Somewhere--God knows precisely where--my friend and I got on a bus. With the northern desert disappearing behind us, I looked forward into the rear-view mirror and the driver's curious eyes. He asked us where we were going.
"Amman," I said. He looked thoughtful, and then asked, "Where are you from?"
"We're American," I replied.
"American?" He laughed and motioned to his neck.
I couldn't help but think he meant something sinister; then I looked to my own neck and realized what he was talking about. My black and white scarf--the Palestianian pattern--was poorly tied around it.
"I thought you were Palestinian," he laughed. "I thought I had Yasser Arafat on this bus." We laughed together, and I tied my scarf more tightly around my neck as we drove on.
--
About three weeks later, I hailed a bus that was rocketing down a dusty road. I got on it, and looked for an empty seat by a window. "Yasser Arafat!" a voice called to me. I turned toward the driver's seat and discried a smiling face in the rear-view window. "Take a seat by me!"
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