Flying to Pakistan

I got to the Damascus Airport rather early, after being offered a ride by Anas and Mohammad, relatives of the people I used to live with (have I mentioned I moved the day after I got back from Pakistan?). Waiting, I read a bit of my short story collection, which drew the curious to ask if I was foreign, and then, how I could read Arabic.

"Can you read that?" They would ask, pointing to the open book in my hands. No, I just really like to stare at Arabic and flip pages.

One man was considerably hard to shake. After complimenting my Syrian Arabic, he attempted to get my number. Dude was mad old, by the way. I asked and found out 38 to be exact. Sorry, no number possible.
He didn't give up (all in Arabic, naturally):"Just for friends. Isn't that common in America? Boys and girls are friends in America."
"Usually they are about the same age though."
"How old are you?"
"How old do you think?"
"You look about 17." Ok, so now its even creepier. "So can I have your number? Just for friends."
"No, I have friends. Of my same age."
"What's the problem? Here, it's not weird for men of 38 to marry 20 year old girls."
"Yeah, I'm going to go to my gate now."
"Can I have your number?"
"No."
"If I ask again, will I get a different response?"
"No, same response. Bye." The last question was asked with a twinkle in the eye, as if we had been flirting and my previous no's had hints of a future yes for the persistant. I assure, there were no hints of any other answer.

At the gate I chilled with all the Saudis, many niqabis. Some women talked to me, shaking their heads when they found out that I was going to Pakistan by myself. The pity in their eyes was clear when they found out my parents live in America. When they inquired and were informed of my age (22), one said, "by God, so young!" Old enough to marry, not old enough to live far from my parents or travel by myself.

In Saudi, those going to Pakistan stayed on the plane while most deplaned, and a few joined us. So all I've I've seen of Saudi is through a plane window. Now event the airport. Back in the air, the plane was very empty. The flight attendents had all heard me speak before and now bored, a few wandered over and chatted.

In Karachi as I got off the plane, an airport employee met me and asked if was "the American." Um, yes. "Go with him, he said, pointing to another man.
"Why?" I asked with palatable fear.
"I got a call from my manager in Damascus. You are American? Go with him."
"Where are we going??"

The employee hustled me to the front of the immigration line, and I sailed through protocol. Hadi's father and sister were there to meet me, when I found out that Hadi's mom, being Syrian, is friends with the few other Syrians in Karachi, including the manager of Syrian Air in Pakistan. He had put in the call.