Becoming Fool of Love: Bus ride with Allah

23:30, I step on the bus and walk to my seat: the very last row, the one that doesn't recline. Oh well. I almost didn't get a ticket in time, so I guess I can't complain. Sitting next to me is a young woman. She's wearing a hijab, and a beautiful smile.

"¿Adonde te vas?" she asks with a sweet voice.

"Hasta Barcelona."

"Pues, que lejos!" she says. "¿Vives allá?"

"No. Soy de Canada."

"Oh! No eres Espanola?"

I'm flattered.

We exchange names and more background information. I tell her the same story I've carried with me around the old continent:

"No estoy de vacaciones como de transición. Por que soy de Canadá, pero viví en los Estados Unidos por los diez años pasados. Y después d'este viaje yo regresso para vivir en Montreal."

She tells me she's from "Al-Jazeer", or something like that, close to Cadiz. Al-Jazeera? I heard that word before. I did a bit of research and didn't find an Andalusian city by that name, but the point is that it's in the South of Spain, and obviously has that wonderful arabic influence.

She tells me she's originally from Marrueco (Morroco). She has seven siblings; six brothers and one sister. Two live in France, one in Deutschland, two (including herself) in Spain, and two in England. (Who knows where the other one is!) She asks if I'm married. I smile. I guess at this point it's not so much a cultural difference. I know a lot of folks my age, who are getting married. "No."

"Por que?"

"Por que... por que viajo mucho y quiero buscar mi proprio camino ante de casar me."

"Tu no quieres casar con alguien de otro país? Por que?"

I explain that it's quite the opposite. I tend to fall for foreigners. And that creates a bit of a conundrum because I'm left with my family and my native land on one side, and a potential future and family of my own, that would be far away from them. I find that very problematic.

She does have a husband. She tells me he's much older than her. She's thirty-one; her husband is fifty-six! She says love knows no age, no race, no language. Fifty-six!? I gotta admit that I find that hard to imagine for myself... but she's got my respect. Her presence is so sweet and loving. I like her.

The bus is making its way North-East in the dark night; we are chatting away. She asks about Canada. She depicts her home in Morocco, her home in Spain. She's in love with life and with the beautiful landscapes she's daily surrounded with. She says I have a place to stay when I come to Morocco. (I should have asked her if there's an expiration date on the offer or if I can show up in, let's say, five years?!)

She asks what I do for work in Canada. I remind her that I haven't lived there in a decade, and tell her I worked as a nanny in San Francisco. "Una kangaroo", as they say here. She is a cook in a Moroccan restaurant. Her husband is the chef. She asks if I like to cook and what I like to eat. "Comiste carne?"

"Pues. No puedo decir que soy vegetariana... pero yo quería ser. Es que, aquí, quiero probar la comida de las diferentes culturas."

She's silent. I'm wondering where she stands on the issue. I explain, "para mi, no es necesseramente que no quiero comer animales, pero a mi es una pregunta de la manera que los tratan. Por que no se como es la industria aqui, pero en America, hay muchas fincas muy grande y industriales donde que les tratan los animales de una manera súper inhumana, sabes?"

Still silent. "Para mi, es importante tener respecto. Y si comio carne, yo digo gracias ante."

"Y comes puerco?" she finally utters.

"Eso no."

"Yo no comió puerco tampoco. Y tu fumas?"

"Pues. As veces, si."

"Bebes?"

"Eso también. Me gusta tomar, pero no para estar borracha. Y tu? Bebes?"

She tells me she has never had a drink, or a smoke... "por causa de la religion." She says with a big smile and pointing at her headscarf. "Lo hizo todo, el hijab, el Ramadan, todo." She has the most radiant and pure look on her face. She looks proud, but in a calm, humble way.

I'm so interested in this conversation! I've been wishing to interact with an arabic woman for some time. I had given up on that wish, actually. But here it is now. I have so many questions and I want to be careful... respectful. I ask if she prays five times a day? What time is the first call to prayer? Do she go to the Mosque for all of them? I tell her that I like the idea of stopping everything you're doing, five times a day, to remember and bow down to something greater than you."

"Y es bueno ejercicio también!" she says half serious.

I had never seen it that way!

She tells me that Islam is a very healthy religion. Pork is very fatty, and it apparently contains some hormone, which is cancerous to humans. That's why muslims don't eat it. She says the holy book is full of recommendations that are targeting health. She tells me about Ramadan. The first two days are the hardest: no eating, no drinking, no sex. But then, one gets used to it and the rest of the month gets easier. She's been doing it her whole life, since she was eleven. I learn that women begin to take part in Ramadan when they have their first menstruations. Boys start around fourteen or so, when their voice begins to chance and they are becoming men. When a woman has her period, she can eat normally. Same thing when she's pregnant, or when she's breastfeeding. Old and sick people also can eat. It's important to remain healthy.

ablution facility

I guess ablutions can be seen in this light as well. It's good to wash your hands and face, and feet, five times a day!

Prayer Hall
Blue Mosque, Istanbul

Our connection is very good and I feel that I can ask her the question that's burning me. I want to know why women sit on the sides during prayer at the Mosque. She smiles and explains to me... The woman's body has these... curves... (I see!!) With the set up and proximity of congregants in the prayer hall, and with the multiple getting up and bowing down that is muslim prayer, it would certainly be very distracting to men!!

From what I understand, it's the same thing with the veil.

I've come to think that, in a big way, I've developed this tom-boyish attitude and dress as a way to protect myself from the other sex. Sometimes I think wearing the hijab would be so liberating.

It's about two in the morning now and my being is filled with a peaceful kind of love and gratitude. "Eres cansada?" she asks.

"Si. Un poco. Y tu?"

"Si. Descansamos un poco, si?"

These non-reclining seats are uncomfortable, but I think I shouldn't have a problem falling into that altered state of consciousness, between sleep and awareness. I've gotten used to it. I kinda like it. She is trying to find a way to rest her head. I tell her she can use my shoulder.

And I sit straight up, close my eyes, and thank God for this beautiful encounter.

Alhamdulillah!