Getting there

The logic behind travel logistics more often than not lies in efficiency. The goal is to arrive to experience. The key is to not overlook the inefficiency.

Muslim Street, famed for having the best street food in the world, was on the other side of a ring road. Our Chinese skills nonexistent, our options to traverse traffic slim and our pockets empty, we were travelers driven by overlooking the cautionary restraints of those who never drink the water. We spotted two tuck tucks and quickly did our best to form a friendship between the two drivers. “Stay together,” we tried to communicate. Signing “hot shawarma” and “street,” we climbed in.

As we U-turned on a highway into oncoming traffic, the relief in our plan quickly dissolved. Somehow, we were separated. Somehow, the door to the cabbie fell off. Somehow we ended up stuck in between a median and telephone pole. Stomachs full of adrenaline, a specialty of fear, we were eventually spat out at the base of a towering wall with twenty or so men. Our driver scuttled up to a man he seem to know to make a call. It was clear we were still en route and this is not where one could buy shawarma.

Thankful for the moment to exhale, we became transfixed. Above us were hundreds of vibrant kites speckling the wool, gray blanket of smog. They swooped aggressively, threatening to get tangled, but the old men on Earth casually tugged on nondescript strings, not once looking at the dance above. While they fished for blue sky, our hearts pounded. Our tuck tuck driver motioned for us to get back in his now uneven, door less and scraped cabbie. He held the location of our friends, supposedly, and with that, we obliged.

Before we bounced through alleyways with a sequence of turns, I took one last look over my shoulder at the hundred specs carving the sky. I knew I would never see that sight again and took a mental photograph. Once I did, we accelerated. Paved roads evolved into dirt alleys. The tuck tuck horn squealed more than it did warn. Like the child running into a group of pigeons, we scattered mahjong tournaments with no regrets. We established a rhythm, and like the men at the base of the wall, our driver had no interest in how we swerved.

Abruptly we stopped. From the alley we came to a McDonald's, where, under the golden arches, our friends stood with their tuck tuck sage. These men had a point. The translation of an American signing shawarma could very well be hamburger. We overlooked that point and walked in.