End Notes: Amman and Back

I’ve been home for one week and it’s the little things that have surprised me. I forgot how cold my toes get in the winter, or how ill prepared I am for this season always. I forgot that the stove doesn’t have a button I have to push to start it. I have to remember I can flush the toilet paper here, and I don’t have to wear a scarf because I have to…I can wear one because it’s cold.

I have dropped back into my life without consequence. My family still has ridiculous dinner conversation, my cats are still too fat to climb up and down the stairs, and Jennie still has an unhealthy obsession with REAL mayonnaise. What has surprised me the most is that I am, overall, not that surprised. I was expecting awful reverse culture shock—especially based on my previous traveling experiences. But, thus far, there haven’t been any. And I guess I am ok with that.

The whole semester seems like a wonderful blur. I spent it pushing my independence, pushing the limits of my patience, pushing the boundaries of my bank account. The semester slipped right through my fingers like the sand from the desert (although there probably still is some in my shoes and in my backpack).

I have written about my journeys for almost 4 months, so I feel that it is almost redundant to rehash every story for every person I see. Some stories aren’t meant for retelling—they are mine to remember and cherish, untainted by others opinions.

I hope years from now I can still remember how Amman sounded. The incessant honking, tires screeching, people yelling at each other through car windows. The fireworks fired at random hours of the night—how those fireworks may have been gunshots, but no one really knows. I want to remember the call to prayer, how 5 times a day the echoing sound could be heard from all corners of the city in haunting beauty. I want to remember the sound of Arabic. How I strained to pick up any words in conversation. The cab drivers chatting on their phones. The music with it’s distinctively Arabic sound. I want to remember the sound of Emad and Isman, my wonderful host parents. I want to remember the sounds of life in a country that is so different that the one I currently live in.

I want to remember the taste. I will probably search the rest of my life and never find falafel as good as I had it at Abu Jabara in Amman. They served it in a bowl, piping hot. Smush it in a warm piece of pita and dip it in well oiled hummus. This is a meal. This has been a meal for a long time. I will remember how I felt the first time I went to Ream Shwerma. Normally I find lamb a bit dry, but the sauce they put on the pita melds with the lamb, creating a delicious and succulent wrap. The best in the city, some say. I will remember Amigos, and how freaking awesome it was to find a place that served mozzarella sticks and one heck of a grilled chicken sandwich.

Look around. When I first got to Amman, I wondered how I would ever tell the buildings apart or figure out where I was. The crazy directionality of the streets was bad enough—but trying to direct a taxi driver was next to impossible. But I learned. There are different shades of limestone. There are carvings on houses above doors. Some buildings have courtyards, some have laundry hanging out on the balconies.

In the beginning I noticed the trash—seemingly everywhere. I noticed that people threw things on the ground without a care. After Egypt, Amman seemed clean. Notice the women in Hijabs. Every color, perfectly coordinated. They seem so—perfect. The makeup on their face, flawless. The men look like guidos.

Then there are the memories I want to keep alive. The bizarre sensation of floating in the Dead Sea, the nights out in Beirut, the hamam in Turkey, and what it was like in Bethlehem. (Let’s be honest, I would rather like to forget about Egypt). Even still, I want to remember it all.

I started 2010 with a trip to the Orange Bowl (and a Hawkeye victory) . I finished the year having travelled to five and a half new countries and tried several new forms of transportation that included a 3 hour camel ride through the desert. The traveling wonder. I saw things people only hope to see and have been to places nobody has even heard about. I met some great people that I hope to see in the future, and met some equally amazing people that I doubt I will ever see again. The bar was set high by 2010. But bring it on 2011, I’m ready. 

Oh Little Ghetto of Bethlehem

Did you know that in Arabic Bethlehem translates into “house of meat?” Well that is about all the jokes you will get out of me concerning the West Bank.

I’m not going to lie, I was very nervous crossing the border into Israel. I had heard horror stories of it taking 8 hours for some people on our program to cross. It took us two, but it was so complicated.

First, we hired a taxi to take us close to the bridge. Then we switched taxis to go the Jordanian checkpoint. We paid our exit fees and got in a chartered bus that only can go across the King Hussein Bridge. On the other side, we had to get a special charter taxi that could take us right to Jerusalem. Like I said, complicated.

Basically, all of CIEE went to Jerusalem this weekend. In fact, there was only 1 non-CIEE person in the hostel we stayed at. I liked what I saw in Jerusalem’s Old City right away. It was an endless maze of cobbled streets and yelling vendors selling everything, much like the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul.

Old City is divided into quarters. The Jewish quarter, the Christian quarter, the Arab quarter and the Armenian quarter. Hebrew, Arabic and a surprising amount of English was spoken. Our very cramped hostel was located in the Arab quarter.

The first night was a night for exploring. We wandered along the deserted corridors of the Old City and eventually found our way to a happening little night life spot. There were lots of people. Lots of Bars. Lots of everything. A gaggle of us settled into a bar along the street.

I forgot how entertaining drunk people can be. This one random Israeli guy, clearly well over intoxicated, sat down and started chatting with us. He was pretty funny, just had started up his mandatory inscription for the Israeli army. He sleeps with his gun, he told us, so he can be “ready to kill all them Palestinians.”

Clearly, the atmosphere changed. We all went from laughing along with this guy to smiling uneasily. There is obvious tension is the area. 

The next morning we headed out to the West Bank, Bethlehem to be exact. We drove along a sterile, concrete wall, at least two stories high, barbed wire dotting the top, separating the Israelis and the Palestinians. We crossed into over and were greeted with things not associated with Bethlehem. It wasn’t a cute, picturesque town from Christmas postcards. There was no snow; there was no manger, no wisemen. Instead, there was a ghetto, littered with trash. A people oppressed.

We walked along the wall, in silence. No one told us to be quiet, but it was one of those places where it made sense. The wall stretched on, into the distance, cutting through neighborhoods, fields, dividing a land.

The walls were covered in graffiti. “Merry Christmas from the Bethlehem Ghetto” read one. “The oppressed become the oppressor,” read another. The one that hit me the most was “Only free men can negotiate.” These people aren’t free.

Not when to even cross into Israel they must wait in an ungodly long line, get harped at by a man sitting in a bulletproof room yelling at them through a microphone, slide their hands into a finger print scanner, and carry around a piece of paper on them at all times saying it is OK for them to leave. There is human interaction with the Israeli guards, they sit behind bulletproof glass too, simply staring at those on the other side .

All I had to do was flash my American passport.

I didn’t even have to take off my bags before going through a metal detector, yet these people are marked simply because they are there. Most Palestinians can never leave the West Bank, and Israelis wouldn’t dare go in. I can see why they are frustrated; I can see why they are angry. I just don’t understand why suddenly, like the graffiti read, the oppressed became the oppressor. It was truly one of the saddest and most moving mornings of my life.

Yes, I saw the Church of the Nativity, where Jesus was allegedly born, but nothing could get the image of the wall out of my head.

That afternoon we walked around Jerusalem. We went to the Church of the Sepulcher, the alleged spot of Jesus’ crucifixion. They had the tablet where he was washed. Many people were crying and kissing it. I think that was when I realized that Jerusalem isn’t as much for tourists as it is a pilgrimage site. There was a long line for this one room. So I waited. In it was what appeared to be a prayer altar. I didn’t know what I was looking at. I looked at the people in there with me. None of us knew. And we all started laughing. Blasphemy. But hilarious.

