As it neared dusk, I pulled the car up to the bookstore entrance to wait for him to finish. Again he got in without letting me open the door for him, and we started on the journey back to the hotel. He was pale and tired. “I am delirious with fatigue,” he said before he fell asleep on the long ride home. Every now and then he sighed or snored softly.
An hour or so later, he awoke with a start and looked around in confusion, craning his neck to see where he was; then he asked me to take him to an ATM. I told him that we were close to the hotel, moments away, but he asked me to find one anyway. I spotted a bank in a strip mall on Hollywood Boulevard, and we stopped there briefly while he used the cash machine, and then I dropped him at his hotel. As he exited the car, he handed me $300 and said, “Thank you for your most pleasant company; this is but a small token of my gratitude. You are a remarkable lady, and I am sure you will succeed.”
As chance would have it, on my drive home, I listened to an evening rerun of his show on the radio. It was as if he were in the car with me again. Even now when I hear his voice on the radio, I feel buoyed by that same tiny glimmer of hope . . . hope that out of discord comes the fairest harmony.
Acknowledgments
I have always wondered why the acknowledgment pages in some books are so ludicrously long, and now I know why: At least in my case, it took a battalion to write this book. Luckily I know a lot of ridiculously generous and able soldiers who were willing to perform prodigious acts of tireless effort on my behalf, including the following:
wining and dining me; extreme and reckless encouragement; occasional coddling; general good nature and advice that cheered me up countless times, or infrequent unsolicited advice that turned out to be invaluable; gifts of computers, cell phones, paper, printer, printer ink, pages printed, airline miles, and salon services; last-minute and sometimes life-saving accommodations; more wining and dining; a substantial amount of cash flow over many years, starting at my birth; producerial assistance and directorial assistance; reading my pages RUSH, even overnight; allowing me to delude myself regularly, often without comment; helping me to secure one-of-a-kind keys lost down an elevator shaft by magically wielding a hockey stick taped with magnets (three hours!); even more wining and dining; scouring libraries and bookstores for material to assist me in research, and helping with my understanding of that research; and other kindnesses too embarrassing to name.
Most of the people and institutions named below participated in several of the above assists, some in almost all. You know who you are and what you did. In no particular order: Khaled Gabriel Tolba, Robert Knott, Julie Rose, Carol Beggy, Mike Rose, Annie Gwathmey, Emily Margolin Gwathmey, Buzz Kinninmont, Jared Moses, Richard Krevolin, Monique Vescia, Barbara Gubelman, Helena Gubelman, John Pappas, Jennifer London, Zeinab Oumais, Alberto Ortiz, Tim Sullivan, Elissa Scrafano, Amy Schmidt, Kerry Schmidt, Annie Biggs, John Haslett, Charlie Stratton, Patrick Terry, Gerold Wunstel, Dalia Mogahed and the Gallup Center for Muslim Studies, Dr. Eleanor Abdella Doumato, Dr. Jan Morgan, Lisa Bishop, Lisa Cantor, Jeanne Darst, Giti Khajehnouri, Peter Gethers, Kate Warren, Yanni Kotsonis, Professor Bruce Levitt, Dr. David Feldshuh, and the Cornell University Department of Theatre, Film and Dance, Jackie Nichols and the Memphis Playhouse, Ernie Zulia and Hollins University, August Holler and the Vienna Einfahrt Café, Naked Angels, Galapagos Art Space, the 92nd Street Y-Tribeca, the staff and librarians of the Los Angeles Public Library and the Santa Monica Public Library, and Jim Krusoe and the Santa Monica College Writing Workshop.
My family—Sandy, Michela and Eddie, Marthe and Charles, Gus and Nancy, Robbie, Bitty and John, Margo, George and Ramona, Jon and Meghan, and my mother, Francesca Nadalini.
My editor Leah Miller (with her gracious and winning ways), Edith Lewis (copyeditor nonpareil), Jennifer Weidman, Dominick Anfuso, and all the talented and patient people at Free Press and Simon & Schuster.
Lindsay Edgecombe (aka L’Edge, aka The Velvet Hammer), agent extraordinaire, who spent a Friday afternoon in mid-August in a Manhattan theater with no air conditioning and still had the powerhouse vision to see a book in my play.
I am indebted to you all.
About the Author
© AMY J. SCHMIDT
Jayne Amelia Larson is an actress and independent film producer based in Los Angeles, and has also been an occasional chauffeur between gigs. She has degrees from Cornell University and from Harvard University’s American Repertory Theatre Institute and is a regular at Jim Krusoe’s writing workshop at Santa Monica College. Her one-woman show, Driving the Saudis, has been performed throughout the country, and won Best Solo Show at the 2010 New York Fringe Festival. She is an excellent driver.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Larson, Jayne Amelia
Driving the Saudis: a chauffeur’s tale of the world’s richest princesses (plus their servants, nannies, and one royal hairdresser) / Jayne Amelia Larson.
p. cm.
1. Al Sa’ud, House of—Anecdotes. 2. Saudi Arabians—California—Los Angeles—Anecdotes. 3. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Social life and customs—Anecdotes. 4. Chauffeurs—California—Los Angeles—Biography—Anecdotes. 5. Larson, Jayne A.—Anecdotes. I. Title.
DS244.525.L37 2012
953.805'40922794—dc23 2012005133
ISBN 978-1-4516-4001-4
ISBN 978-1-4516-4004-5 (eBook)
Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Author’s Note
Epigraph
Chapter 1: The $100 Million Pickup
Chapter 2: How Did I Get Here?
Chapter 3: I’m Part of a Special Op!
Chapter 4: Where Are the Veils?
Chapter 5: Palace Intrigue
Chapter 6: The Spirit of Partnership
Chapter 7: How Many Hermès Are Too Many?
Chapter 8: I Will Survive!
Chapter 9: Who Are These People?
Chapter 10: Shoot the Go-To Girl
Chapter 11: Like a Hijab in the Wind
Chapter 12: The Real Housewives of Riyadh
Chapter 13: Un-Avoidable
Chapter 14: Kill Me but Make Me Beautiful!
Chapter 15: Alhamdulillah
Chapter 16: Beach Prayer
Chapter 17: Shame Is a Very Personal Thing
Chapter 18: �
�Yes, Janni. We Know This, Janni.”
Chapter 19: The Cool Driver Doesn’t Lose Her Nose
Chapter 20: The Lockbox
Chapter 21: You Can Never Really Know a Person
Chapter 22: Go, Nanny, Go! Run for Your Life!
Chapter 23: How Many Bras Are Too Many?
Chapter 24: My Big Fat Envelope
Chapter 25: The $300 Million Getaway
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Driving the Saudis Page 24