Books@Cafe

Friday morning, Jacqui, Walid and I went in Walid’s jeep to visit Hilda at her studio, which just so happens to be right next door to the Israeli embassy, which just so happens to mean that Hilda and her family live in a perpetual state of sustained anxiety.

(It also means that you can’t take any pictures of her street without having your camera confiscated and perhaps also having yourself subjected to some Krav Maga, which I’m to understand is quite effective, so although her house is quite nice inside and out, if I do happen to post pictures of it, please don’t expect any exteriors.)

Thank you for flying Royal Jordanian

A million years ago, on Wednesday…

Ana and I got some takeout Thai food and my mother came over.  We ate a bit and left in a taxi at about 7:20.  I was worried about being late, but there was, surprisingly, almost no traffic on the way to Kennedy.

Standing in the line to check my bags at Terminal 4, my mother said to me: “Don’t you feel like you’re in a different world already?”  An employee asked us if we thought were in the line for KLM.  ”No,” I said, “Royal Jordanian.”  He looked surprised; we were, after all, perhaps the only non-Arabs standing in that line, so you might say we stood out a bit.  Still, you’d think I would have noticed if I were standing in line to check in for a flight to Amsterdam with so many people who do not look very much Dutch.  I turned to Ana and my mother and said, “Hey, I just got profiled.”  I was amused.