Next was the Wailing Wall, which is located on the site of the old temple and on the site of the Dome of the Rock (which I wasn’t allowed to go to). We hit up the wall right before Shabbat, so there were a lot of Jews getting ready, which was a very cool sight to see.

From there we went to the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus was betrayed by Judas, and the Mt. of Olives. Mt. of Olives provided an amazing view of Jerusalem. I could have sat there for hours staring at all the history, staring at, essentially, where everything began. I had seen the Holy Land. 

Photos

Sandstorms, Snow Days and bootleg DVDs

The white flakes that pounded down from above were hardly welcomed at 3:30 AM when I had to get my friend Susannah to the airport. Snow=apocalypse.

Snow in the Streets!

But luckily the taxi I ordered (in Arabengligh no less!) was only five minutes late. Il’Hamdu’Lilah because I expected a phone call saying the city was in a deadlock, the airport shutdown and everything was at a complete standstill.

Once inch of wet snow or not, we got Susannah out of Amman on time. This morning I was awoken to 8 texts telling me we had a snow day! Il’Hamdu’Lilah because I did NOT study enough for my finals. So now I am sitting, cup of microwaved chocolate milk in hand, wearing sweats and watching the snow slowly melt away. Kind of like I would be in Iowa—guess the state is trying to prepare me. Despite the temperatures dropping below freezing last night, it is already 40 degrees, and it’s expected to be back in the 60s by the middle of the week.

Yesterday was also a crazy trip in weather adventures. Susannah wanted to see the Dead Sea, so even though it was freezing, we headed out. We were welcomed by a sandstorm. I am not kidding. The forecast for Amman for the day was “45 degrees/Sandstorm.” Needless to say the beach was empty, I literally had to hold onto a pole to keep from blowing away. Susannah got in the water (stupid). Il’Hamdu’Lilah she survived. The Dead Sea is not supposed to be surfable. It looked like doom, like something Poseidon would conjure. On the way back to Amman, there was so much sand-- the road was completely covered! BROWN OUT.

It’s funny, how much at home I am beginning to feel here. And it’s really only been in the past week and a half or so these feelings have started. I can strike up a casual conversation in Arabic (and quickly transition back into English), find my way around this city, and know where the best places for food are.

One of the big things in Jordan is bootleg movies. There are no copy write laws in the country, so you can find DVD stands on every corner. There are only a few good ones, however, Gafra and Hamudeh, both located within a block of each other downtown. Walk in and you will find shelves, floor to ceiling, multiple stories of every movie, every video game, even Rosetta Stone.

 Two nights ago, Susannah, Sarah, Erin and I went down there so Susannah could pick up a few movies to bring back (and by a few, I mean 50). Each DVD is only 1 JD—and if you smile and giggle like a good American girl, they will knock several JDs off the price. I bought Seasons 1 and 2 of Skins because its costs $50 in the US, and that’s never gonna happen. It is my favorite show.

Well, Susannah forgot some movies so we had to go back last night, braving doomsday and all. I ended up talking to the worker for about 30 minutes. He was so bundled up, he was freezing, I was just a little chilly. It’s so incredible, I find, that if you start a conversation in Arabic, everyone will say ‘You speak Arabic better than I do.” Most of the conversation I had was in English, but just because I tried, Susannah got 10 DVDs free. It really makes a difference. Plus, if I had been there any longer I may have gotten an Arab boyfriend—mish mushkila, he was cute!

And now I leave in 9 days. As much as I am looking forward to being home and getting to see family and friends again, it’s going to be very strange leaving this place. I feel I have gained a huge insight into this region, and I am leaving just when I am achieving a cultural “breakthrough” so to speak.

I am probably going to think everything any girl wears to a bar in IC is slutty; I am going to hate all the “bros” (well, more that I did). I never though I could make the Middle East feel like home, but now, it proves that I can live anywhere. All you need is a grocery store and one ex-pat bar that serves Buffalo wings and mozzarella sticks. 

Winter in Amman

Well, alas, the sunny 75+ degree weather has left, and in its wake is a whole lot of suds. Somewhere between last night and today, winter decided to make its long delayed appearance and wreak havoc on the entire city.

Now, I’ve seen about oh, 4 cloudy days in the past 3 months. One almost forgets what it’s like to have cloud cover. But the clouds were a welcomed sight. I smiled as soon as I noticed it was gloomy (kind of ironic, eh?) What was not welcomed, however, was the rain.

I should clarify. The rainy season is supposed to start in late OCTOBER. Seeing as it is December, you can imagine how much this rain is needed. The groundwater needs recharging people! (Also, considering I’m blogging about rain—you can see how the lack of it has affected me)

What I don’t like about the rain is how idiotic it makes everyone. Rain=ice. Because everything in this entire country is covered in sand, a little water makes everything extra slick. And considering I live on Jebel Al-Nar (Hell’s Hill) I don’t want to walk down it. I slide enough when I’m wearing sneakers that have treads.

This morning, as the three of us bemoaned walking down Jebel Al-Nar, we decided instead to go ask our land parents for a ride to school, which they obliged. Driving to school normally takes about 10-15 minutes. Driving to school in poor weather=40 minutes. Like I said, no one knows how to drive in poor conditions.

The city also apparently lacks a good drainage system. There was brown, soapy (!?) standing water everywhere, several inches deep in places. It rained for maybe an hour. And not even that hard. It wasn’t that much rain.  So the real question is why there was so much water everywhere. (ok, I lie. The REAL question is what’s with the soap?)

The forecast for the next week is chilly, around 60. Yes, it’ s chilly OK. The heat was turned on my apartment when it was in the upper 60s. I’m so so screwed when I return. 

Bad Habits. Thanks Jordan

My newly found obsession with CSI Miami. Oh good GOD, Horatio Cane. Those sunglasses, the way you say every word with such precision, how you always catch the bad guy, even if it means running into a building with a bomb, and emerging, still standing, as the building explodes.

I love you Horatio.

Ok. That will NOT leave Jordan with me. As one of the few shows that are on TV constantly (perhaps 3 times a day) I’ve seen my fair amount. At first I was so against it. But then it won me over based on the sheer ridiculousness of the actor David Caruso. He makes the show. Probably because he always manages to slip on his sunnies just as the sunlight hits him just so. Couple that with a line like “I think you’re right. This IS a murder,” and I get shivers.

The overplayed pop music. Maybe it’s because I’m not in America, but I REALLLLLLY miss pop music. Therefore, I overplay what I have. Um, my “Top 25 Most Played” playlist is ridiculous. Lady Gaga, Jason DeRulo, Lily Allen and Katy Perry are there—in multiple quantities. The only alternative ones that top my list are the Decemberists, Arcade Fire and Death Cab.

Granted, a lot of these plays have happened because of the gym, but its still a tiny bit embarrassing. I vow to return to my not overly played pop music roots when I get back.

Eradicating Slang. I can already see people getting super annoyed with my use of Arabic slang. But here, my English is already peppered with these fun words. I mean, why wouldn’t you want to say “MushKila” instead of “problem” or use “Kbeer” instead of “huge.”

Plus, it reaffirms that I am actually learning shway Arabic here. But I need to stop, because back home no on knows what these words mean. And that’s a mushkila kbeer.

Not ragging on American Money. So before I left for Eid I tucked a couple of American $20s into my wallet to pay for visas in Egypt and Turkey (Dollars is THE international currency). As I was holding it, I noticed how WEIRD the money looks. I couldn’t believe this is what I used back home. It just was so long and skinny, unlike Jordanian money. And don’t even get me started on the how ridiculous pennies look and feel (so light). I’m not the only one who has noticed this either; the appearance of the dollar has come up in many a conversation.

