By Larry Turner Destin, Florida

(Editor’s note: Larry is the nephew of Norman Gillespie).

If you don’t learn something when you travel, then you’re probably doing it wrong. For me, traveling became a way to learn something about other people and cultures, regardless of the location. I didn’t fully appreciate the lesson from my first trip to the Middle East until after the fact, but I hope you can appreciate it and be better for it.

In February 2010, just before the Arab Spring, my wife and I were a part of a small tour group that had just left Cairo, Egypt early in the morning, and had to traverse the Sinai Peninsula by minibus. Crossing the desert is a lonely trip, not offering much to see. Time seems to stand still with the rising and falling of the dunes, with houses and villages sporadically dotting the horizon on either side. As we crossed into the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, the landscape became somewhat more populated, but just as ancient. We would often see groups of sheep with their shepherds along the side of the road, and I marveled at the millennia-old occupation that still existed today.

We had been advised to grab extra food from the hotel buffet that morning to have something to eat during our travel day. I can’t remember now if I had ignored that bit of information, or if I mindlessly nibbled it away during our drive, but when we arrived at a mosaic tile factory and store in Madaba, Jordan, my wife and I were starving. Until then, there hadn’t even been a bathroom stop, so everyone was grateful to be standing after the sixhour bus ride.

While everyone else habitually followed our tour guide into the shop, my wife and I lingered. We had heard our guide say that our driver needed to stop and eat, but then he managed to disappear, and there were no restaurants anywhere to be seen. There was just this factory, and then houses along the road leading back out of town. We were puzzled, which caught the attention of some young men sitting outside the shop, so they politely approached with their hands over their hearts and began speaking slowly to us in Arabic. All we could manage to say at that time was the typical greeting of “salaam alaykom” which means “peace to you” followed in English by our interest in finding food.

The men didn’t speak English even though we could tell that they were desperately trying to understand what we were saying. As soon as the discussion had started, another man who was older than the others came from behind them and greeted us. He was tall and kind, and we could tell that he was different from the others in that he carried a weight of responsibility. We greeted him and then again expressed our interest in finding food. Immediately he confirmed that there were no restaurants in that part of town, then asked us how long we were staying. We explained that we were part of the group that had just arrived and honestly had no idea how long we were staying. He immediately began walking toward the house next to the building, waving us along to follow him. We walked into the yard and he promptly set a table and chairs on the lawn, just off the front porch of his home. He then motioned for my wife to come inside to meet his wife, who happened to be preparing a meal of chicken and rice, most likely for some event as we would eventually learn, but our timing could not have been better.

We knew very few Arabic phrases, but what we did know was how to greet people, and how to express gratitude. It seemed to be no time at all that our wives were crying and hugging each other in sincere thankfulness. Even though we came with nothing, our hosts gave my wife a lovely shawl and some other gifts, and then brought out a large dish of rice, meat, yogurt, and vegetables to our table. While his wife tended to the larger meal preparation already underway, he sat with us and showed us the custom to first scoop the yogurt, and then dig into up the rice and meat with each bite. The vegetables that circled this dish were out of their own garden and were some of the freshest I had ever seen plated in front of me.

We ate and thoroughly enjoyed every bite. Then we hugged our hosts some more and thanked them over and over for their generosity. What could not be translated or entirely interpreted was completely understood in their loving actions. After we all hugged a few more times and exchanged contact information, we walked back next door to the mosaic factory and rejoined our group who seemingly hadn’t noticed that we were missing and had been thoroughly replenished with food and love. Everyone was still walking around enjoying the beautifully colored tables and learning about the craft itself, while actually watching some of the workers sifting through piles of tile fragments to pick out the pieces that would come together to make something exotic and unique.

As we have told this story to friends and family over the years, I have come to realize the one-sidedness of our culture. While it’s not an exact science to draw a comparison, I have had to picture myself living next door to a hardware store, spending much of my time enjoying the available picnic table and rocking chair. Then I envision a small tour bus arriving and a group of Arabs standing around, and learning that they are hungry. How likely am I to extend even a percentage of hospitality and love that was extended to me? So now I ask myself, and I would challenge you to consider the actual cost of feeding someone, or to have the opportunity to sit with someone and get to know them.