“WHAT THE FUCK?”
“Oh my God,” I said; “I’m sorry.”
Fadi opened the door wider, however, and the light from the hall triangulated in the space between us and the almost-naked man. Fadi held up the room key.
“Fadi,” I said, reaching for his arm; “there must be a mistake. C’mon.”
Fadi cleared his throat and called for the concierge.
“C’mon, man. Close the fucking door.”
“It’s our room,” Fadi said adamantly, holding up the key with the room number on it.
The concierge finally reached us, made a quick assessment, and apologized. “A mistake,” he said, shaking his head. “Must be some mistake.”
Fadi and I were issued new keys to a new room, one without an almost naked man, one several floors away and on the opposite side of the hotel. We dropped our bags inside the room and left the hotel on a hunt for food.
“Fadi,” I began cautiously, “this is New York. A little less Arab,” I told him. “A little more careful. Don’t engage so much with people.”
“A salamu alaikan,” Fadi greeted the three owners of a little grocery store.
We were at the start of the Trump era, Muslim ban and all, so I looked to the owners to explain, “We’re from Dubai. Left yesterday morning, you know, and we’ve been traveling ever since.” Instead of acknowledging me, the men reached their hands out to Fadi.
“Wa alaikan salam,” they said, the Arab response to Fadi’s “peace be with you” greeting.
Fadi turned and smiled at me, “A little less Arab, huh?”
This is my country, I thought in an almost-insulted, but really kind of amused way as I listened to the conversation in Arabic.
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