Not Being a Hummus Snob I am going to cry because I have to leave GOOD falafel and hummus. It sucks in Amrika. Even bad hummus in Jordan is good hummus by American standards and that is going to kill me. I am going to compare every hummus I ever eat the rest of my life to the hummus I get here. And the falafel. Where am I going to get good falafel. And Baba Ganoush. I mean I can make that, but I need Tahini—where do I find Tahini?

Gah! It’s going to be a veryvery sad day leaving this country’s food. 

Odds and Ends

I have three weeks left in Jordan, so really there is not a whole lot more to cover. I just figured I’d cover all those little things that didn’t fit into any other post.

1.     Maid. Jordanians are clean freaks. You wouldn’t know it by the state of the sidewalks, but they are. No Dust Allowed seems to be the motto. Take out the trash every day, sweep the floor—lest there be ants, and keep everything neat and tidy. You’d be kidding yourself if you think I do this all the time. Nope. I have a maid.

           

Her name is Magda and she comes on Sundays. I think she’s Sri Lankan. Or maybe Indonesian. At any rate, she cleans the bathrooms, the kitchen and even our rooms. I always look forward to Sundays because my room is vacuumed and my bed is made. The dishes are even clean AND put away in             the cabinet. The only thing I really don’t like about having a maid is that she puts everything away in different spots. That is probably why I have lost so many things on this trip.

Another thing about Magda, and hired help in general, is that they are all minorities. Most maids are from South Asia, and most “guards”—those who take care of the apartments are Egyptian. So are waiters. Funny (or maybe not) joke about Egyptians—They are called the Mexicans of Jordan. Maybe             because they are everywhere and they stare? I don’t know, but it is kinda funny.

2.     Canned Corn- Around the university there are several stands selling corn. No, not corn on the cob. Just—corn. There is a giant steel vat that has gobs and gobs of corn. They serve it in this tiny Styrofoam cup with a spoon. I don’t understand why, but people line up for the stuff. I have yet to try it.

3.     Notes on Cabs- I’ve pretty much exhausted the subject, so this is my final observation. Cars here are expensive I guess—the import tax. So, despite the state of a car, people will still act like it is brand new. Some cars around here are incredibly nice, but others are, well, not. Cab drives with the worst looking taxis will get super angry if you shut the door to hard. “al boaba shwaya shwaya” which roughly translates you better shut this door softly—it’s my baby. 

Thanksgiving: A CORNucopia of Corn Casserole

“Um. Look at our oven.” I told Sarah. I had just finished mixing up a double batch of my favorite corn casserole to eat for our Thanksgiving feast (why I did that I do not know). The oven. Oh, the oven.

Clearly, we did not check out our resources first. The oven is probably a foot and a half wide by two feet tall. The racks inside are only about five inches apart, not leaving much room for actual pans.

I know what you’re thinking. “Why haven’t you used the oven before?” Because it’s terrifying. You have to turn on the gas then stick you head in it to turn it on with a lighter.  I don’t want to mess with that. I’ll still to the stovetop.

At any rate. Once we figured out we had to divide the corn casserole into multiple pots, we faced another dilemma. We have no pots. Just one flat one for the casserole. We had to borrow another from upstairs.

Our thanksgiving dinner consisted of, corn casserole duh, green beans, mashed potatoes, rolls. Now, I didn’t want to spend a ridiculous amount of money on a butterball turkey, which you can find, so instead we decided on chicken breasts with a mushroom sauce. Which means, we dumped a can of cream of mushroom soup over some chicken, topped it with cheese and bread, and called it a day.  It was kind of janky.

Since pumpkins don’t exist in Jordan, Erin made a sweet potato-deep dish pie. It was lovely. I ate enough for three days and have enough to eat for the next week. Especially the corn casserole. I even had to break out elastic wasted pants. Sounds just like Thanksgiving at home, minus the cranberry sauce, turkey, jello, random singing, “grandma’s buns” and the 5 Kernels of Corn out loud reading.

Ok, so it wasn’t a traditional turkey day. But it made do. 

4 Days in Misr(ey)

Arriving in Cairo at 3 AM, things seemed promising. I exchanged a witty banter—or something like that in broken Arabic—with the passport control guy. We were picked up by a hostel representative who kept chatting at us. It was 3 in the morning—all I wanted to do was sleep. Our hostel, despite being in an absolutely decrepit building that smelled like cats and pee, was actually warm and inviting, not to mention clean.

Things quickly turned sour.

After a breakfast the next morning of a hardboiled egg and three pieces of bread, we jaunted out to check out the national museum, which was a five-minute walk away. Turns out on Wednesdays the museum isn’t open past 1:30.

So we decided to reformulate our plans and grabbed a taxi to Old Cairo to check out the Ibn Tulun mosque. It was completely empty, so we roamed around the beautiful mosque and climbed the minaret, which gave us views of a very very dirty city.

Despite not knowing the way to the Citadel, we decided to walk there. I can’t even describe how DIRTY the city is. Trash is EVERYWHERE. It makes Amman look like the cleanest city in the world. The whole city smells of pollution and urine and everything is covered in filth. At one point on our walk, we passed a dumpster that was trickling bright blood into the streets. We presumed it was cows blood—but I don’t really want to know.

The citadel was difficult to find, well the entrance was anyway. We were constantly surrounded by shebab (youngins) whos never stopped asking us “HI WHATS YOUR NAME, WHATS YOUR NAME WHATS YOUR NAME” They would touch us, and at one point Sarah got so frustrated by this kid that she reached out and clotheslined him.

The absolute disrespect women astounded me. The boys that really bothered us were from the age of about 11-20. Above or below that, most were fine. Even the soldiers and police officers made off-hand crude comments that made me so angry. Actually doing anything about it would only have made it worse.

The harassment we received put me in a sour mood, that even the pyramids weren’t that impressive. And like everything else in Egypt, it was covered in trash and smelled like pee. Driving along to the first pyramid, the Red Pyramid at Dashur, the canals that came off the Nile were basically dumping grounds. Trash piled up, souring the water, making this once clean and fertile land a little less so.

One of the more terrifying things I did on this trip was climb down into a pyramid. Things that go down are not meant to get back up. A tiny shaft that went about 200 feet down, descended into the ground.  Once I got over my claustrophobia, I had to hunch to even try to get down. The chambers reeked of Ammonia, and after about 3 minutes I was outta there.

I saw the pyramids of Giza by horse. Given how much I hate animals that could crush/stomp/roll over me, I wasn’t too pleased. Thy sphinx was comparatively small.

That night we took a dinner cruise on the Nile. I wish we hadn’t. Fun fact about the Nile: if you fall in you die. The water is THAT polluted. The only good thing about this cruise was the whirling dervish. He was cool. The food also sucked, but since I hadn’t eaten in 12 hours, I pretty much ate every nasty bit.

Continuing the trend of I hate Egypt, the next day we went to Alexandria. I had heard good things about the city, how it was cleaner. From outward appearances, it was beautiful. I wanted it so badly to be Beirut, where no one would look at us and we could stroll along the Mediterranean. It wasn’t so. Boys walked touching us asking us question, seeing if they could take our picture. NO, LA SHUKRAN was our resounding answer.

While in Egypt, I adopted battered wife syndrome. I constantly looked down, avoided eye contact with anyone and would flinch and jump away if anyone came too close. I think we all did.

