There's no "I" in "The Other"

Last night our Nigerian-Saudi friend Ahmed-Fellata met us at the West Gate of the University with a friend of his. His friend, who for pronunciation purposes we will call “MJ”, is an Irbid native also studying Engineering at Yarmouk. He introduced himself and said that he had “insisted” that Fellata allow him to accompany us to the café – a remark that caught me as funny because several of Fellata’s friends who’ve met us have told me exactly the same thing (I picture Fellata cowering while they approach, sternly slapping a ruler against the inside of their hands, growling, “Let me come. . . .”).

Our conversation roamed from movies, to immigration issues, to school. MJ mentioned a history course that both he and Fellata had taken, called “Jerusalem.” Daph and I couldn’t stand the curiosity, and we asked what they studied in the course. They described it as starting at the founding of the city, with great weight on the Crusades, and ending in the present day.
What, we asked, did it say about the present situation?

Now, you should know that we are outed to Fellata. He knows that we are Jewish, and is aware that Daphna speaks fluent Hebrew. So, when MJ began to talk about how Arabs could not rest until Jerusalem was under their control, Fellata tried to steer the conversation in as “PC” a way as he could manage, while trying to contain the laughter that was slipping into one of his big, loopy smiles. MJ talked about the injustices that have occurred in the past sixty years, some of which we had heard of, and some of which, like Israeli soldiers not allowing Muslims under the age of 45 into the Dome of the Rock, we had not / had reason to doubt. MJ suggested that under Arab rule, everyone would have uninhibited access to their holy sights. Fellata suggested that it be an international city. MJ mentioned that Jewish control of Jerusalem was merely a sign of Muslim deviance, and that once Muslims were again on the proper path in front of God, it would again be their city.

As our Arabic has improved, and as we have begun to read the newspaper (oh so slowly) and other texts, we have learned much more about the Jordanian view of Israel. We did several classes on reading newspaper articles about “suicide bombers,” a term which was in most of the texts we read, though our teacher contended that Muslims call them “Martyr bombers.” We did a listening exercise that suggested that Jews had stolen a cornerstone of the Al-Aqsa Mosque. On Friday we took a test, the text of which claimed that Ajloun Castle is a reminder to Muslims to re-take Palestine and restore the glory days of Saladin.

It is difficult to know where to stand when these issues arise. There is already a terrific amount of pressure in knowing, simply, that the people we meet may never meet another Jew in their lives, and that the impression we make may be incredibly important. When, though, do we speak up? How can we without alienating, or even endangering ourselves? And what does it mean if we simply say that we hope for peace?

After carrying on in our discussion, MJ paused for a moment and said, “We don’t have a problem with the Jews, though. Just the Zionists.” He mentioned that there are Arab Jews, though many of the communities he mentioned no longer exist or have thoroughly diminished: in Iraq, in Syria, in Yemen, in Iran, in Morocco (which is still fairly sizeable). When we chatted later in the night, alone, Daph asked if I thought he had realized that we were Jewish. But really, I think he was just trying to remind, or show, the Americans that the Jordanians are not a hateful people.

Finally, Fellata said, “And what’s so funny is that we’re all cousins,
Muslims, Christians, and Jews!”
And Daphna said, “Yes, brothers.”
And, for a moment, the table was silent.

Your Arabic Phrases of the day:
Mumkin – Possibly, Possible, Maybe
Yan-ni – it means. . . (Used as “I mean” or as a mid-sentence pause for thought reorganization like “Like”)

Jordan: It's for Lovers

I am, always, thankful that I have Daphna in my life. On this trip, however, there is every reason to highlight that gift. Jordan is not well suited to single people, and we have seen that repeatedly on our trip thus far.

Irbid is a relatively conservative town, and men and women rarely chat, let alone truly date, or even touch. The dress, too, reflects that: while men will occasionally walk around in t-shirts, shorts are so uncommon that one of my Turkish friends, seeing how many people were staring at me on the way to the basketball court, jokingly suggested that, no doubt, the mere sight of my legs would impregnate all of the Jordanian women around (oh, rue the power of the pale, hairy, chicken-legs!). Women here also dress very conservatively by US standards, although you will see women in the veil with very tight fitting clothing, or even, as we saw yesterday, in loose, flowing black robes with a full black veil, and red "hooker" high heels. I guess you do what you can. . . .

