American Chick in Saudi Arabia Read Free

angrily at a young European man, my anxiety grows.
    I mutter louder than I intend. "Good Lord! What a mess!"
    A man from England is standing a few inches to my right. He turns to face me. "Your first time to the kingdom?" he inquires with a genial expression.
    With a grimace, I nod. "Yes." I add, "This is my first time in the Middle East, actually."
    He grins broadly. "There are very few Western women living in Riyadh. And single females are as rare as flawless diamonds, and are treated as such. You will have an easy go of it, believe me."
    I nod in understanding. I had been warned by the recruiters at HCA. In 1978, there are few foreign women living in the kingdom, although there are many foreign men. I'm betting that most single females receive more attention than they want. Although I am single and will most likely meet and date someone while living in the kingdom, meeting men was not my purpose for traveling to Saudi Arabia. I'm in it for the adventure and travel and getting to personally observe a part of the world I know so little about.
    My gaze returns to the women covered in black cloaks. What dreams do these women have? Do they dream of tossing those veils in the trash? Do they dream of telling their bossy husband to take a hike? Do they dream of education, or a career? Do they dream at all, or do they calmly accept that they live in a world in which men not only make all the rules, but also enforce them.
    Soon I am standing in front of a man who is handling my personal items. For a moment he is stern, but soon he is chatting cordially, asking questions about my background. He surprises me when he asks, "Do you look like your mother? Do you look like your father?" He listens intently as though I am giving him American state secrets when I tell him, "Neither really, although I have my mother's blonde hair and light eyes."
    "That's good," he says with a big smile. "Your father is lucky to have a blonde wife." His eyes sparkle in friendliness. "He is the father of a beautiful blonde daughter, too."
    His conversation takes his attention away from his job and he fails to properly search my bags. In fact, four of my eight bags remain closed for inspection. I am taken aback when he questions me on personal matters, such as where I will work and if I have a boyfriend.
    The moment grows awkward for me, but the official is happily chatting and doesn't seem to notice that I do not respond to many questions.
    Finally, with a friendly wave he wishes me off, "Have a good time in my country." His smile grows wider. "Perhaps I will see you when you travel again?"
    I don't respond. I hear my name called and look to see that my travel companions are gathering at the departure area. I point them out to the Yemeni baggage worker as I rush to join my group. We have been met by a cheerful Egyptian named Mousa. Mousa is a giant of a man with a broad smile. He proudly relates that he is the head of the King Faisal Travel Department. Mousa guides us to a bus that has been provided by the hospital.
    It's late in the evening and I'm relieved that the drive across the busy city takes less than thirty minutes. I shift my thoughts to consider where I am going to spend most of my life over the next two years. The King Faisal Medical City is in reality a small but self-sufficient city inside the bustling municipality of Riyadh. The hospital is said to be one of the world's most up-to date centers of medical science and technology. The Medical City complex consists of the hospital, residential and recreational areas for the hospital staff, and an engineering services complex consisting of electrical, water, sewer and air-conditioning plants.
    We soon arrive, but I am so tired that I notice very little.
    When housing units are assigned I learn that I'll live in a three-bedroom apartment in Medical City Village (MCV) with two other unmarried women who have been hired to work at the medical institution. Joy is an attractive blonde American woman who is