The last day in Egypt, we went to the Egyptian National Museum. Even though it houses an impressive collection of artifacts, there seems to be little rhyme or reason. There were very few signs to tell me what I was actually looking at. Some of the few signs looked like they had been there since the 1940s. And everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. I may have spent over three hours in the museum, but I learned very little.

One of Sarah’s Egyptian male friends came into town, apologized for his country and took us to the Egyptian Souk. It was so much harder to bargain in Egypt that it was in Istanbul. I found some good things, but the level of bargaining I had to do wasn’t as fun as it was in Turkey. That night, her friend took us on a cruise along the Nile, this time it was much better. The dilapidated stereo pumped Celine Dion (Egypt is overly obsessed with her) and fun twinkly lights lit our way down the Nile.

I was oh so happy to get out of that country. Even though Egypt is SO cheap. The exchange rate is 5.5 Egyptian Pounds for 1 USD, and a full meal can easily be bought for 7 pounds, I never want to go back to that country. It definitely makes me appreciate Amman so much more. 

Mussels, Bubbles and the Hagia Sophia

Eid Break is traditionally a time when families slaughter a goat or cow in remembrance of the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son, Ishmael. The meat is divided into thirds. One third goes to the poor. One third to greater family. One third for yourself. For me, Eid el Adha is the time when I went exploring--although, I did see blood running through the streets of Cairo. That was gross.

Istanbul is incredibly beautiful. For one, there were leaves that were changing colors. There was air that was less smoggy. I could almost smell nature. In accordance to what everyone has said, it is an ingenious blend of east meets west. And there was no Arabic.

Right from the get go, Susannah had us moving. Night one was spent in Taksim, the sight of the suicide bombing last month. Taksim is like Iowa City on speed. Lights. Laughter. Hoards of people moving, mingling. Food is abundant. I was even brave enough, after some prodding, to try the street mussels.  A man has a stand full of mussels stuffed with a rice mixture. You give him a lira he opens one and squeezes some lemon juice on them. Then it’s down the hatch. These are one of the most dangerous street foods to eat, but oh yum are they delicious.

Instead of doing all the super touristy things right away, we spent the next day in Sariyer, near Susannah’s college. Nestled into a forest, the campus was beautiful. It made me jealous of how beautiful it was. There wasn’t any trash in sight. Sariyer is a little fishing village right on the Boshporus. We roamed the colorful streets and ate lunch along the water. I had fried sardines. Don’t judges. They were delicious. (That’s the theme of Turkey—delicous food)

I loved Turkey for the fact is was so clean. There was even recycling! The CARE about the environment. The air was crisp and I even needed a jacket that night when we took the ferry across to the Asian side of Turkey at Katakoy. We ate at another fabulous restaurant, Ciya. I even tried sheep intestine (tasted like lamb with a weirder texture.)

In the middle of the meal, a man bursts through the restaurant hands covering his head yelling. Outside, people begin shouting and pushing. No one knew what was going on. My first thought was a bomb. Then we see two men wailing on each other. Chairs get involved, then a table. Turns out this massive fight was over a football match. Silly Turks.

Of course, being in Turkey, you have to do the sights. The Blue Mosque was probably my favorite. The intricacies of the ceiling was incredible. Of course, the Hagia Sophia was splendid and the Basilica Cistern, an underground cavern that once held the cities water, was spooky. We bargained our way through the Spice Market and the overwhelming Grand Bazaar. I got to practice my burgeoning arguing skills.

But then there’s the stuff that a lot of people don’t do, or at least don’t admit. Like the Turkish Bath. That was an experience.

The five of us were led into a room where we were given towels to wear. After spending sufficient time soaking in the sauna we were led two at a time to a heated marble slab and told to lie down—naked—on the table. Shit got real. The sauna loosens the dead skin (apparently I have very dry elbows?) They take a loofa to EVERYYYY part of your body before coating you in bubbles for a massage. With two girls on a table at a time, it’s one camera away from a porno.

But it may have been the most memorable part of Turkey, if not for the inside jokes that came out of it. And hey, at least my elbows are soft now.

After that we needed some drinks, and promptly headed out to Ortakoy to meet up with Susannah’s friends at the local watering hole. We spent the night sitting along the water, bartering for jewelry and eating the biggest stuffed baked potato I’ve ever seen. I think it was stuffed with a hot dog. I don’t really eat hot dogs, but let’s just say at the moment it was all I wanted. A late night ensued.

Perhaps the best meal I had in Turkey was named “Mezze and Raka night.” Mezze is popular in the Middle East. Tiny little dishes are bought and split between a bunch of people and eaten over drinks of raka—which is akin to the Jordanian liquor, Araq. Nasty Nasty licorice stuff. But over eggplant, spinach, smoked salmon and countless other mezze we split, it wasn’t so bad. It did the trick. (Susannah and I followed this meal by playing some intense checkers for about two hours. I won 3-0)

The last day was spent at the Prince’s Islands. We had to take a ferry about 2 hours to get there. This island was charming. No cars were allowed, so instead there were horse and carriages or bikes. It is clearly a place to summer Istanbul’s wealthy. We wandered along the water for a while before summoning the courage to hike to the top of the mountain to eat/see a monastery/for the view? I’m not exactly sure why. It was such a difficult hike. The cobbled pathway did not make it any easier for those of us with poor shoes. The view at the top was spectacular. But my glutes and calves could have done with out it.

Turkey was a wonderland of things I had forgotten about. Clean public restrooms, recycling, fresh air, wearing non conservative clothes. Even still, there were reminders that this was still the Middle East. Men still catcalled. “Hi Spicy Girls”.

We got called that a lot “Spicy Girls” So it was decided that I was sporty spice, because I guess I am the most athletic of the bunch?

Part 2 comes tomorrow, and in it I will regale the misery that was Cairo. 

For Pictures click HERE

Two Month Reflections: What I miss about America

Hey team. I’ve now been in Amman for two months (HOW is that POSSIBLE) so I figure ill just list out things I miss about America. Yes, a cop out, but I have to pack for my 10 day trip to Istanbul and Cairo!

1.     Vanilla Pudding- I know this is a really weird thing to list as the number 1 thing to miss, but I do! I bought some ‘vanilla’ pudding from the supermarket the other day and was so disappointed. Instead of the snack-pack style of pudding I like, I was instead treated to goo. And not very flavorful goo. I ate it anyway, because it had sugar, but I wasn’t happy about it.

2.     Mattress pads and top sheets- So for some reason, mattress pads don’t exist, and for some reason, it really bothers me. It just creeps me out. I just want a mattress pad! As for top sheets, those also don’t exist in my apartment. I just have a comforter and a really itchy wool blanket.

3.     Non Bi-polar showerheads. Will it be scalding or freezing? No one knows. Taking a shower is such a crap shoot. On more than one occasion I have jumped out because my skin was about ready to burn off, but I also have jumped out because I was about to freeze. I miss consistent temperature and pressure. I miss not having to turn off the water while shaving my legs or shampooing my hair. 40 days.

4.     Driving- Even though I kind of understand the rules of the road here in Amman, I still would NEVER get behind the wheel of a car. That being said, I know when I get back and start driving again, I will probably be a little more aggressive than I would have been otherwise.

5.     Running in shorts- Ok, I ran in shorts once here. My legs were just itching to see the light of day. But it felt really awkward and I quickly went back to my sweatpants.  Yeah it’ll be a while before I can run in shorts outside in the US, but it’s something to look forward to.

It’ll be a while before I blog again, but next time I do it will be very exciting!

Break Out Your Axes--it's Election Time!

It’s election day! No School No School!!