But the absence of inter-gender communication in Jordan can make things very interesting for any foreigners, who Jordanians tend to feel are outside of the normal rules for all things sex-related. The only problem is, well, many of the people here have no idea how to interact with single people of the opposite sex. So, they turn to the one source that's readily available and seems to make sense: Hollywood.

Oh, yes, Hollywood. Thank you James Bond. Thank you Brad Pitt. Even our friends here, sweet, wonderful, caring people, can display. . . well, an embarrassing adherance to Hollywood style when trying to warm up to foreigners. One of our friends who's attending the university, after meeting one of the Italian girls in the Language Center (who has a boyfriend back home, nonetheless), began incessantly texting her that he was in love with her. Likewise, Evan, before he left last week, was hounded by a young woman over 10 years his junior, in a manner that left no option but that she be left with a broken heart (to his credit, he "broke her heart" in the far more gentlemanly fashion). It's as if a bunch of American thirteen year-olds were let loose, complete with questions like, "If you were to marry anyone in this room, who would it be?"

The difference in the portrayal and relations of the sexes goes much further than that -- people of the same gender interact much differently here than in the US. Men kiss other men "hello" (there are various traditions, the most common being one kiss on the first cheek, and two on the second), hold hands, and link arms. Combined with the fact that women don't typically go out at night and that men here dress far better than most Americans, the night scene in Irbid makes it look like the largest gay scene imaginable. San Francisco's got nothing on the Middle East. . . .

And while most of the people here are aware of the no-kissing-Americans-thing (thank you, once again, Hollywood), it is a little shocking to have another man grab your hand, or link arms while walking down the street, and to realize that, a)this is normal here, and b) to jump away would be incredibly insulting. So, growth for all, I suppose.

Ironically, though, there is also a great fear of being seen as homosexual here (how do you distinguish, I wonder, when it is perfectly acceptable to kiss another man's neck while he is singing, for instance), and many times people have assured us that they are not gay (one even offered to change when we mentioned that gay men tend to be the best dressers in America). One of our teachers had a hard time grasping that, when I talked about the gay rights movement, I didn't consider it a bad thing. On the other hand, teenage pregnancy is basically a non-issue here. Everybody's got their's, I suppose.

And now our time as students in Jordan is starting to draw to a close -- we only have 8 days of class left before we head back to Israel on May 18 for Jackie Siegel's wedding and to meet Mark Piper and Ken Long, our awesome friends who are coming to meet us in Israel and to travel with us in Jordan. We will try to post a couple more times before we leave, but, just as a warning, mid-travel posts may be rarer. . . .

We're sending lots of love.

Your Arabic phrases of the day:

La Ahref. - I don't know.
Nahnu, hata Aalan, Taliban. - We are, still, students.

The Other Pilgrimage to Mecca

Last night we ventured into Amman for the second time, and met our friend Ahmed “Tupac” (here, if you’re named Ahmed, you need a nickname: in our phone alone are Ahmed “Fellata,” Ahmed “Tupac,” and Ahmed “Lebanese”). He brought us to a place we’ve heard praised by several people around Irbid: Mecca Mall. And, immediately, it was obvious why we’d heard so much: Mecca Mall is everything that Irbid is not. It is glitzy, it is foreign, it is humongous – within its walls alone are a bowling alley, a movie theater, a skating rink, multiple arcades, extremely expensive stores (Timberland, Polo Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, United Colors of Benetton) and a humongous food court that featured all of your American favorites: McDonalds, KFC, Burger King, Pizza Hut, Starbucks, Caribou Coffee. . . .

We wandered the mall for hours (largely because there is little else to do in Amman at night without involving alcohol), gawking at the expensive brands, the ridiculous amount of English, and the swarms of people that at times made the mall hard to navigate. We took a small splurge, and Ahmed and I each got a drink at Starbucks (ahh, that sugary American taste. . . .) and Daph grabbed an ice cream cone as we learned about Ahmed's background. His family lives in Saudi Arabia, but he was born in Eritrea and spent nearly a year in Turkey, so he has been around, and his English is so good that, coupled with his t-shirt and slightly baggy pants, it would be easy to take him for American, with a slight accent that could be from, vaguely, most ethnic inner cities.

For me, though, the main focus of the trip was the food. I pulled us all out to the grocery store across the street (somehow it seemed more interesting than the grocery store in the mall) and, though we failed in the tofu search, we found black beans. I could hear some vaguely classical music start shooting through the back of my brain, could see Raphael’s painting of Mary’s ascent to heaven. . . and we bought two bags. Then we headed back to the mall.

