The Sand in my Shoes

Day 13: September 5th

Hey lovelies. I touched down in Jordan about two weeks ago so I guess it’s only appropriate that I try to document the new but oddly familiar textures and tastes that crowd my days. Amman is a city caught between traditional symbols and symptoms of globalization. She swirls in an overabundance of stiff smells, stifling heat, guttural psalms and little sparks of magic. Cab drivers hurl past one another in their sparkling Toyota Corollas, conservative women in black burqas flit between Safeway and Forever 21 and the towering minarets are lined in bright green neon lights comparable to old Las Vegas.

Admittedly, it’s been a messy transition both physically and culturally speaking (my bowels have yet to agree with the diet of lamb and soupy cheese. Surprise!). Within my first few hours in Amman, I’d already learned a valuable lesson in cultural assimilation: some men consider a smile an open invitation to grope your ankle. Have since practiced and nearly perfected my “fuck off” scowl. Still haven’t decided whether or not or how I should hide my skin (story of my life).

The next few days were a jumble of Byzantine churches, Ummayad palaces and fallen citadels situated at the heart of a restless economy. As we stood amidst the hilltop rubble we learned of the legacy of heroes and gods that walked the same ground centuries before us. Some of the Americans wandered off in thought while others stood on pillars and mimicked the forgotten deities.

We also toured the gigantic King Hussein mosque erected in the image and memory of the late (and widely beloved) king. We women donned full black robes and covered our hair before entering the mosque. Standing among these newly concealed American women was quite the sobering experience. It felt strangely comforting to be faceless, nameless and generally unrecognizable except unto the all seeing eyes of God.

On the first night of Ramadan, a group of us gathered to break the fast and while the evening call to prayer rang out from the nearest minarets, one of our Jewish companions ceremoniously broke bread and we exhaled guilty little giggles. A short while later, I moved into my host family’s three story mansion in a “quiet” neighborhood that’s reminiscent of Albuquerque’s Northeast Heights. My host mother immediately grabbed my hand and excitedly ran me up and down the house. Mom, she cooks, looks and even makes honey and lemon concoctions just like you. It’s uncanny and frankly, a bit unfair J. I gather you arranged that one with God. My host father is a bit skinny and shifty and we have yet to make eye contact. The young brothers are twelve and fourteen and refuse to act any older. Occasionally they try out the “protectorate” role especially on night walks around the neighborhood. One night, a car full of rowdy young twirps attempted to run me and two other girls off the road (TWICE!). Zaid, the youngest, puffed up his chest and accompanied us down the street until the car showed up a third time. Without a second thought, Zaid booked it back to the house leaving us to the mercy of a smelly mess of testosterone, big cars and fire crackers. I learned later that this is a fairly common practice for young men seeking the company of young ladies. Dating in the Middle East is beyond me.

So, I’ve heard from some but not all of the people I miss most. Please keep me updated on all of your latest schemes and dreams. I’ll try to put this blasted blog to good use. Know that I’ve thought and prayed and giggled about your goofy faces every damn day.

Peace.