Yes, it’s the parliamentary elections here in Jordan. Not like that means much—besides the fact that everything is closed so people can vote. Voting here is so two-faced and biased that no one really cares. In fact, the Muslim Brotherhood has called for a boycott of this election. People listen, this election is supposed to have the lowest voter turnout in over 20 years.

There are 120 seats in Parliament up for grabs in this year’s election. 763 candidates are running, including 143 women. Most, if not all, of the women are running for 12 seats that are exclusively reserved for women. Under the quota system, there are nine seats reserved for Christians and three for Circassians.

My overly cynical econ professor explained about how the election process works. About a month before the election, posters go up. This I can verify. I woke up one morning to tacky posters of candidates plastered every five feet. The pictures were AWFUL. I guess the posters have some cheesy slogan. But the funny thing, or perhaps not, is the fact that these slogans are all people vote on. Candidates don’t release their positions on issues. Nope, it’s only the slogan.

Most people vote for their friends, or their cousin’s friend’s cousin’s brother-in-law. Keep it in the family, you know. Cynical econ professor also explained that most people running for parliament only care about making money. People in parliament make around 3,000 JD (about 5,500 USD) but this is still triple the amount the average Jordanian makes in a year. So, it’s a lucrative profession.

The US embassy sent out a warning Americans in Jordan to stay away from polling places because it could get heated. At press time (1:24 PM) there already have been some crazy antics. 36 people were arrested in Madaba, about a half hour from Amman, for wielding knives and axes trying to get people to vote for different candidates. A driver, perhaps drunk, rammed into a polling station, injuring two. Four armed men were arrested for plotting to “disturb the vote.”  Still more were charged with election fraud. It’s only 1:30—there’s a long way to go.

Chill Out, You're on Arab Time

If you know me, you know that I am a very punctual person. I show up early to everything—parties included. I hate people who aren’t on time or force me to wait. Patience is not my virtue.

This virtue has been through a lot here in Amman. “Arab Time” is not “Laura Time.” “Bisura” (quickly) does equal the same “bisura” as it does to me.

If an Arab tells you we will leave at eight. LIES. We will not leave at 8, we will leave at 8:45. But of course, I will be there at 8, and will wait impatiently until 8:45. How many times has this happened? Countless.

It isn’t just time Jordanians move slowly at. It’s even how they walk! Oh dear god, they lollygag down pathways. The hardly pick up their feet—just tiny tiny tiny steps. And they just stand in the middle of the path. HELLOOOO I’m TRYING to get somewhere. MOVE.

Students stand congregated at the bottom of steps and refuse to move when you want to get past. They just give you dirty looks. There are other places to stand than at the bottom of the stairs. Or in the middle of the sidewalk, or in a doorway. It’s not that difficult people. There are open areas to congregate for a reason

Impending Doom

Driving along airport road you will see giant 4-foot diameter pipes lining the road. Workers are digging ditches to put the pipes in. This scene stretches on for miles and miles, until eventually you stop noticing it; they simply blend into the desert landscape.

These pipes are part of a huge project undertaken by the Jordanian government to help solve the water situation in Jordan. 250 miles south, near the Saudi border sits a deep-sea aquifer. This aquifer is set to pump fresh groundwater all those miles, through endless stretches of pipes to Amman to help offset the water crisis.

But how long will it hold out?

This water is renewable—but only if properly maintained. Maintenance has been a problem in the past, as the once beautiful Azraq wetlands were pumped dry. Now, water flows out of Amman back to the wetlands to try and preserve what’s left.

The Dead Sea is also shrinking. By a meter a year. There is already a stretch of land dividing the sea into two parts. Some say it will be gone in 50 years. One solution is the Red Sea-Dead Sea canal. A multi-million dollar project that is set to pump water from the red sea, across miles and miles to the Dead Sea, would alter the salinity of this lake.  Is “saving it” worth it?

What I have learned in Amman is a sad realization. This region isn’t going to be able to last much longer without having a war over water. The Nile is not going to sustain Egypt past 2017. Jordan is fast running out of freshwater. The gulf countries can only sustain reverse osmosis as long as the oil money holds out—they have 0 natural water resources. Syria and Israel are diverting water from the Jordan River-leaving it a pathetic trickle—only a fraction of what it was.

Yet there is a dichotomy. Shopkeepers freely wash off their tiled stoops, the soapy water runs off into the streets. People wash their cars daily, making sure they are extra shiny. People have gardens, watering their roses, their grass or their tomatoes.

It’s a status symbol, being able to have enough water to do this.

Yet it’s still sad that people here are so ignorant about the pressing situation. And that is one of the things I find so frustrating about this country. No one knows. And more importantly, no one cares enough to find out.

It’s on the horizon, a war, a catastrophe, and I can see it coming, but no one else even looks up. 

Um Amman? Why are you Cold?

So remember when I was complaining about how hot it was? How I hated being sweaty? How 95 degree heat made me want to die?

Well, now I'm cold. I sleep with at least one wool blanket a night, wrapped completely around me so I can snuggle into the covers. I wear sweaters to class, and if I wear sandals, my feet get cold. Goosebumps run up and down my arm sending me into fits of shivers.

I wasn't expecting this.

And the sad part of the whole thing? The actual temperature. It was 75 degrees today, and I was cold. I feel like I have completely lost touch with Iowa, and will promptly turn into a popsicle when I return.

But I guess this weather is late for the region. Cold weather usually starts in the end of September or beginning of October. It's only been in the last week that the beginnings of fall have started. The select few leaves have begun to turn auburn or burt orange and all flowers have died.

I guess it gets much colder. Since my coat was one of the first few things I chucked when I was packing, this might be an issue. Hey mom, transfer some money so your lovely daughter can buy a nice warm coat?

48 Hours: Beirut

Two white UN humvees sat outside the airport. Soldiers paced nervously, guns slung across their shoulders. The air was humid and warm, the salty breeze drifted in from the Mediterranean. I definitely wasn’t in Amman anymore.

Driving through the traffic of Beirut with our hilarious hotel owner, Hussam, I noticed the buildings. Built with French flare, many were decrepit, riddled with bullet and shell holes from the not-forgotten civil war, which ended in 1991 after nearly 15 years. Still, they gave the allure of the grandeur that was. Laundry flowed in the breeze, hung out to dry over elaborate wrought iron balconies.

When we pulled up to the Al-Shahbaa 'hotel' my first thought was "uhhh where the HELL am I?" The building looked as though it hadn’t been touched since the war, but the inside was pleasant, and Hussam was happy to be of service to us.

This hotel was in the best location. Situated a block in-between one of the nightlife hubs, Gemmayze street, and 15 minutes from the ritzy part of town—Place d’etoile.

Place d’etoile is a completely rebuilt part of down. Devastated in 1991 and hit again in 2006, this place is brand spanking new. And is it ever gorgeous. Wide (walkable) sidewalks are lined with a variety of cafes and boutiques. In the center is a clock tower surrounded by a beautiful garden. French, Italian and Spanish could be heard from the passerbys. If I ever forgot I was in the Middle East, armed guards and barricaded streets quickly jolted me back to reality. At one very surreal point the call to prayer and church bells were ringing at the same time.

Another fun Beirut-ian fact: they take American money. You can pay in Lira or in USD. You can pay with a combination of the two, and get change back in either. It was a very odd system. Also odd: 60,000 Lira was $40. I still had trouble punching in those numbers at the ATM.

