Looking up...

I fell back onto the bench lining the lime green walls of the terrace; post tea - before dinner - no homework done yet. I'm staring at the sky. Sparrows flutter above our heads.

Out on the terrace, we'll sit down to dinner around a circular table.

Advice: you put your right hand in and your left hand out...and you keep it that way. Use some bread to gather the meat and vegetables on the large plate being shared amongst the family. Speak Arabic. Learn Arabic. Don't forget to use your right hand.

So far I've said "new teacher" instead of "good teacher", "prayer" instead of "honey", heard "fruit table" when my host father, or sidi, said something about breakfast, which, fi arabee, is fudur. Brad, my roommate and partner for this Moroccan adventure sits there and does one of two things. Either he lets me make a fool of myself or acts as my dictionary, providing answers to questions that let me structure my sentences correctly and use the proper vocabulary.

I am beginning to like it here. I used to associate Arabic with something dreadfully difficult but now have formed a different association. I am reinforcing it daily in my Arabic classes and every evening around the dinner table. The association is with a conversation I had with a taxi driver in Amman. He and I spoke only Arabic on a 15-minute taxi ride from from the 7th Circle to AMIDEAST in Wadi Abdoun. It was my first Arabic conversation. Here, I feel like I've already had many more. They aren't perfect and they never will be but after nearly two years of studying the language, I'm happy to see it start paying off.

Tomorrow we (Brad, some folks from AMIDEAST, and I) head to Fez by train. Fez - where the fez hats are from.

After a Weekend in the Desert

"All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their mind, wake in the day to find it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they make act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible."

- T.E. Lawrence

I'm sitting in the front passenger seat of a car. Becky's driving. Hot air rushing by invades through the open window. We're fifteen minutes away from the place we'll call home for the weekend, the shore house. My right arm hangs out the window, slowly tanning in the sun. The drive is always too long.

I pull my hands away from rubbing my eyes.

I'm sitting in the front passenger seat of a taxi. A forgotten man is driving. Hot air rushing by invades through the open window. I'm fifteen minutes away from the place I'll call home for 5 more weeks, the house in Northwest Amman. My right arm hangs out the window, cooking in the sun. The drive is always too long.

The truck in front of us kicks up dust. I close my eyes. I'm on my way to the beach. I open my eyes. I'm on my way to Tla'a a Ali.

The sun reflects off of the white buildings and settles as a haze over the city. I squint often to try to and tame its light. Sunglasses keep the sun at bay but color the world a peculiar shade of orange.

Standing in the kitchen I find myself watching a grandmother, her grandchildren, and a housekeeper stage a scene as though they had been born for that moment. The arabee slips past my ears. I can only read the smiles on their faces and the glimmer in their eyes.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm dreaming.

10 Days and Countless Taxis in Jordan

Part of the difficulty of keeping my mood up has definitely been the lifestyle change. I needed the last week to acclimate to the mode of transportation, environment, and schedule. One week in I feel like I have to start getting busy or otherwise I won't be able to successfully make the transition. I need to get on a regular sleep schedule and start exercising. I also have a lot of reading to catch up on and a paper to write.

Don't let my complaining fool you, though. I couldn't be happier with where and how I'm living. This is an experience I've been waiting for my whole life.

I live in a hilly area of Amman called Tla'a a Ali, in a three story home owned by one family. My host grandmother, Rhada, lives on the first floor with the house keeper and two other American students studying at AMIDEAST, Chris and Hayden. The second floor is occupied by Rhada's eldest son and his family. The third floor, where her youngest son, Ihab, and his wife and 2-year old daughter live, is where I stay. Its a big apartment with a view of nearly the entire city from the living room window. I sit by it when I'm reading or writing. Looking out onto the city I still feel detached from it, as though I'm looking at a picture or out from inside of a bubble. At least that means I feel safe and at home in this chair.

