My father wants to get remarried. After over 14 years of looking, he’s finally found the Right Woman. Since he was going to be teaching in Tel Aviv for a month (December 1998-January 1999), he figured he could bring his new lady friend there, show her the local delights (which he had experienced two years before), and marry her in some exotic location. He wanted me and my brother along to share the fun. Everyone who can travel with their family for over two weeks and call it "complete fun" up to and including the end, clap your hands. Ok, try clapping your hands if you can travel with your family for over two weeks and NOT harbor murderous impulses by the end. Hmm. The Right Woman, being a Feminist Literary Scholar, will be referred to as The FLS. This could also stand for Famous Literary Scholar: she’s an academic of some renown, which delights my father to no end.

July, 1998 My father calls me on the phone. We chat about my life and his life and then he happens to drop the following into the conversation: My Father: So, you know how you said that Petra would be a great place to have a honeymoon? Me: Yes. What are you planning? My Father: Oh, nothing. Just noticing. So, do you like the FLS? Me: Sure. I only met her once, though. You guys have only been going out since January and you live across the country from me. My Father: That’s true, that’s true. Still, the FLS has never been to Petra. And it is an amazing place. Petra Me: Are you thinking of going to Petra? My Father: We’ll see. So, after several hours of arranging and negotiating on the part of my father, I find myself with a ticket for a trip to the Middle East. Now, you have to understand that I don’t like flying. I tend to feel sick, get dehydrated, and spend most of the trip sleeping, if I’m lucky, and trying not to throw up, if I’m not. The trip goes, roughly, like this: San Francisco to Dallas to London-Gatwick to Tel Aviv to Amman back to Tel Aviv to Cairo to Luxor back to Cairo back to Tel Aviv back to London-Gatwick back to Dallas back to San Francisco. From San Francisco to Tel Aviv took about 20 hours of flying and involved being in transit over 36 hours. The time difference is 10 hours between San Francisco and Tel Aviv. "Well," my father said, "At least you get 24 hours of layover in London on the way there and 12 hours of the way back."

December 25, 1998 I arrive in Tel Aviv (Ben Gurion) airport, only somewhat disoriented. I put this down to the fact that I got very little sleep in the week previous to my departure, so 20 hours of sleep did me good. I have arrived a week later than the rest of my family. Supposedly, we all have a plane flight in less than 3 hours to Amman, where we will take a car the 3 hours to Petra. I don’t have the ticket. My father was supposed to meet me with the ticket. However, after the initial security people, no one is there to meet me. While smoking is not allowed in Ben Gurion, the Israelis don’t seem to care. I happen to be allergic to tobacco smoke. My family has forgotten me, I think. I wander around the terminal, wondering how many terminals Ben Gurion has. I hope fewer than four. My God, I think. It’s been dangerous here. There are bombings. What if my family were bombed? Who would have told me? After about half an hour of waiting, I figure I might as well start wandering around aimlessly. I eventually find my family spending a lot of time going through Israeli security, checking in (as you need to) 3 hours ahead of time for the flight to Amman. They are delighted to see me. I get through the security in less than 5 minutes, probably because they established themselves as non-terrorists first. Our journey together begins.

December 26, 1998 Evidently, the only legal marriages one can get in Jordan are Christian and Islamic. My father is Jewish and the FLS was raised Lutheran. Neither of them want a religious marriage, but they would like a legal one. The Jordanian people are very nice, even including the fact that they keep thinking I’m Israeli. Being Israeli isn’t that popular, even within Israel. Being American isn’t that much more popular (due to the U.S.’s bombing of Iraq), but that doesn’t stop the Bedouins from being friendly and trying to get us to spend our money. Still, there is a lot to do in Jordan, and we explore the country with a lot of enthusiasm. That night, the lot of us went to a Turkish bath at the resort hotel. They claimed that there were special places and care for ladies. This was not entirely true. Suffice it to say, the family that sweats naked under towels together... shouldn't be. And even the FLS, who has experienced professional massages across the world, had never had a massage quite like the one this Jordanian professional gave her. Fortunately, since I went second, I was able to direct the man away from a good six square inches of my body. Ahem. The next night, while my brother and father took advantage of the men's Turkish bath, the FLS and I took advantage of our respective large bath tubs.

December 27, 1998 Today we get lost in the desert. The bad news was that my backpack weighed about 30 pounds. The good news is that it was because I was carrying half the water. I reminded myself of this when we got separated. And we weren’t that worried. We knew the direction of the settlement even when we couldn’t see it and we lost the path. Eventually we found each other and a Bedouin settlement, and I got some good photos of ancient lava flows.

December 29, 1998 Re-entering Israeli is always a treat because they are constantly in a state of war. Going through Middle Eastern security together is interesting. My father, my brother, and I are all pale with dark hair. Israelis are annoyed that we can’t speak Hebrew fluently. The FLS is tall, blond, and gorgeous with high cheekbones – complete shiksa, which earns the wrath of the Israelis against us all the more. We have a couple days to relax, do laundry, and have me get an Egyptian tourist visa before we go to Egypt. Turns out my father and the FLS can’t get married in Israel. Any lawyer there would happily marry them for a fee, but it’s evidently not legally binding – not even in Israel. Oh well, there’s always Egypt. Meanwhile, my father continues trying to persuade the university to pay him. They are a week late on his payment. "Do you know how you can take a little money out of Israel?" a colleague jokes. "How?" my father asks, thoughts of unpaid bills to the Israeli dentist and landlady weighing heavily. "You bring a lot in! Ha ha ha ha!" My father is not amused.

December 30, 1998 Love is in the air. Or something. My brother is once more in contact with a fascinating Israeli woman he met before I arrived. A gentleman caller from the U.S. rings me. My father admits that he’s going to try to set me up with a dashing American PhD student from Stanford. The laundry dries outside, on a line. We are in one of the nicer sections of Tel Aviv and a three-bedroom is huge. The weather is like San Francisco at this time of year, except sunny and warm. Everything will be great in Egypt.

January 1, 1999 After spending New Year’s Eve in Giza, we spend a day at the Pyramids. There have been disappointments. For New Year’s eve, we couldn’t get champagne, because it costs about $120 a bottle in Egypt, for some reason. The wind is from Cairo, so the pyramids are fuzzy in the pollution haze. We all must have big signs on our backs that say "Cash Cow" in Arabic, because that’s how we’re being treated. My brother and I are graduate students there on our father’s frequent flier miles, but we can’t convince the locals of this. My father decides to pretend to be Norwegian. The FLS is originally from Norway, so it’s not that bad a stretch. Ok, it’s pretty bad. "Camel ride? Horse ride?" The men who offer camel and horse rides around the pyramids are extremely persistent. We figure that Norwegians are safe. "NOR-WAY," my father says loudly, pointing at himself. "Dad," I mutter softly, "The Norwegian word for Norway is Norsk." "Where you from? You American? Israeli?" My father points at my brother, "CHECK-O-SLOW-VAHK-YAN." My brother lived in Prague for three years. "You English? Camel ride, cheap. Only 20 Egyptian pounds!" [There are about 3.34 Egyptian pounds to the American dollar.] The FLS says something in Norwegian. We all laugh heartily. She could be telling us a chocolate chip cookie recipe. We don’t care. After about ten minutes of this, trailing a sorry looking camel behind him, the man usually leaves. This scene repeats about every three minutes. The Egyptians who bother us can’t figure out why Norwegians are so rude.