What struck me as so amazing is the ability for Beirut to integrate so many different parts of their culture. Just in the plaza area you had new mosques, crusade churches, the ruins of roman bathhouses. There was a TGI Friday's, Virgin megastore and Dunkin Donuts. The transition between new and old was seamless. Amman needs to take note.

After a fabulously fabulous dinner of Abourgine stew at a local institution—Le Chef (ANTHONY BOURDAIN ATE HERE PEOPLE) the nine of us headed kicked it into high gear for the night. Gemmayze street reminds me a bit of Iowa City in the fact that is basically all bars. We bar hopped before ending up at this club around 1 AM. Called The Establishment, it exclusively played a music variety known as Dub-Step. Now, I’d never heard of it before, but this is the baseline of every song: dun dun DUN, duh duh duh DUN. My feet are still tapping this baseline.

After a late night, morning two started early. By 9:30 Olivia, Emily and I were at this lovely Parisian Café. I breakfasted on croissants, tea, freshly squeezed orange juice and an omelet.

From there we took one frustrating and expensive taxi ride to the National Museum. Located on the infamous “Green Line” which divided Beirut into the “Christian side” and the “Muslim side,” the Museum itself is pretty non-descript. The best part of the whole thing was when it was over. We were having trouble finding a taxi. Out of nowhere, an armed solider comes up, asks if we need a taxi and calls someone. Two minutes later, a taxi rolls up, the driver hands the solider a jug of mango juice, and we get in. Odd.

After another delicious and slightly more expensive dinner, in which our group went through at least six baskets of pita, we headed out for round two. We started at the New York Time’s approved bar “Hole in the Wall.” It’s a very small and cozy place that pumps out an eclectic mix of Weezer, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, The Cranberries and Journey.

We made friends with a group of Lebanese who offered to take us to a Halloween club. After paying the $20 USD cover, we were greeted to a wild dance party. The music was fabulous and straight from my 8^th grade school dance. The Macarena, Cotton Eyed Joe, and Mambo Number 5 were all played. That night wrapped up around 3:30, however, I’m sure the Lebanese danced long into the early morning.

We may have been a little lazy the next morning, but ate a late lunch at a boutique-café that Olivia thought was “cooler than anyplace in Europe.” I had a nutella waffle, enough said.

We wandered through the plaza again and this time found something new. SHOPPING. Louis Vuitton, Chloe, Carolina Herrera, Jimmy Choo—all brands were accounted for. Granted, I settled with H&M but it still was a fun time.

From there, we casually strolled along the Cornish—a beautiful walkway along the Mediterranean. People were running and riding bikes, couples held hands (!) and little carts sold freshly squeezed juice. It was bliss.

Dinner was phenomenal. The restaurant literally jutted out into the sea. Waves crashed against the windows as we ate our dinner. The fried Calamari was the best I’ve had, as was the brushetta.

From the parts that I’ve seen, Beirut is a city that is working to fix its flaws. They want to be a destination, unlike Amman. They try to appease their guests (having toilet paper in the public bathrooms did it for me). Although it’s a wonderful and charming city, you could feel the tension under the surface. With the trial coming up for the assassinated prime minister , it will be interesting to see what happens to the dynamics of the city. But I hope it doesn’t change. I love it the way it is. 

For Photos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2084393&id=1175280303&l=36afa7a184

Guest Blogging on PinkPangea

I'm giving myself a break today, sort of. I'm the guest blogger on the travel website PinkPangea.

CHECK IT OUT. GO. NOW. thx :)

www.pinkpangea.com

Dumpster Cats and Begging Children

So cats. They are everywhere. Their slinky bodies will show up pawing at the kitchen door, jump out from behind the wheels of the car, or my personal favorite, rattle around in dumpster so that it scares the living daylights out of me. They scamper across the walkways at the university and hide out along sidewalks.

Cats here are scavengers, so when I see, oh 8 hissing over food some rotting food, it’s a little gross, but not out of the ordinary. What’s even more perturbing than the over abundance of cats is the lack of dogs. WHERE ARE THE DOGS?

Since I’ve been here I’ve seen 3. Only three. Once I saw a woman walking a dog. That was weird. I looked twice. I guess dogs are considered dirty in Islam, which explains why there aren’t any. But according to my friend Erin, she saw two steroid-ed men walking Pomeranians in Abdoun. So I guess there is hope?

Now the begging children. It may seem a little cruel to lump cats and kids together, but hey, they both annoy me. Kids around Petra hawk postcards. The kids in Amman sell gum.

They are usually dirty, wearing clothes that obviously haven’t been washed in a while. They come up to people sitting and try to sell penny gum. Once, a kid was crying because somebody wrecked his gum and spilled it all over the street. That was sad. Erin gave him money. I didn’t. I’m cruel, I guess.

There is also this other tyke. He can’t be any more than 5, and his mother or grandmother can be found begging for change daily on the stairs to the underpass to the university. She always wears a black burka, has her head down, and holds her hands out as you pass. On one particular day, the child received some money and was running while screaming “fooloose” (money). It’s strange though. For the high population density, homelessness is very uncommon. I haven’t seen more than two people this entire time. It’s a testament to the power of family in this culture. 

I judge you by your Hummus

Hi friends. It’s been a while, no? Perhaps that is because the Internet decided to be a little annoying and not work! After 20 minutes of trying to send an email, blogging seems just not worth it.

However, it’s time to blog about my favorite topic – FOOD! I know I’ve written before about my favorite meals, but now were gonna talk about my favorite restaurants!

Hashem’s- Situated in a dirty alley in downtown Amman, Hashem’s is known for cheap and good food. It’s hard to find from the outside, only one simple metal sign marks the spot, but ask any taxi driver, and they’ll know the place. The lines that form at all hours are proof that tourists and locals alike covet this place. Plastic tables are set up along a narrow alley between a cart that is making plates of falafel and a man running a cash register.

After being seated, pieces of paper are set down as your “plate,” towers of pita are put in the middle surrounded by bowls of hummus and fuul (bean spread). A man carrying a large mixing bowl comes around shouting “Falafel?” Flag him down and you will not be disappointed. This is the best falafel EVER. Hot and crispy on the outside, warm and gooey in the middle.

It’s a no frills place, not the cleanest, but its been around since Attaturk himself. When a meal costs you only 1 JD, you know you’ve found the right place.

5/5 Bowls of Hummus.

“Mataam” – Ok I don’t really know the actual name of this place, mataam is just the word for restaurant, but Mataams has become quite popular with the CIEE crowd. Located just outside the gate of the university, its tucked away in a small corner, and according to the sign specialized is Iraqi cuisine. Whatever it is, it’s cheap and delicious. Walk in to this tiny shop and simply tell the man “sandwich falafel” and let your taste buds be amazed.

The cook—if you can call him that—take pita cuts it in half the long way and spreads down a generous helping of hummus. He takes 3 falafel and smushes them down so they are flat. Then is placed the ubiquitous cucumber and tomato salad. After being rolled up it is ready for consumption.

It’s simple, delicious and authentic. Nothing wrong with a .25 cent pita.

4.5/5 Bowls of Hummus

Noodasia

Whaaaa? What’s an Asian place doing on the list of my favorite restaurants?! Well too bad, because I missed Asian food enough to go seek it out. This place is uber swanky. Located in the upscale Abdoun neighborhood, Noodasia oozes urban luxe. Lacquered wood and modern lighting give this place an air of downtown Chicago or New York City. And none of the workers speak Arabic. It’s English, Chinese or no dice. I’ve been there a few times and each time have been surprised by the food.

