I am standing at the entrance of a shopping mall in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, having come here to break the monotony of a third night alone in the hotel, to walk around and people watch. It is August, where the high today was 110F/43C, and the heat is still suffocating even after dark. My Uber has been summoned and should arrive any minute.
Scanning the plate numbers of the swarming cars, I spot my ride, which is a small, older model car – not typical for Uber. The first thing that catches my eye as it pulls to a stop is that all four windows are open. I hop in the back seat, and the driver, a wiry, youngish man dressed in the normal male outfit of white thobe and red and white checkered ghutra, greets me in Arabic. His sharp features are dominated by a broad, toothy grin and wide-open eyes, a mildly discomfiting expression, in that it doesn’t change throughout the ride. We drive through the dark streets, and with each moving wave of light that washes over the car, I see that grin looking back at me in the rearview mirror. I would be more nervous if he were not chattering nonstop to me in Arabic, even though he has surely picked up that I don’t speak the language. As he speaks in a conversational tone and gestures, I respond at pauses with “uh huh”, “yes”, “sure”, hoping that I’m not inadvertently promising to marry his cousin.
We speed along, all windows open, the flow of air hitting me in the face like I’m sitting in front of a hairdryer. In a moment, I hear a rustling sound and see between the front seats that he has plunged his hand into a crumpled plastic grocery bag near the gearshift and is rummaging around for something. Then he reaches his arm back, thrusting his fist in front of my face, and as his fingers slowly uncurl, his palm holds something dark and wrinkly. In a passing flashing of light, I see that it is a huge date. He nods invitingly, saying what I assume to be the Arabic version of “bon appetit”.
I pluck it from his palm and see no appropriate choice but to pop it into my mouth. It is sticky, sickly sweet, and hot. I chew it, forever it seems, trying not to think about how long it has been stewing in this steaming car or when he last washed his hands.
Thirty seconds pass, and then all of a sudden, his empty palm is positioned in front of my mouth. He gives it a couple of quick shakes, indicating that I am to spit the pit into his hand, so I do. He tosses it out his window, and within seconds, again the rustling, and a second hot date is proffered for my snacking pleasure.
The cycle is repeated, but then, when the third helping arrives, I thank him profusely and have to repeatedly refuse his insistent offers.
The 15-minute ride comes to an end as he pulls up in front of the Holiday Inn. I get out and thank him, as he pulls from the curb, still grinning and talking away. The experience reaffirms two cultural lessons that I learned long ago: First, the rule of thumb is that, when offered something to eat in another culture, the default is, don’t refuse. And second, be prepared to stretch your culinary comfort zone!
