DRIVING FROM JEDDAH TO PARIS

DRIVING FROM JEDDAH TO PARIS

It was an intrepid, sultry summer, that summer of ’75 my family and I drove from Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, to Paris, France; however, I will never forget the death of King Faisal earlier in the year, when all of Saudi Arabia mourned the king’s death for three days. All activity suddenly came to a halt. An aura of serenity permeated ubiquitously, as there was no school and we were obliged to remain on the compound.

Are we the only Americans crazy enough to drive from Jeddah to Paris? I ask myself. I will especially miss the good life on Raytheon Compound—our giant playground with the ultimate freedom, as we opened the door almost three hundred sixty-five days of the year to sun, sand, and the Red Sea. Jeddah’s daily dramatic sunsets seen through our dining room window remain an indelible memory as the sun—neither yellow nor orange but a hybrid—creates an incandescent sky of irregular streaks across the downy clouds, exuding warmth, happiness, and eternal love to all humankind. Like a harvest moon, rising during a late midsummer’s night to the heavens and beyond. An orange setting sun meshes with the yellow of a high-noon sun above us—an overpowering, perfectly round ball; yet at the same time, appearing smooth as velvet. After this spectacular show, remnants of a peach-colored horizon and an illuminated beginning crescent moon rise toward Venus and Jupiter, emanating a peaceful romanticism.

I shall miss Jeddah’s exotic souqs (markets). Walking with the hot sun beaming down on us, through winding alleyways lined with shops or, literally, holes in a wall, selling pots and pans, gold, clothes, fabric, footwear, shirts, toys—everything you need is available in the souq. If you wanted to buy gold, you would go to the illuminated gold souq—my favorite. If you wanted to buy fabric, you would go to the fabric souq, and so on. Amidst a huge maze of souqs are smaller souqs of lit-up alleyways of exotic spices and smells—namely incense and cardamom. Owners try to get you to step into their shop but won’t harass you if you go next door—although sometimes they lure you into their shop with a cup of shy (a sweet mint tea). As well as the mystical aura, Jeddah offers its three-tier white minarets and a conical top rising above the city’s tall date palms decorating asphalt roads alongside the red and sand-colored tiled sidewalks with white-and-black-checkered curbs and the traditional red-checkered headdress, ghutrah, and long white thobes men wear. In addition, the five-story or more white mud houses are adorned by dark-brown or bleached wood-colored overhanging balconies and their lacelike appearance as Saudi women gracefully move about fully covered in their black abayas.

Finally, yet importantly, forever to be happy, like that young girl growing up on the American compound is all I ever want.

At age 15, along with my 13-year-old brother, Dennis, Mom, Dad, and I live with 110 other families in between three massive nine-foot-high walls, running the length of five rows of 20 houses each on either side of the guard gate. All houses (except for the one belonging to the

man in charge of Raytheon Company) are single-story square white cement buildings with a flat roof, an open-air patio on each side, and a small carport attached to the side of the patio. Every room has an air-conditioner. Upon entering the compound, we sign in at the guard’s gate. As Jeddah’s daily intense heat instantly slams against my body, it is a refreshing relief swimming in the Olympic-size pool adjacent to the snack bar and nearby recreation center, equipped with two Ping-Pong and pool tables. Across the dirt road we play basketball on a court overlooking the mile-long dirt pier extending into the Red Sea and its huge raised-rock jetty at the end. Free movies three times a week at the open-air performance stage across from the recreation center are the highlight for the week. If Dennis and I have all our homework finished, we sprint down the dirt road—lawn chairs over our shoulders—joining our friends already comfortably nestled on blankets, chairs, or sitting on the cement floor with popcorn and soda. Situated in the middle of the floor is a tall, narrow projector booth, where a parent volunteers to run a two- or three-reel movie projector. Wait Until Dark is our feature film tonight.

Three tennis courts are at one end of the compound, with the softball field at the opposite end. Each morning at eight-thirty two yellow school buses park across from the stage, transporting all children to the Parent’s Cooperative School (PCS)—grades K-9—to downtown Jeddah.

