Assume you are a middle-aged man born and raised in North America.

You are journeying alone through the Middle East, and for two years solid you have no significant contact with a woman, or any group of women. By that I mean: no smiles and no exchange of words; no eye contact; and no matter how innocent your intentions, no crushes. The aesthetic pleasure you once got admiring a woman’s figure is no longer your birthright. You may not look upon a female’s hair or admire her naked arms, lest those sights arouse passionate cravings. In some cases even feminine hands are kept secret from you. You have taken things for granted all your life; and now just by crossing a border your status has altered profoundly. Women no longer exist for you. And they certainly do not register your being-in-the-world, except to shrink from you — as anybody would recoil from a suspicious animal.

Because of the lust imputed to your heart by tradition — and your presumed, utter lack of self-control — you may not in Yemen for instance see a woman’s face unless she is your wife, daughter, sister or cousin. At work men do not display pictures of their wives. On the street or in a place of business females do not look at you. In a restaurant men cook and serve your food. There is no such thing as a waitress; neither will you witness women drinking tea and dining in a cafe or any other public place. If you are an alien man, only a phlebotomist male may draw your blood. Female nurses are masked head-to-toe with tiny slits for their eyes; and they wear gloves in two layers — thick cotton over latex — to avoid accidental skin-to-skin contact with any person possessing a penis. Even when armored-up like that, they may not come within grazing distance of your body, not even to check your pulse, temperature or blood pressure. Often women workers outnumber men on duty in a clinic ten-to-one. If you go as a male for a medical test, bring a box lunch, reading material and some hydration — you will likely sit for hours.

This is what I mean when I say my social standing took a plunge. I transected a line on a map and became instantly unhealthy, untrustworthy, feared and ignored. You are — as a foreign, unattached man — effectively as low-down as a snake-hole in the desert. Eventually you get tired of that; it combines with other reasons; wheels turn, and you find yourself headed home where you may discreetly ogle anyone of appropriate age. The teenage girl bagging your groceries even chats with you, smiles and thanks you for coming in.

That sets up a cultural shock-wave.