In my youth I lived for several years in Bangladesh. The society, then, was steeped in tradition. Women wore borkhas, long veils, and few went for athletics. So recently, when planning a trip to Dhaka, Bangladesh's capital, I wasn't sure I could explore it by running like I usually do in my travels.  Bangladeshi expatriates in the United States assured me the running craze had reached there, but that women rarely took part. Still, I wasn't going to let old ways stop me. 

I arrived in Dhaka after a twenty-six hour journey from Seattle, needing to rest, but even more wanting to move about. Leaving the airport, I watched carefully for signs of current mores regarding women and sports. Fewer women wore borkhas; most were clad in sari that covered their bodies from head to toe. The day was sunny and bright and everyone seemed to be out in the streets, crowding the wide boulevards. I figured a track away from the public eye would be the best place to run. But I didn't know how to locate one, and neither did the hotel clerk. I called a Bangladeshi friend. "Don't worry," he said, "I'll be over soon. We'll visit some sights and find a place you can run." 

A bicycle richshaw took us to the old part of the city -- a trading post from the Moghul period of the 16th century. The crowded lanes were filled with shops and eateries. We came to an art gallery, which was closed.  Hearing of my interest, the caretakers opened a wing of ancient Moghul art just so I could see it.  By now the temperature was in the 90's and I was parched. A fruit juice vendor, on learning I was a visitor from abroad, offered me a second helping of coconut water. Then he told me of the origin of the city's name. Centuries ago, his story went, a conqueror's emissary landed here and at first could see only jungles. Then he discovered the scenic hamlet. "Oh! the hidden beauty!" he exclaimed.  He named the place "Dhaka," a word that means "covered" or "hidden." 

Finally, my friend took me to the newer section of the town, its construction modern. I saw shops, restaurants, a mosque, and an open market. "Is there an athletic field here?"  I asked, thinking he must not have understood what I wanted. 

Smiling, my friend steered me through an opening in a high brick fence. Inside was a large soccer field, with a make-shift track in the center. "This would be a place for you to run tomorrow morning," he said. "Nobody will mind. The gate is opened early." 

I could hardly wait. What a perfect place for running. Soft surface, hidden from the public eye. 

Early the next morning, as I got out of the hotel, I saw a lone rickshaw puller waiting at the hotel entrance. I walked straight to him. But he objected to taking me to the stadium. “No, no,” he kept saying. 

My enthusiasm floundered. Reluctantly, after much arguing, he agreed to take me. Nervously, I climbed the passenger's seat. 

Within half an hour he dropped me off near the stadium. Few people were out, the sun was hidden behind clouds, and the new town looked enormous with rows of shops, rickshaw stands, and the dome of a mosque in view. I entered the field, empty but for a few crows flying overhead. Taking off my jacket, I placed it on the grass and looked around once more. Still no one in sight. I started to run in the track, going round and round, picking up my speed, getting into my stride. After a few minutes, the sun broke through the clouds, dissipating my unease along with the air. Just the sun, the sky and me: I could have been anywhere in the world. I felt energized for a three-mile run, which would take many more laps. 

Halfway through, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed men gathering near the gate. Who are they, I wondered. Curious observers?  Religious zealots?  Their number seemed to grow by minutes and soon there were about fifteen of them, strong, vigorous looking, watching me, by the gate. Best to ignore them and keep running, I decided. 

But my mind wouldn't rest. Would they throw stones at me, a woman breaking tradition? Detain me in jail for running? I rounded a curve, picturing a headline from the local daily newspaper -- Woman Arrested for Severe Violation of Social Codes. "She was wearing short-sleeve shirt and baggy pants,” the leadline would say. “She ran in a circle.  She sweated." 

On shaky legs, I continued another lap. As far as I could see, there seemed no other way out of the place. 

Suddenly, a single male voice broke through my thoughts. "Bravo, bravo," he yelled, followed by applause, then cheers that grew louder and louder. 
I could hardly believe that a middle-of-the pack woman runner like me with only age-group medals to my credit, was being honored by men with cheers and applause, the kind normally reserved for a world-class racer. 

Feeling like an Olympian, I completed my last lap. I put on my jacket and walked slowly toward the gate to leave. 

The men surrounded me. "What is your name? Where are you from?  Do you run competitively?" they wanted to know. 

Their grins got even bigger when I answered them in Bengali. They were soccer players, I learned, who practiced there every morning. Out of respect for me, they had waited, until I finished. 

"Thank you for waiting," I said as I waved them farewell. 

"Visit us again soon!" they called, spreading out for their practice runs. 
The same rickshaw puller was waiting. He smiled and took me back to my hotel. It occurred to me that earlier he had been uncomfortable about taking a woman alone. 

I felt like that conqueror of long ago who named the city Dhaka. I had experienced the same deep pleasure in the city's hidden beauty.