We had found a Chinese restaurant in the food court that had a vegetarian section on its menu and the last menu item was “Tofu and Vegetable Hotplate.” Come dinner time I headed straight there, and Daphna next door to Chili House, a local fast food joint that had a veggie burger. I approached the Chinese Restaurant meekly and asked the man at the counter in Arabic if there was anything other than tofu and veggies in the dish. “No tofu,” he said in English. And that was that.

The veggie burger, it turned out, was vegan, and I decided to try Daph’s before jumping in for my own. She brought it to the table and set it down – it was deep fried, on a bun with a slice of onion, a slice of tomato and a light serving of ketchup. The salad it came with was iceberg lettuce (the first time I’ve seen it here) with tomatoes, cucumbers, and beautiful slices of bell pepper. Daph bit into the burger, and mumbled, “What is this, potato?” And it was. The “burger” was like eating a latke on a bun. Other options at the food court were limited, so I had falafel.

Eating out in Jordan (and especially outside of Amman) as a vegetarian is a very difficult thing to do. As a vegan, it is limited to certain appetizers exclusively: hummus, falafel, ful, mutabal (basically babba’ghanoush), and a variety of appetizer salads. At non-traditional restaurants, it can be even harder – we accompanied Evan to an Italian restaurant before he left this week, and there was not a single available menu item that I could eat. For obvious reasons, we do a lot of cooking at home.

Beyond that, food can be difficult as soon as it involves more than just the two of us. We have been shy to invite friends over for meals (and even to join friends at the “family-style” restaurants around), as meals here are not considered complete without meat ("white beans or garbanzos?" doesn't seem to cut it), and suggesting that you are a vegetarian results in expressions of pity and the immediate question, “Why?” This is not a society given to meditating on the issues behind vegetarianism, and that is clear even in the practices of Hallal, which, we've been told, extends an animal’s suffering in order to best drain it of blood. But unlike in certain parts of Guatemala, where I almost felt bad rejecting meat (where some people, for economic reasons, clearly had no option other than what was immediately available), here I do not – this is a land of plenty, a cradle of civilization for the richness of the earth (and the produce here is incredible, especially as we move into summer). Indeed, veganism owes great debt to Middle Eastern cuisine: homos, falafel, lentils, tahini. People here very much have the option of vegetarianism, it is simply not (yet) considered.

So Amman verged on a complete gustatory success, but alas. The mall, however, did impress us, and as we pulled away we saw that another of the malls we’ve heard so much about was a mere 100 meters from Mecca Mall. From the outside it also appeared lavish, and huge. We were astounded by that, especially in the light of what we know to be the Jordanian economic position. It is certainly not horrible, but minimum wage here is just over $140 a month (wages are not paid hourly, and a friend is working 72 hour weeks for under $160 a month). As we frequently have trouble staying within our $70 weekly budget (which doesn’t include rent), it is difficult to understand how people make ends meet, and even more difficult to understand how Jordan can sustain dozens of luxury boutiques all next door to each other, especially when the 16% sales tax is added onto the already jaw-dropping prices (Ahmed had been quoted a price of 600 dinar – almost $900 – for a pair of shoes at one of the stores in Mecca Mall). We don’t see it here in Irbid, where there are nice buildings but nothing spectacular, but the presence of the malls speaks to the existence of a strong, powerful, upper class.

And, writing about the excursion today, it feels like being that much closer to home – that much closer to all those things "American" – makes us feel so much further away.

Your Arabic phrases of the day:
Limatha? – Why?
Matha? – What?
Shu? – What? (in the local Jordanian dialect)
Ayna? – Where?
When? – Where? (in the local Jordanian dialect)

Coming out of the closet (and, gee boys, ain't we had fun)

There are some weeks that just seem like standard, dime-a-dozen weeks, and then some weekends that. . . well, weekends that come out of nowhere and bowl you over like a. . . like a stubby camel in a sandstorm.

Daph's sister, Yael, arrived from Israel on Thursday to great fanfare (if Jordanians were not yet lining the street to take pictures of her as she exited the bus, they soon would be). And, in our search for entertainment for the weekend, we ended up on a trip to Umm Qais, the ruins of one of the Roman Decapolis cities that overlooks the current borders between Jordan, Israel, and Syria (though there's some dispute here over the border of Israel and Syria, as to what is currently what and what is simply Israeli occupied, and what is the Golan Heights and what is the. . . . You get the point), with Lebanon clearly visible in the distance. We traveled with a group of foreign students from around the area and beyond, including Syrians, Lebanese, Saudis, Nigerians, Malaysians, Palestinians, Iraqis, Kuwaitis and more. Students pointed out to us that the area we were in was so close to the borders that people had gone there to watch rockets flying back and forth during the 2006 Israel-Hezbollah conflict.