Two months prior to moving, the auto body shop owner calls to say that our white Mercedes 230 Sedan has arrived from Europe, ready for pickup. After withdrawing 30,000 riyal from the local downtown bank, Dad places them into a brown paper bag, folding it tightly under his arm, ready to buy our car. Arriving at the white cement shack at five o’clock, he finds the shop is closed. Dad returns to the office, leaving the bag of riyal on his desk until tomorrow.

“Where is our new Mercedes?” Mom, Dennis, and I chorus.

“The shop closed, so I will pick it up tomorrow.”

Early next morning Dad spots the brown paper bag in the middle of his desk. Shortly, he realizes that he forgot to lock the door overnight. Quickly grabbing the bag, he finds the 100-riyal notes are in the exact position from yesterday, all 300 of them. No one in Saudi would dare touch it.

In the intense morning heat, loading the last suitcase, Dad slams the trunk of our glossy white Mercedes shut and shouts, “Is everyone ready to roll?” Mom sits up front, Dennis jumps in behind Mom, and I sit behind Dad. I feel the onset of butterflies in my stomach. We wave good-bye at the guard as he raises the bar one last time.

“Hey, Dennis, are you psyched?”

“Nah, not really, I would rather be flying.”

“Yeah, me too,” I answer.

Dennis is reading The Hobbit. We follow the main road—the only road—to Tabuk. I lean my head against the left window as I look out front to decipher the black slickness that suddenly appears in front of us on the asphalt, then disappears. Bugging Dennis, “Let’s have a contest to see who can count the most mirages.”

“Guys, it is time to turn off the air-conditioner for a while.” Dad sighs.

“Fine,” we all reply in unison.

Amidst the surrounding desert—with the escarpment covered in yellow-brownish vegetation and an endless mixture of dirt, gravel, and sand alongside the edge of the road and an occasional green tree rising above—we continue our journey. Suddenly, beyond the mirage, appear two brown camels and a Bedouin dressed in the local gray thobe, a red-checkered ghutrah all the way down to the shoulders, tied in front with a tagiyah underneath so that it won’t slip off, exposing only his eyes. Carrying a long stick, he swats his camel, making him run. We stop and stare in amazement at these graceful creatures. Late that evening we arrive in Tabuk, leaving me with no recollection of the city as we depart the next morning for Amman, Jordan.

Dennis and I wake up to Dad’s loud shriek. “Wake up, wake up; we are at the border of Saudi Arabia and Jordan, guys.” In the middle of the road, two guards are praying with their machine guns next to them on the ground. All we can do is wait. The guards rise off their knees and grab their machine guns, placing them over their shoulders.

“As-Salamu Alaykum, Hello,” they say.

“As-Salamu Alaykum,” Dad replies, handing them our passports.

“How long are we staying here, Dad?” Dennis mumbles, yawning.

“A few days.”

Mountains surround us as we approach Amman’s gleaming white stone houses dominating the surrounding hills. After registering at the five-star Intercontinental Hotel, we freshen up.

“Let’s check out the remains of the amphitheater not far from here,” Dad suggests.

We walk up the hill filled with various green trees, and the remains of an impressive amphitheater—carved deeply into the side of a hill, a half-bowl filled with rows—remind me of an ancient Roman ruin. Downtown souqs covered in white cloth canopies run along stone sidewalks, as men wear clothes similar to Westerners, and women do not always wear an abaya, exposing their faces.

The atmosphere is fun, friendly, and safe in Amman, I think. A vendor wearing his traditional cranberry-colored fez (a shortened cone hat with a long black tassel attached in the back) and shirt covered by a black vest, with a tray of small, clear glasses and paper cups attached to a strap around his shoulder, carrying his tall, shiny brass gawa pot attempts to lure us for a cup of coffee. Following closely behind is a vendor selling pink, yellow, red, and white snapdragons and marigolds. On top of Citadel Hill we see the remains of columns and shortly thereafter a great temple. Dad explains to us that the columns are of the Roman period, and this is the Temple of Hercules.