The first time I ordered Vietnamese spring rolls and Sweet and Sour Chicken. The spring rolls were delicious and covered in a peanut satay sauce. Add the best seaweed salad I’ve ever had, and it was a pretty damn good appetizer. Now, the entrée was unexpected. I was ready for deep fried chicken coated in pink goo. Instead I got a classier version served with pineapple. The second time I had the absolutely fantastic Green Tea Noodles in soy sauce and peanut satay, served chilled. I could eat that all day, every day. Probably one of the best entrees I’ve had one either side of the pond.  For the excellent service and delicious food, the prices actually not bad. I spent 5 JD the first time and 10 JD the second.

4.5/5 Bowls of Hummus

“That one shwerma place”

“That one shwerma place” is located behind the CIEE office. The workers don’t speak English and your only choices are Shwerma: chicken or lamb, big or small. (That I can actually say in Arabic). Walking into the shop, which is the size of a small office, you will be hit by a blast of heat that is emanating from the giant rotating slabs of meat. Shwerma is basically meat that has been mixed with spices and made into a cone shape and placed vertically over heat. When someone orders, they shave off the meat and put it into a pita along with tahini and a pickle. Now, I love tahini, but oh god I hate pickles. And they LOVE pickles. They pickle everything here.

With the exception for that pesky pickle, this place is delish.

4/5 Bowls of Hummus

Lebnani Snack – Jordan’s fast food restaurant. It’s local, it’s across from the university and offers staples like pizza, shwerma and fish. What they are really known for, however, is their “cocktails.” They are delicious. Now, of course they are not cocktail-cocktails, that’s just what Jordanians call their smoothies. Originally, Lebnani was just smoothies, so that is why it makes sense they are so darn good.

My favorite is just the original with fruit. I’m pretty sure its strawberry, banana and kiwi. What is so unique is that they will have half of the smoothie be liquid and then chop up pineapple, grapes, apples and banana to fill the rest of the cup. In a country where fruit with meals is hard to come by, this more than makes up for it.

The rest of the food is so-so. Overly greasy, not enough salt on the fries (no place salts the fries). But for a smoothie job well done:

3/5 Bowls of Hummus 

It's 95 degrees, why am I wearing pants?!

As we head into November, I am still soaked in sweat. It was 95 degrees today in Amman. This morning I grudgingly put on my pants, slipped on a shirt and a ton of deodorant. Almost immediately little beads of sweat began to form on my neck and forehead. I went through three liters of water today just to replenish the inane amount exiting through my skin.

Since I lost my foundation a week ago, I have been going sans makeup—a big step for me. It still freaks me out. But I make it ok by saying it would just sweat off anyway—because it would.

I wake up in the night soaked in sweat. I keep the windows closed to keep the mosquitoes out, so the fan I have basically circulates warm air. Maybe I am losing weight in my sleep—the fit of my pants seems to confirm this theory.

Today, despite the haram nature of my shirt, I decided to forgo the scarf. It’s just too freaking hot. It makes me wonder about the other Muslim women.

If you look around campus, almost all wear their hijabs, but many also wear full denim or khaki trench coat type outfits (Jilbab). And they wear jeans or other pants underneath.

Then there are the women who wear the full Burka. They are wearing BLACK. How hot can that be? And they keep their hands covered as well, wearing leather gloves. So, really, I have it easy not having to wear strict attire, but I feel bad for these women, I don’t want to know how miserably hot it must be for them day after day.

I miss Iowa falls. Here, it’s just endless sunny days of hot hot heat. Where is my depressing clouds?! Where is the nip in the air that signals the first frost is only days away? I don’t know. But it ain’t here. 

My love(?!) for CSI Miami

So apparently CSI Miami is the most popular show on the planet. WHYYYYY? It is overly campy, way too dramatic, and David Caruso plays with his sunglasses as if they were going out of style. Nonetheless, I have been sucked into CSI Miami’s dubious web. It plays no less than 3 times a day of Fox Series, one of about 5 channels that play American shows. Once I start watching, I can’t stop.

Now, Jordanian TV is very interesting. Shows from America are heavily edited and the amount of “love scenes” has been cut wayyy back. Case in point. Gossip Girl. I was watching an episode I have already seen, and Chuck and Blair were gonna kiss and then STOP cut to the next scene. It made me and McCahey cry out in anger. It was such a good scene.

I know they also play True Blood here, and I don’t even want to know how they can possible edit that show so that it’s not “obscene” with out ruining it.  

The selection of shows that play is also quite entertaining. The Simpsons, Lost, The CSIs, Gossip Girl, and Criminal Minds are all some logical shows that play on the various channels. But then you have the weird shows, the ones you don’t even remember showing in America. Shows like The Listener, Gary Unmarried, Samantha Who, and Dollhouse. Gary Unmarried is stupid, Samantha Who, mildly entertaining, and Dollhouse—very odd.

Not only is the selection of shows kind of strange, so is the background music. “I speak No Americano” and a selection of Beatles songs keep the mood upbeat, while some heavy metal grunge music scares the pants off of me. There aren’t really commercials either, which is nice. The shows just end at quarter till and then the next show starts on the hour.

Clearly I am scraping the bottom of the barrel in regards to things I have to talk about. But I am going to Beirut soon, so I will have a plethora of new things to talk about. 

The difference my love, is that when you laugh, I forget about the sky.

My lover asks me:

"What is the difference between me and the sky?"

The difference, my love,

Is that when you laugh,

I forget about the sky

- Nizar Qabbani (Syrian Poet)

The olive trees dotted the landscape as we drove through the rolling hills. Heading north from Amman the scenery slowly changes. Gone are the rocky hills and treeless streets. Replacing them are olive groves—some planted in neat rows, some planted as though the seeds were thrown to the wind. The sky was blue and the day was hot. It was only 8 am but I was well on my way to Ajloun to get my volunteer on.

A group of about 20 of us dedicated our Saturday to paint a village school outside of Ajloun. The all-girls school needed some major upkeep. The walls, once white, now were a dingy shade of beige. The desks looked as though they were from the 1800s. Each classroom had one chalkboard and barred windows. No technology was present in this school. The toilets- squat- were outside in another dilapidated building.

Our mission was to paint the classrooms and pick up the littered campus. Those in charge gave us white paint and brushes. No paint tray, no drip cloth, no scraper to scrape off the chipped paint. We made do; however, I ended the day covered in white goo. 

What proved difficult was the “village Arabic.” It’s not too often that I don’t get one word of what someone says. But I could not understand a word of the village dialect. The other two girls I was painting with seemed to be something of a novelty for the Arabs. The men sat outside the room smoked their cigarettes and laughed while pointing at us. It was a bit uncomfortable.

Upon finishing, we drove a few kilometers to a house that overlooked the city. A family offered to make us lunch. It was delicious. Stuffed zucchini, rice and chicken, green beans, tabouleh and potatoes sat before us on the floor as we sat on gold cushions around the perimeter of the room. The mayor of Ajloun even came by to thank us for working to improve the village. It was a very touching moment—until he yelled at someone on the phone in Arabic. No idea what that was about.

Culture Faux Pas: I needed to use the restroom. So I asked “Wein Muhim.” They looked at me really funny. Only after I found the restroom, I realized why. Instead of asking “Where is the bathroom,” I asked, “Where is the important.” Stupid words that are too close together…

The day ended with a trip to the Soap House, which is funded by the European Union. Five women work at this little shop and make handmade soap. The profits return to the community to help better the lives of the women. It was a lovely idea in an area where women often are relegated to home life.