Rhada has a garden where she grows her own figs (tiin), apricots (mushmush), and a few other things. The first fig picked off the tree this season was given to me to eat. The morning after trying my first apricot, a bowl stood on the breakfast table with barely day old apricot jam. The food in the house is wonderful. I can't imagine a single place in the country where traditional Jordanian fare is made better than in Rhada's kitchen with her and Sally, the housekeeper, at the helm.

I use a taxi to get to anywhere I need to go. I've had a lot of trouble making use of landmarks to get a feel for the geography of Amman because of my perception that many of the buildings, homes, and infrastructure look similar. It doesn't help that neighborhoods have recently had their names changed; as well as streets - most of which are named after a city in the Middle East or a King, Queen, Prince, or Princess. You tend to have to know the directions to somewhere if you want to get there without much trouble.

The taxi drivers are relatively pleasant though. When I take a taxi alone I manage to make it about three or four minutes before I have to identify myself as a foreigner: etekelom arabee shway (I speak a little Arabic). Sometimes they're surprised that I'm from somewhere else, pointing out that my face looks Arab. I've been asked if I'm from Turkey. I reply ehna amreeki (I'm American). Some will ask what I'm doing here. Ehna tawleb fii arabee (I'm a student of Arabic). Others don't attempt to communicate. Welcomes abound; ahlan w'sahlan they tell me. I thank them.

One taxi driver told me he loved Obama. He made a gesture of holding a gun and said something in an excited and grateful tone about Saddam Hussein and then Afghanistan. I want to say he was lauding our military interventions in the region. At least someone in that cab was happy about what our country is up to, I joked with a classmate sitting in the back.

Mohammed, a taxi driver from a few days ago, bought some fruit on the side of the road towards the end of our time together and handed one to me. He knew few English words but we did manage to have a conversation of some sort. He proudly showed me a tattoo that looked like he had done it himself. Philstiin (Palestine) it said fi arabee. Below it were his children's names. We talked about how women in Jordan have so many kids and how in America they have far less. He told me his wife's name. He was so pleased to know the word "fuck" he repeated proudly in several instances of hitting traffic.

Iman, a taxi driver who took a few of us to Wasat al Balat, spoke wonderful English. I mentioned him in passing in my second post. He told Paula how much she should pay for a hookah and that to make sure its from Egypt, they make the best ones. Conor got some advice from him on how much he should buy a John Cena shirt for. Iman told me how much I should spend on a koofiyeh and how the price will tell me where its made. He told me of a hotel his brother manages in Aqaba and that I should mention his name if I call to make a reservation.

Of course, I haven't been spending all my time in taxis and exploring Jordan. My Peace and Conflict class is from 9 am to 12 pm, Sunday through Thursday, the Jordanian work week. It has been pretty enlightening. So far we've had three prominent Jordanian figures speak with us, most recently former Prime Minister Abdelsalam al-Majali.

Amman stretches into the horizon, even seen from its highest point. The window at which I sit faces East. The moon becomes visible in the sky hours before sunset and slowly becomes brighter and brighter as the setting sun steals light away from this part of the world. The call to prayer rings out from a mosque. Where the sky meets the city you can see that night has fallen in the East. The grey darkness stretches across the horizon, the height of a thumb on an outstretched arm. Between the incoming night and the moon an ascending blue sky quickly turns purple, then pink, and finally, slowly, orange. Orange fades into evening's intended blue without hesitation. The almost full moon gets brighter. The colors in the sky follow their creator down below the Western horizon.

Street lights turn on. Some don't work. Mosques across the city illuminate their minarets in a green light. Another call to prayer, this time from further away. The air has cooled. The skyscrapers I see from my window, which you can count on two hands, tower above the city. Most stand unlit, either under construction or currently unoccupied. The city lights in the distance score the horizon. Another place to draw a line, a border to fight over, an attempt to make different us and our side from them and their side.

I haven't completely unpacked and settled in yet even though I've done laundry. I'm going to do that now and then go watch the Spain v Italy soccer game with my classmates.

Salaam.

“We are the same family – no matter what your religion.”