Continuing our journey onto Jerusalem, we visit the enormous Wailing Wall in an enclosed large courtyard. An air of serenity permeates throughout the courtyard as people walk around or wait in line either to kiss the Wall or to stand praying. Men often wear suits with black hats or simply yarmulkes like the boys. Dad reminds us that the Dome of Rock on the Temple Mount is nearby. Even far afield, a mesmerizing gold dome majestically lures you toward it. Against a clear aquamarine sky, a vast sun shields its divine masterpiece—an octagonal, intricate, blue-hue tiled backdrop of various yellow, dark-blue, and white tiled, arched windows embellished with green tiled lattice and beautiful white Arabic scripture above—which appears sacred. A mix of white-, rose-, and black-colored marble Roman-looking columns defend the entrance.

This heavenly spot awakens my spirit. Beyond the clusters of zigzagging trees—Dad informs us that they are olive trees—this surrounding view is intensely divine as we also visit the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. “This church marks the place where many believe Jesus was buried and raised from the dead. It is the holiest site in Christianity. Guys, this is the Via Dolorosa,” Dad mentions, reading from his clutched green Michelin guide.

“What’s that?” Dennis and I chorus.

“It’s the same path Jesus walked.” Dad raises his voice an octave. We can tell by the tone of his voice that we had better listen. We are reliving history. Especially so, since we visited Jesus’ tomb and see remnants of buildings dating back to before Christ—it is overwhelming. Erect, well-maintained columns at least thirty times taller than we are, with beautifully adorned bird designs, bring me back into the Roman Era. The Biblical sights are an indelible memory.

Arriving in Damascus, Syria, the next day, we promenade along Souk al-Hamidiyeh—a long, exotic walk under domed alleys of illuminated stalls where friendly people buy slaughtered animals, textiles, jewelry, chessboards, and inlaid mosaic boxes as well as general goods. Men smoke the narghile (water pipes for smoking) wearing Western-style clothing, with their wives sitting next to them. Older women wear long-sleeved dresses down to their feet and wrap white or black scarves around their heads, exposing their faces; otherwise, pants and blouses are permitted.

Next stop Homs, Syria, where a formidable fort, Crak de Chevaliers (Castle of the Knights), sits majestically upon a hill protecting its environs below. On our way to Palmyra, alongside the road, castles speckle the desert—suddenly, mud brick beehives appear with narrow slits in the front. Not a soul is in sight.

Throughout the three-hour afternoon drive, staring at the Syrian Desert, persistent thoughts swirl around in my head—What are we doing here in the middle of nowhere? Suddenly, a distant desert landscape of crumbled ruins creeps upon us—about a mile of stone column remains. “We are in Palmyra.” Dad yawns.

Our hotel is a small, flat, square, limestone building in the middle of nowhere with two airy rooms and a bathroom. I throw my suitcase upon the bed, rummaging for my shampoo—like the lonely, dust-covered cowboy after a long day on the horse, throwing his gun onto the bed in the small room with the open window, feeling the hot breeze. Entering the bathroom, I turn on the tub water. Brown, rusty, musty-smelling water gushes into the porcelain tub. I do not remember if I washed my hair. An hour later Dad jokes, “At least you have water in the middle of the Syrian Desert.”

Early next morning, upon a slab of stone in front of the hotel—a questionable terrace, no doubt—breakfast is Syrian round bread and a block of stale cheese and bottled water. We only drink bottled water.

“This is all we have.” The man smiles. “Are you Americans?”

“Yes,” we all chorused.

Doubling back on the road to Palmyra heading toward Aleppo, we stop overnight in Aleppo. Suddenly, a humongous medieval fortress on top of a huge mound—looking like an upside-down plate, I imagine—appears, overlooking the city beneath (a beautiful mixed landscape of mosques, domes, minarets, and houses). We tour the fort for over an hour. “Guys, you are visiting the oldest inhabited city in the world,” Dad exclaims.

