Highway from Amman to Beirut

I was attempting consciousness, but looking across the barren desert terrain for hours had forced my brain to remind itself; I was exhausted after a good twenty-four hours plus of travelling through 6 countries. I was in Syria, with one more country to go – Lebanon. My destination.
It had sounded like such a noble idea of travelling from Jordan thru Syria to Lebanon. I pulled my pashmina tight; It was chilly being propped up against the taxi window, albeit a Mercedes, with three Saudi students and a slimy driver who, in agreeing to take me across the Jordanian-Syrian border to Lebanon, had also accepted packages of unknown contents now hidden away in the trunk.
The Saudi sitting closet to me asked in impeccable, formal English if I cared for a drink - extending an orange colored can in French and Arabic to me. “Vimto”.
“Shukran”. My Arabic did not reach past the elementary words I had picked up from various Arab friends. I hadn’t had anything to drink except for sugary tea in the middle of the night at a lonely Jordanian desert grocery store.
Relief. It was the Middle East version of Orange Crush soda. I smiled again to signal approval and tilted my head back against the worn cloth seat.
I felt the car slowing down. Concrete houses stood close to the road and traffic had grown heavier seemingly out of nowhere complete with Bedouin tents.
“Breakfast.” the Saudi informed me as the car pulled to a stop. I fleetingly looked back at the car before stepping inside the building. My entire luggage was in the taxi I thought - reminding myself that stealing, especially since Ramadan had just ended a few days before, was a very remote possibility.
I glanced around the interior of the store and followed my travelling companions. The establishment seemed to me to be the center of the little community we had just entered. The driver motioned me over to a counter and handed me a rolled up piece of pita bread and we sat down at a small table.
“What is this?” I asked my companions.
“Labne.”
What the hell was Labne? I thought to myself and happily washed it down with tea. We climbed back into the taxi (while silently taking an inventory of my belongings) and resumed the journey. I then began noticing the soldiers and tanks. We were at the border. More Customs. Not surprisingly, I was the only one again in the non-Middle East line this morning.
As with the Jordan-Syrian Border, everyone appeared to be male and staring at me. I was definitely the odd man out – keffiyeh less with no didasha either.
For the remainder of the ride into Beirut, we twisted and turned, through the mountains and their small villages until we reached the city. The car pulled to another stop and my friend Kamal was patiently waiting for me. The gates of American University. I had arrived.