The Tourist

by Nasreen Ayyad (United States of America)

Making a local connection USA

Born into an immigrant family, I grew up translating. My tongue speaks two languages that feel like home. I remember going to the land of my ancestors for the first time. My mother advised me to only speak Arabic, my native language. In reality, she was scared strangers would take advantage of a gullible American girl. Here, everyone understands my native tongue. I don't have to remember the English word for various herbs or exotic fruits. Here, my name doesn't come as a struggle. I can switch between languages at ease. I truly felt like I belonged. I loved visiting the juice bar that my mother used to go to as a child. It still stands there on the corner of a busy street, it's surrounded by both old and new buildings. It felt like the city was progressing, yet still holding hints of nostalgia. I sat and sipped my mint lemonade, as I took everything in. It was all so blissful...the smell of gasoline in the summer heat, the laughter of children in the park across the street, the visual masterpiece of the gardens, and how the taxi drivers honked and yelled at each other. The marketplaces, souks, as the locals call them, were just as spectacular to me. It felt so organic shopping for my groceries locally and in season. The cobblestone was romantic in its visual aesthetics but my feet disagreed. The souk was mesmerizing, the loud hagglers, beautiful scarves, handmade pottery, and the variety of spices. I liked walking through for the ambiance. I would spend three weeks with my grandmother. Her front door was always open letting in ridiculous amounts of dust and sunshine. The summer wind was hot and frizzed my curls. She always had someone pop in, the open door was too inviting. I’d mingle and joke in my native tongue. Friends and family were always surprised that I’ve perfected the art of making traditional coffee. They were baffled that I knew how to make traditional dishes, that I would dance in the dabke line, a levantine folk dance. Astonished that I didn't need translation for a funny joke. I always found myself thanking them for their backhanded compliments. Weeks were spent walking and getting lost in the souks, finding unique things and people. Wandering into old towns and villages visiting family and making friends. Immersing myself with cuisine and culture that were already familiar to me. Was I fooling myself? The conclusion was that living like a local is an illusion; a game I play to make my experience feel more authentic. Or maybe I was trying to fill this sense of not belonging anywhere. I’m too foreign for home and too western for my homeland. I’ll always be a tourist. The hardest place to feel like a local is in the homeland that accused me of forgetting them. Accused me of living in the States oblivious to the taste of authenticity. I smell authenticity when I go buy fresh pita bread. Tasting it in my mother's Manakeesh, a flatbread topped with a blend of spices. Feeling it when I pick Za’tar, a herb, from my garden. Hearing it when someone tries to pronounce my name. I feel authenticity with all my senses. On one of the last days in Palestine, I wanted to do all my favorite things. I stopped by the oldest sweet shop, and stargazed in the silent night. I hiked the trail that gives me panoramic views of my grandmother's city, and I walked through the souk. As I wandered for the last time I spotted a delicate necklace; sterling silver with the nazar amulet. Maybe it was my Americanized r’s or maybe I lagged in response. My tongue tried to find the words my brain had taught it long ago. Maybe it was the way I dressed but something clued this vender that I was no local. I haggled anyway. He said I haggle like a native. He invited me into his shop for coffee. I smiled as I put on my necklace. That was all the validation I ever wanted.