“Cool, man!” Dennis and I scream.

Driving toward Alanya, high above the city, we see the remnants of an old castle seaward wall with breathtaking views over the choppy Mediterranean, protecting tugboats, ships, and a sprawling city—a mixture of red-roofed houses and buildings both modern and old. After a day here we continue our drive.

“Wow! This area is out of this world.”

“What is the name of this place, Dad?”

“Cappadocia.”

Looking beyond the vegetation and green trees toward the plateaus, I cannot believe the size of those gigantic cone-shaped rocks.

“Over time wind and rain formed these odd-shaped rocks,” Dad recites.

Soaked in the sun’s golden hues, suddenly a gigantic facade of smooth white rock with conelike formations at the top and square, jagged-edged openings—windows? I wonder—appear in front of me. Along the hard stone walkway, square grooves appear to be steps leading up to the rock.

“Can we go inside?” Dennis inquires.

“Sure.”

Inside the tunnel men sell dates, corn, and Turkish spices and potatoes. Throughout this gorge, sometimes only three huge chimneylike rock formations stand in a cluster in the middle of lush green vegetation. Elsewhere, they take over the gorge or situated together form a huge wall alongside the plateau. We stay overnight in this bizarre place.

We are on our way to the ancient city of Ephesus near the Mediterranean Sea. A grandiose amphitheater rising above the hill overwhelms me with its fanlike appearance. The grand theater is a semicircle surrounded by other Romanlike remains—some intact or in ruins. Protecting this grand theater is a wall of tall, arched windows—some intact, others crumbled— connecting each other. Far below is the small round stage with three rows of erect columns amidst a pile of debris. A rather long marble pathway—possibly the main boulevard, I tell myself—stretches away from the theater. The sun’s rays beam across this amphitheater, producing a grayish-white hue—its columns resemble white marble. An arched portico supported by four marble columns—two round, two square—with tops of intricately adorned figurines, animals, leaf designs, and etched, beadlike rows embellish this royal room. Guarding the entrance are two tall marble columns—one with a smooth marble finish—the other an adorned, circular, fluted column.

“Stay there, Carina, while I take a picture,” Dad screams from afar.

Am I the queen in her royal dressing room? I think.

After a night in Ephesus, we continue our royal tour to Pergamon. There is nothing left here.

We stop for a couple of hours on a beach alongside Izmir’s beautifully adorned coastline of modern buildings and hotels.

We enter Troy through excavated, deep stonewall paths. Half-crumbled columns or portions of the ruins’ walls meander extensively throughout this ancient, hilly plateau.

Istanbul’s Intercontinental Hotel balconies hover over us as we swim in the ice-cold Mediterranean and Black Sea. A refreshing treat compared to the average temperature of 95 degrees Fahrenheit.

Strolling downtown through a huge souq, where everything is available, Dad barters with a vendor to buy a red, blue, and orange rug. With our rolled-up rug placed over the armrest in between us the length of the car, we take the bridge over the Bosporus Strait to the other side of Turkey. Along the banks lie opulent palaces, delicate mosques, fortresses, and traditional Ottoman mansions. Seen from afar, six elegant minarets protecting the beautiful Blue Mosque mesmerize me—suddenly, I feel transported to another world—a scene from the Arabian Nights. After visiting all the sights and exotic souqs, Mom and Dad sing, “This is a wild city!”

Three hours later we arrive in Sofia, Bulgaria, book into the Hilton Hotel Sofia, and are off to visit the National Assembly Square, including the St. Alexander Nevski Patriarchal Cathedral, an impressive five-layered stone monument. The main gold dome has a commanding position over a number of bluish-green half-domes. Next stop is King Liberator Monument, a black statue atop his horse, erect on a white cement block. Protecting the king, below is a statue of soldiers on horses posing atop a huge white stone that dominates the square. The mixture of cobblestone streets, gypsies with open-air, cart-drawn buggies, cathedrals, and very old buildings make for an interesting blend in this beautiful city.

