American girls are easy
Doha, Qatar
I AM LOOKING at the menu in a little restaurant in Doha, Qatar. I wanted local food so my hotel suggested this Yemeni place on the fringes of the souk, the bustling marketplace found in every Middle Eastern city. There is one table of six burly men, Americans perhaps, maybe British? I can’t quite hear their conversation. From their haircuts I know they aren’t military. CIA? Mercenaries? Who knows. Other than them and me, there are no Westerners here. Qatari families fill the tables.
I have never been to a Yemeni restaurant, have no clue what Yemeni food is, have never met anyone from Yemen. The selections on the menu are unusual- fatta, mandy, buried meat. I have no idea what to choose. The owner of the restaurant comes over to take my order. He is traditionally dressed in a long skirt, a turban wrapped around his head. His name is Selim.
I explain that I need help selecting my meal. Selim obliges and suggests soup, a salad, do I like curry? “Yes,” I say, “I love curry but not too spicy.” My meal arrives, enough food to feed a family of four. There is a piece of Yemeni bread, hot, handmade. It is huge, round, thin, a tortilla on steroids, draped over a small basket. How can I possibly eat all this food? I am slightly embarrassed. Everyone is watching me, a Western woman dining alone. I am a curiosity and I know it.
The food is delicious. I eat some of it, tearing off small pieces of bread and popping it in my mouth. I use a fork, I am no good at scooping. Selim comes over asking, “How do you like your meal? Do you need anything? Where are you from? First time in Doha? Where is your husband?” I reply, “The food is great. I don’t need anything. I’m from the United States, and yes, first time in Qatar.”
As for my “husband”, I know a woman my age would be pitied if she had no husband. When I travel solo in countries where women are firmly behind the veil, the cradle, the cross, I’m considered an honorary man. Their women would never travel alone, so I invent a husband. “He doesn’t like to travel,” I say.
I ask Selim if I can take a photo of him with this large, most spectacular piece of bread to show my friends back home. “Of course,” he says, so I arrange the setting, Selim posing against an ornate wooden wall holding the basket with the bread, a serious look on his face.
Afterward, smiling, almost leering, Selim says to me, “You call me? I give you my number. You have WhatsApp?” I am horrified. “No thank you,” I demur, trying to politely refuse his proposal without offending. I might want to eat here again, the food is good and inexpensive. Selim persists. “Yes, yes, you call me, I give you my mobile.” “No, I don’t think so,” I say, edging toward the door. I pay my bill and leave.
You can’t blame a guy for trying.