I’ve slacked off on getting this travel blog started and I’m not sure why. I guess I wanted to make the most of my time in London with my friends and try not spending it at a computer typing away. That’s something I learned the first night of my Birthright-Taglit trip last year and didn’t want to make the same mistake again. There’s more down time in Amman though. I take a taxi back to my host family’s home by 11 pm, my curfew every night except Thursday. Thursdays I can stay out until 2 or 3 am in the morning I’ve been told.

I arrived in Amman Friday around 7 pm local time, noon home time. Everyone was pretty anxious about starting his or her experience here. We only found out at the airports who we were living with. In turn finding out who had a roommate and who didn’t. I was one who didn’t and that freaked me out.

They gave us a form before the trip asking me my rooming preferences and I filled in the blank stating I would rather be on my own. I’ve made up a logic behind that answer but am not sure how honest I’m being with myself. What made me uncomfortable was how quickly I realized this wasn’t the same as being in Israel, the only other foreign country I had traveled alone in – even though that experience lasted only a few hours before I met up with Mark. I had made great friends with the people in my class and I was used to saying goodnight to someone in English, knowing we would wake up the next day and walk the 7 or so blocks to class together, all 15 of us. Having a roommate would’ve lessened the stress of the first night and the second. I’m on my third night but can still clearly remember what Friday night felt like.

I was completely terrified. My accommodations were and are stellar. My host father speaks wonderful Russian – something that makes me feel at home. I’ve got Internet access, my own bedroom and bathroom, warm water, and endless amounts of delicious homemade food. It was just being alone for the first time in 2 weeks in a country and culture I had never seen or experienced before that got to me. The idea of communicating to someone who knew shwey, or a little, ingleesi in hopes that we would understand each other enough for him to drive me to wherever I needed to go in the city was daunting.

There’s no bus system where I live and walking anywhere I need to go would take too long. The 7 weeks I had left until the end of my adventure added to my anxiety. Deep down in my gut I felt myself wonder whether I should ask to be placed in a hotel or with a roommate – maybe I should just leave after the Peace and Conflict Studies program ends – make up some excuse. I told Paula today, who’s also on her own but near classmates, that if someone had handed me a ticket to fly home that night I would have gladly packed my bags and left and she agreed. I’m glad someone else feels that way so I know I’m not the only one.

So why did I start this blog now? We had our orientation today and Hala, our wonderful program manager, said a journal was a good way to deal with culture shock and homesickness. Writing down the events of the day would keep me grounded and reflective rather than with my head in the clouds wishing for my mother’s stew, my father’s hug, my grandma’s kiss, my cat’s inaudible meow, and Becky’s hand in mine with our feet in the Atlantic.

I also feel like I should export this experience to as many people as possible. Preconceptions, misconceptions, and willful ignorance abound around the world when it comes to the Middle East.

Today my host mother was preparing to show me a view from one of the windows in their salon, a room used to entertain guests, and asked me what my religion was.  It was an innocent question intended to precede my view of a mosque out of the window. I hesitated, unsure of how to reply. I am not a practicing Jew but when asked outside of the States in particular instances I am comfortable replying as such. I struggled to form a sentence but then blurted out, “I’m a Jew.” She smiled and showed me the view. She could tell that I was uncomfortable and nervous in proclaiming my Judaism. On her way out of the room she told me this though: “We are all the same family – no matter what your religion.”

I wanted to share that here and with everyone who might read this. I know that not everyone will be accepting of me here but I’m not here for a vacation – to me this is a modern day adventure and if I break some prejudicial barriers, make it through a few disagreements, and learn to make my way around Amman and through every day life in arabee then I will call it successful.

Anyway, I know this was long. The rest should be much shorter. Thanks for making it this far if you did. I have some stories to tell about London too so come back here – same time, same place – to hear about how I took off my shirt in Hyde Park to treat an unconscious fellow and how the most any of us drank was in the presence of the HRH the Duke of Kent and HRH the Prince of Jordan.