Onward to Bucharest, Romania. We awake to a tapping on Dad’s window. Dad stirs as he rolls down the window, face-to-face with a police officer.

“You are not allowed to sleep in a gas station. You must leave.”

“All hotels are full,” Dad responds.

Ignoring the police officer, Dad pulls into another closed gas station, and we all soon fall asleep again and, shortly thereafter, awaken to the early-morning sunrise. I vaguely remember Dennis lounging on the top of the car as Dad screams from across the courtyard, “Both of you come and look at this cathedral now!”

We march over to pretend that we are impressed. Bucharest offers a mixture of architecture between Orthodox churches, mansions, as well as the stark Stalinist buildings of the communist years.

No sooner, we are on our way to Transylvania to visit Dracula’s castle. Perched atop a hill, this formidable white castle with circular and conelike red roofs protects its surroundings. Transylvania is a wonderfully romantic area full of mountain peaks rising up to the sky above wooded valleys, sparkling streams, and high-roofed wooden churches. As a fifteen-year-old visiting Dracula’s town, this would be way too cool telling my friends—I imagined.

The next day we arrive in Budapest, Hungary, with a mesmerizing view of the Parliament Building along the Danube. Hills surround us where the old buildings blend with the modern architecture—creating an harmonious, peaceful, yet ever so stunning view along the Danube.

During dinner, we order spicy Hungarian goulash—surprisingly filling with chunks of beef.

On our way to Vienna, Austria, Dad asks us, “Are you guys interested in seeing a horse show?”

“Of course!”

These royally adorned, graceful white stallions trotting in perfect harmony around the huge ring amaze me repeatedly. Today I can taste the huge Wiener schnitzels served with fries. The next day we drive to visit Tante (Aunt in German) Helga, Uncle Herbert, Ina, and Sylvia in Grafenau, near Passau, Germany. Dancing in the tenne, a German disco, and eating Gummi Bears and chocolate Mozart marzipan (almond paste enveloped in chocolate) is always a highlight visiting my cousins. We leave for Nuremberg, where I was born. The Christkindlsmarkt (Christmas Market) in front of the Frauenkirche (Church of our Lady) was always my favorite scene during Christmas. A surreal, illuminated Hauptmarkt (main market) with decorative wooden huts of gluwein (hot mulled red wine), bratwurst (long, thin sausages) roasting creates a romantic aura. The aromatic air is saturated with sweet smells—a combination of warm lebkuchen (spicy molasses cookie), stollen (traditionally eaten during Christmas, a breadlike cake, sometimes with rum), other baked goods, and roasted honey peanuts—I want to eat the air, I tell myself. Next stop, Wiesbaden, Dennis’ birthplace and our home for four years—also home to the world’s largest cuckoo clock. The next to the last stop is quaint old Rudesheim on the Rhine—castles galore along the embankments of the Rhine River.

“Du, soon we will be living in the most beautiful city in the world, as I promised,” Dad sings to Mom.

Driving over four thousand miles, our seven-week journey will soon be ending as we make our way into Paris. Pressing my nose to the window, “I can see the Eiffel Tower,” Dennis and I chorus in unison. Alongside the Seine River on Ile de la Cité, suddenly Notre Dame majestically appears in front of us, glowing under the five o’clock afternoon sun. I cannot help but notice the immensity of this cathedral along with her surrounding ornate, embroideredlike detail and gargoyles. At the front entrance an intricately designed large window resembles a lace crocheted doily. Notre Dame beams through the sun’s rays, and driving alongside her façade reemphasizes her incredible vastness. A combination of the incandescent lighting, Gothic architecture with surrounding rows of pink and red roses, myriad-colored flowers, and evenly groomed hedges swiftly captivates me in a time warp of infinite splendor.

What does a fifteen-year-old girl overwhelmed by Paris’ architectural delights do? I wonder.

THE END