It’s an incredibly strange feeling walking through Riyadh’s airport and seeing all the varieties of Saudis. The guy who cut me off and keeps ordering his female family members around. The guy who accidentally hit my hand with his bag and immediately and profusely apologized as I winced. The women with the colorful abayas and others with black from head to toe. The people I represent at work and the people I serve. I can’t seem to relate to them. I want to be part of the collective. Not the strange guy on the outskirts of society. I wish they knew how much work I put in trying to make this a better place for everyone. I wish they would accept me for who I am, but that is a certain impossibility.

The plane ride was somewhat surreal. I haven’t flown to a small Saudi airport in quite some time. On my flight there are three people wearing cowboy hats, one of them also sporting a niqab. The plane is full, with about 40% being babies. I haven’t heard this much crying in a long time. People are playing videos at full volume on their phones. Some of them throwing trash straight on the floor. Toddlers running amok. A small child just crawled from his middle seat, under his exhausted sleeping father’s legs, and casually started strolling around the aisle. A few people engulfed in blankets and bunched up in a tiny ball in their seats. The flight attendants have no hope in their eyes. The person behind me, a fully grown adult, has been kicking my seat non stop and casually leaning on it, lowering my headrest every few minutes.

I’m strangely—and unusually for me—not really bothered by any of this. It somehow feels intimate, like I’m among family. You don’t always love hanging out with family, and gatherings can seem like torture occasionally, but you tell yourself “hey it’s family.” And that makes everything okay. It feels like I’m at my grandma’s living room around Eid, with all the crying, coughing, and the running around, with the strange articles of clothing thrown on top to sweeten the deal.

I’m reading Murakami’s book about running, and I do feel a little bit out of place, but I secretly enjoy getting some side looks and seeing people wondering what this strange, misshapen guy is reading. Sometimes I wonder if I really do want to fit in. I claim that I don’t like the spotlight or the attention, but nothing gives me that boost of energy and adrenaline as much as a crowd paying attention to me.

Close to the end of the flight, my serenity and patience for my plane family had evaporated. What lingered was the feeling of being an outsider, covering every inch of my visible skin. Markings that everyone can see, and they were becoming more prominent the more I got uncomfortable. What’s with all the crying? Who takes off their socks and shoes on a two hour flight? Doesn’t anyone have headphones? Can you go five minutes without kicking my seat? Why not cover your mouth when you sneeze in my direction? My breathing quickens, my body starts to heat up, and the markings on my skin start to burn brightly. I don’t belong here.

I can’t wait to get to my hotel room, and take off these clothes that aren’t mine. Since I moved from my apartment in the city, nowhere felt like home. Instead of making an honest attempt at making Riyadh my home, I’d book a hotel room somewhere and travel in an attempt to accept that I’m never home. You’re not supposed to belong in a hotel room in a random city, so it’s okay to feel like an stranger. The issue is when I travel back to Riyadh. I’d park my car and sit silently for close to an hour, dreading going into the featureless concrete slab that I pretend is home.

For now I’ll play the role of the quiet civil servant, until my untimely demise comes around. I’ll continue honoring the reason I go to work every day—my fake family and their shouting babies. I’ll wear the clothes I’m told to wear. I’ll speak the way I’m instructed. But I’ll continue to count how many cowboy hats are on my flight to Tabuk, in a futile attempt to preserve some of what makes me who I am.