Last fall, I met an Omani man at my guest house in Delhi, India. When he learned I was a travel writer, he began to gush about Oman. It is so beautiful. Muscat is gorgeous and people are so friendly. I added Oman to a list of Middle Eastern countries to visit this spring.
My first inkling that Oman might not be all that I hoped came a few minutes later. The driver of the taxi who met me at the airport started asking what I wanted to do in Muscat. As a photographer, I often need to wait for the right light, or for crowds to clear in order to get the best shot.
As a writer, I must be able to roam at my own pace, soaking up the atmosphere, talking to locals, and musing over story angles. Trapped in his vehicle, I suffered the hard sell all the way to my hotel. It was late and I was exhausted by the time we reached my hotel. I wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for ten hours. But my room fronted on a six-lane highway and the traffic noise was so bad I knew sleeping would be impossible.
I asked for and was given a second roomโฆwhich had a balcony with sliding glass doors that would not lock. As a solo female traveler, I have a few non-negotiable rules for staying safe. Once again, I asked for my room to be changed. The third try was even worse. The room reeked like a dead animal and there were dark brown spots on the carpet the size of dinner plates. My experience did not improve over the next five days.
I began in Old Muscat, where the only interesting sites among a sea of whitewashed buildings were the Al Alam Palace and two 16th-century Portuguese forts. None of which were open to the public. With everything closed during the midday heat, streets of the old town were deserted.
