JOURNEY TO JORDAN
Call me an overly-controlled American woman, but I don’t see how the throng of people in front of me constitutes a “line.” Black straps stretch between stainless steel poles, delineating a line that doubles back on itself a couple of times before reaching the ticket agents. The problem is the luggage, of course. Every person has suitcases and boxes which they push or kick ahead of them, which inevitably violate the sanctity of the black straps.
Immediately in front of me is a group of young men with black hair, wearing loose cotton pants. There are five or six of them—they keep ducking under the black straps, coming and going—with two huge luggage carts, the type a porter uses to unload an entire tour bus. The carts can’t navigate turns, so when they reach the end of a line there’s much shouting in Arabic. I assume. The carts are stacked beyond capacity with enormous suitcases of blue fabric and burgundy vinyl and Goodwill-plaid. Each suitcase has been completely covered with plastic tape and still, they add more. In fact, two of the men walk alongside and spool tape onto the suitcases as the cart moves. They talk and laugh in a constant stream. I wish I could understand the jokes. I have the fleeting thought that the laughter might be about me. But the men don’t seem to have noticed I exist. They are focused on their suitcases. The plastic tape gleams as the luggage lumbers along, part thrift-store, part space-age. I try not to wonder what’s packed in those suitcases, or whether security will rip off all that tape.
If they don’t rip off the tape, should I be nervous?
If they do rip off the tape and I have to wait, could I miss meeting my tour group?
I’m in another world even though I’m in New York, on American soil. American soil? How strangely patriotic of me. Entering this check-in line must have marked the beginning of my trip to Jordan. How else to explain this surge of patriotism that only flourishes when I cross a border?
I have lots of time to contemplate this thought, but don’t. I tap my toes, eager to check in. Eventually I lean out of line, stretching the black straps, to look at what’s beyond the luggage carts. The other problem with this line is obvious: children. Every other traveler—besides the luggage-cart-guys and me—has a child. Maybe two or three. Strollers stand everywhere, some with children in them, some empty. Crying fills the cavernous space, punctuated only by the recorded voice that alternates a Welcome message and an Alert message. People pay no more attention to the crying than they do to the recorded voice. I also pretend to ignore it all. Do I look like the men here, who stare off into space as their children wail around them?
A few women wear Western dress, but most of them are covered head to foot by robe-type garments and headwraps. Many of the women hold a baby, or grasp the hand of a toddler, but in a distracted way, as if they are resigned to a lifetime of waiting and listening to children wail.
On the other side of the black straps, I notice two baby carriers that appear to be abandoned. The recorded voice has repeatedly urged us to report abandoned luggage, but the voice hasn’t mentioned missing babies. I stick a foot into territory beyond the black strap and toe a carrier to make sure it’s empty, then glance around to see who it might belong to. One woman, whose baby is wailing, meets my eyes. I am ready to summon the sympathetic smile I often dispense in line at the grocery store, but the woman’s face is so stoic that I glance away, a little unnerved.
At last the luggage carts negotiate the final turn. I can hear officials yelling instructions at the head of the line, where things have jammed into a chaos of people, luggage, children. From here I can see the ticket counter. Many of the agents are available, but the knot of people seems to be pulling tighter and cannot disgorge a single passenger.
A man in uniform catches my eye and asks: “Are you traveling alone?”
Irrationally afraid of saying “Yes” outloud—the wrong person might overhear—I nod, instead. The official unhooks a section of black strap and beckons me through, then hooks the strap behind me. I wheel my suitcase to the ticket counter. I have the urge to sigh in relief at hopscotching past the luggage-cart-guys, but also feel a little guilty about getting preferential treatment. I glance over my shoulder to check for outrage. No one seems to have noticed my departure. The luggage-cart-guys still talk and laugh. The men stare blankly into space, away from their families. The women shush their children without energy.
Was I invisible?
What an odd thought. Aren’t the women covered head to toe, precisely to make them invisible? You’d think I’d be conspicuous in my capris and sandals and short curly hair. But the truth is no one has looked at me twice. I feel like an imposter, not a woman.
I glance at the passport I’ve laid on the counter. It reminds me who I am: a wife, a mother, a minister. A pilgrim heading to “the Other Holy Land.”
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