About the poem: Nizzar Qabbani is widely considered to be the best, and most romantic, Arabic poet. 

This Information has been Classified

Parentals, please look the other way.

Last night I partied at the US embassy. It was probably one of the best nights I’ve had out in Amman. Maybe it was because I felt like I was in America. I guess technically, I was.

Now, I have never been inside the embassy in Amman, but pulling up to it was very intimidating. The Israeli Embassy looks like a shack compared to the fortress like US Embassy.

After making it through security, having my person thoroughly checked and basically signing my life away, I made it inside the “frat house” where all the marines live. It was awesome. They have a ridiculously nice set up. Club music pumped through the stereo system, there was a table of chicken wings, hubbly bubbly was readily available, and obviously there was a bar.

Of course, this would be the only place in Amman where I can’t legally drink, since it’s US territory, the drinking age is 21. Like this was a problem.

One of the marines informed me there were several “upper level military” people there including a colonel. Cool. The crowed was a mix of youngins like myself, and middle aged folk who seemed to disappear as the night went on.

Basically I was just super excited to play beer pong ----in the US embassy. This is still something I can’t wrap my mind around. It just seems so counter intuitive. The night ended with an impromptu dance party in the living (like a king) room.

Continuing with the alcohol topic. Today I went to Madaba, the center of the Christian population in Jordan. Aside from really annoying tourists and ancient churches, liquor is available in restaurants, unlike in Amman.

Our tour guide for the day –Sufat (or something) the 35 year old director of the TAGKS program took us to a delicious Arabic restaurant and made us try Araq—the national Jordanian liquor—yes they have that. Now, I’m not keen on drinking during the middle of the day, but when I saw this stuff my inner child was super excited. First you pour a tiny amount of Araq in a glass about twice the size of a shot glass and then you pour water and add ice and something AMAZING happens. It goes from a clear to a milky liquid. The taste, however, I could have done without. Araq is made from Anise and tastes like black licorice, which I hate. But I drank it anyway, to be polite.

OK parents, you can look now. 

One Month Reflections: It's Superlative Time!

Somehow, I have been here for a month already, and have to decided to mark the occasion by giving superlatives about my favorite/least favorite/gross things.

Most likely cause of death (immediate) – Taxi driving. I know I have bemoaned this before, and I will reiterate. It will probably be death by taxi that does me in. I could also be hit by one while crossing a four-lane highway—which I do on a daily basis.

Most likely cause of death (long term) – Second-Hand Smoke. I smell like an ashtray. All. The. Time. Everyone smokes here. In fact, you are considered weird if you don’t. Taxi drivers light up while I’m in the car. One of the leaders of the CIEE program was giving a lecture on safety while puffing away—slightly ironic, don’t you think? There are hundreds of cigarette butts on the stairways of every building, and every ashtray I see is always full. Restaurants sit in a haze. Word to asthmatics: don’t come here.

Most likely cause of Tetanus- Streets. If you look at any of the streets in Amman you will notice they are COVERED in litter. Old drink cups, wrappers, gum, cockroaches and paper are some of the items one can happen to step upon. Besides the trash, the streets are covered in a constant grit from the lack of rain. Nothing ever gets washed away, so it is always dirty.

Most likely reason to laugh at an inappropriate time – Pictures of the Royal family. Jordanian’s LOVEEEEE the royals. King Abdullah’s photo is in every office, adorns every building and sidewalk, and can even be found in people’s homes. They really love their king. The pictures always crack me up. Abdullah in army attire looking like he’s ready for war. Abdullah a spiffy white button down and Khaki’s with his wife and children. Abdullah looking like a sleazy news anchor. What’s even more hilarious is the Crown Prince. Poor guy, he looks like quite the nerd. If he wasn’t royal he would be shoved into lockers.

Most likely to make you look like a foreigner – Backpacks. Ok, yeah, I have white skin. But the dead give away that you are a Westerner is a backpack. Students here don’t have backpacks. Women carry around tiny purses with a tiny notebook and a tiny pen, and guys simply sling their baby-covered notebook under their arm. Apparently only the engineering nerds—secluded on the other side of campus—carry backpacks.

Most likely cause of dirty looks – Israel. They realllly don’t like Israel here. It’s the occupied Palestinian territories thankyouverymuch. A large majority of the Jordanian population is Palestinian, and they will let you know it. Then you have the Circassian-Jordanians and the Egyptian-Jordanians. Basically, it’s really hard to find a Jordanian Jordanian—but when you do, they will let you know.

But yeah, living by the Israeli embassy has let me know a few things. Cab drivers will try to rip you off if you say you need to go to the Israeli Embassy. They may exclaim “OHMYGOD YOU’RE ISRAELI” or simply babble on about how much they hate Israel.

Most Likely Cause of Food Poisoning –Bedouins. Yeah. I got food poisoning. Any follower of my blog would know that. I just got over it two days ago. 10 days of food poisoning is NOT FUN. Despite the fact that the Bedouin food was delicious and amongst the best food I’ve had while in Jordan, 80-90% of the participants on the program got sick with in 24 hours of being at the Bedouin camp. It was quite shitty.

Most likely reason you’re fat- Oil. So at the friendly neighborhood Safeway, there is an entire ASILE devoted to different types of oil. My arteries clog just by looking at it. Canola seems to be the go-to oil here. You would think Olive Oil, but its not the case. Olive Oil is more for dipping bread into than actually used for cooking. Apparently when my land mother cooked for us one day she was just pouring cups of oil into our stuffed zucchini. Yummm…. (But it actually was reallyreally good).

Most likely reason I will not come back to the US – Food is so darn cheap! If you wanna eat like you do in America, yeah it will cost you. A box of Kellogg’s cereal will set you back 10 USD and a thing of JIF peanut butter will cost about 7. But besides that, you can eat for practically nothing. I went to the store today. This is what I got (in USD).

-       A loaf of bread- $.90

-       Pita (12 pieces) - $.35

-       Large jar of jam - $2

-       Tub of Yogurt (plain) - $1.50

-       Cheese slices – $1.30

-       Bananas (7) $1.70

-       Kiwi (7) $1.40

-       A kilo of Cornflakes (Jordanian Brand) - $3

-       Several zucchini - $1

-       Frozen Strawberries (1/2 gallon) $2.5

-       Granola bars $1.25

-       An enormous bag of chicken breasts $10

Yeah, relatively cheap. And it should last me a nice long time J

Yanni, Malish, she's haram. It's not a bamza, inshallah.

A list of words and there meanings:

Haram – literally means something that goes against the Islamic religion. Ie. Not praying, eating pork. Socially acceptable definition: showing cleavage, being a slut, drinking—basically being American.

Sentence: Did you see her last night? She was so Haram dancing all up on that guy.

Shway- 1.A little. Use in many circumstances. Shway cold, Shway hungry. Do you speak Arabic? Shway.

            2. Hold on. Usually is accompanied by putting all your fingers together in a point and shaking it at someone

In Shallah- This basically means “God Willing.” Will there be a snow day? In Shallah. Will I eat today? In Shallah. Are you going to make it home alive? In Shallah.

Malish- No worries, bro. Got a problem? No you don’t.  Malish.

Bamza- JKJKJK. You’re fat. BAMZA. (maybe)

Yanni- There was Yanni a girl Yanni who was totally Yanni talking Yanni way too Yanni loud. The colloquial word for “like.” Even when professors are speaking English, several “Yannis” will slip in there. 

YALLA- my personal fav= let's go. YALLA YALLA YALLA. it's fun to scream. you should try.