp with my back against the wall and my legs across the floor; beside the electrical outlet.

Can’t get on Wi-Fi; pain in the ass.

I give up, get up; and walk through security for one last time in search of food.

Coffee; Sausage ‘n’ Egger, hash browns. A feast fit for champions and scholars.

Part Twelve

_____________________________

Sitting in an Irish pub; in an Emirati airport, drinking Scottish whisky and American beer. In come some soldiers I know.

We have a few drinks; they’re on their way to Thailand. Thailand I thought; oh the possibilities.

A bunch of Canadians, just being Canadian. Havin’ a time; havin’ some drinks. They take off one way; I down the other. I’ve still got many tens of gates to walk past. I walk into a drug store and tell the guru behind the counter that I feel sick.

He no doubt can smell the whiskey and the fatigue. He sells me a package of strange red capsules. The guru assures me that the ginkgo biloba gelatin inside was just what the doctor ordered; all that I needed to cleanse my mind and body.

Fifty dollars later and he’s cleansed my pocket change; bloody persuasive hippie.

He also sold me some Tiger Balm. I’ve only ever heard the term on Seinfeld, but that was all the credibility that a purchasing decision at that point required.

Fuck it; you only buy ancient-mystical-Asian-healing-balms once in a while.

Give me some Viagra too.
____________________________

I take a seat further down the airport beside a man wearing a shalwar kameez. I love Islamic culture; it’s beautiful. Unfortunately I knew that my stench of liquor and debauchery would offend this man; but he was very kind to me anyway. Just as everyone I met in Dubai or from Afghanistan was. Kind, peaceful, respectful and honest. They always seemed more concerned that I was okay; than anything else. 

He was from New York; visiting family back in Pakistan.

Drunkenly, and with the utmost honesty, I ask the man, “They must give you shit at the airport in New York, eh?”

“You have no idea.” he said.

I sit at the gate with this man as we watch the people gather for our flight; conversing casually. He eventually excuses himself to go grab something to eat.

People-watching with strangers is the oddest thing. If we didn’t happen to be sitting beside one another; we very well could have each been having an oddly similar conversation with other people – observing one another in some perverse alternate dimension.

Part Ten

___________________

“What’s wrong with being American?” I asked.

They have the illusion of freedom and a population educated enough to push buttons without drooling on them. But how does any of that matter to this Egyptian man in Dubai?

“There is nothing wrong with American people. People are just people, everywhere in the world. But, American foreign policy and meddling in the affairs of sovereign nations causes a lot of grief to those that see themselves as oppressed. As that grief, frustration and anger builds; those suffering and those standing in solidarity with those that are suffering – get angrier and angrier.”

The sight of a seemingly privileged American – drunk and lost in a country that frowns upon such predicaments – was just another assumption made true about the indifference of American society to anything outside of its own bubble.

Once we cleared up the fact that I was not American; the taxi driver looked at me and said, “You don’t want to go to that hotel. Too expensive. I’m going to take you to a hotel that is near to it; if you do not like it, I will take you back to your other hotel instead.”

Now in hindsight; nineteen, naive and with no bearings whatsoever – agreeing to have a man I’d just met drive me to an unknown location was probably not what I should have done.

But, I did it. And it was one of the most fruitful of drunken judgement calls to date.

This kind Egyptian man took me to a hotel; near to a bank and across a parking lot and some buildings from Burger King. He gets out and talks to the doorman; and then they hail the bellhop, Salazar.

The taxi driver tells me he will wait while I check out the room. If I don’t like it – he will take me to the other hotel.

In hindsight – I probably should have taken my bags with me.

Salazar and I go up to the sixth floor; he shows me a room with a balcony – facing Burger King.

We head back downstairs to the front desk.

“Looks great – how much for the day and most of the evening?” I ask.

“Eighty five US, sir.” says the man behind the counter.

I accept; thank the taxi driver; and Salazar helps me with my things.

On the way to my room, while in the elevator, Salazar asks me if I want a woman to visit.

“What you like? Nubian girl?”

After my experience the night before; I knew not to ask if he was serious.

I laughed, thanked him for the offer, and reassured him that I was ‘okay’.

“Okay sir, if you change your mind just call front desk and ask for Salazar.”

I showered and then decided to go for a walk. On my way out; I stopped to chat with the door-man who greeted the taxis and tenants. He offered me the opportunity to go on a ‘Desert Safari’. At this moment I was still very sick and hungover – so I decided to continue my exploration of the neighbourhood.

Nothing exciting near by; I visited a local corner store that was a few hundred metres from the hotel – purchasing some shisha and a power-bar-converter so that I could charge my laptop.

I made it back to the hotel; went inside; and tried to nap. No such luck. The anguish of a hangover mixed with the euphoria of opportunity kept me primed and ready.

I think it’s time I go on that safari.

Down the elevator and outside to the reception area; I approach the door-man and ask him to book me for the desert safari.

I pay him, which was odd for me. I later came to understand that this is how some transactions are conducted in some parts of the world. He arranges it; takes payment; takes a cut – and later on that day an SUV would come pick me up.

I trusted him; hell, I trusted the cab driver. This was an extension of the trust paid to my driver.

Why not get into an SUV with strangers and let them drive me out into the middle of the Arabian desert?

Part Six

___________________