From Umm Qais we headed into the Jordan Valley -- a stone's throw from the Golan Heights -- but were turned away from our original destination because one of the Palestinian students on the bus had forgotten his student ID and was carrying his passport, which alarmed the Jordanian military to the point that they redirected us to another location and sent a soldier along as an escort. He was wearing a leather jacket, after all, and it seemed to me that he might try to pull some James Dean-like smoothness at the border, in full view of the Israeli military. Gulp.

The day was incredible -- the people were generous to the point of being over the top (people brought home-made delicacies -- one of which resembled the dessert at Govindas -- and home-brewed espresso, and there was a picnic at which they refused to accept "I already have food" as sufficient reason to turn down another overloaded plate). We were also something of rock stars, somehow. It was probably the best documented day of my life (and with a photographer mom and sister, that's saying something), and Yael was probably in twice the number of pictures that I was. People -- even people who's names we did not yet know -- would call us over to pose with them, simply to smile, arms over each other's shoulders.

Even the Iraqis, with the most obvious reasons to be ambivalent towards Americans, didn't flinch in their embrace. One of them, even, while entertaining the bus on the ride home from the day on a microphone, called me to the front of the bus, and asked that I tell a joke. He tried to translate but then stopped me mid-joke and said, "You are married two and a half years, yes?"
"Yes," I squeaked.
"Am I right?" he said.
"Yes," I said.
"You are married two and a half years, why do you not have children yet?"
It was OK, no sweat, only every eye on the bus staring at me. . . .

The next evening, after a full day in the ruins at Jerash, we went to the "villa" of some of the Kuwaiti boys from the trip to Umm Qais. They live in a beautiful multiple-story house in Irbid, surrounded by fruit trees and flowers, herbs and spices growing like wild. They taught us about traditional hospitality in Kuwait, including a coffee-drinking process wherein you drink shots of espresso, waving your cup from the wrist when you are done and don't want a refill (one of the Kuwaitis was punished for waving it from the elbow by an extra serving). If you, however, take less than two shots, it is considered an insult to the host. So, we each took two, followed by black tea with mint and a (miraculously) vegan apple cake. If you can imagine Daphna and I, who drink cola and coffee a combined 10 times a year, on three substantial servings each. . . let's just say that we had fun. They also gave us each three apples, a banana, pomelo, and juice.

As incredible as the visit was, it did open a small can of sardines -- for Yael to come visit us for a weekend from America would mean that, roughly she spend as much time in transit as here (something many people are aware of). In other words, the cover was. . . shady. And when one of the Kuwaiti boys brought down his computer so that Ya could accept him as a friend on Facebook right there, well, it was quite something watching his face as he saw pictures of her tattoo in Hebrew. . . pictures of her in front of a Hebrew billboard. . . pictures of her as a volunteer for the Israeli army. . . and as he started putting it all together. . . .

So, we're coming out of the closet. Not entirely, you see. We felt the need to tell our teachers, because we are getting closer to them, and it's awkward (not to mention that Daph said that Ya was studying in "Palestine" to Rayjahn, which, if Rayjahn had said it would mean that she was studying in Israel, but when an American says it means she'd be studying in the West Bank or Gaza, which confused the hell out of Rayjahn because Yael couldn't understand a word of Arabic). Rayjahn was fairly laid back about it, and said it wasn't an issue to her, and we proceeded to have an extended discussion about prejuidice and how many Palestinians still won't marry Jordanians, and vice-versa. Adella was, well, excited. She said, "You shouldn't tell people, but I knew!" It seemed to give a spring to her step, and neither of them reacted at all negatively to the idea that we hadn't told them in the beginning, saying that it was the right thing to do. As far as the Kuwaiti boy, when Yael called him after we left and asked him to be tight-lipped about the information, he said, "Your Jewish, I'm Muslim, who cares?"

Not that it mattered anyways -- we walked into the expatriate student office the next day and the Palestinian who's the head of the foreign students' club started to talk to Daphna in Hebrew. Something about the names "Daphna" and "Yael" don't scream "goy". . . .

Other than that, life is good, and we are starting a peanut butter and banana craze in the Middle East. It's the next big thing, I'm telling you.

Lots of love.

Your Arabic phrases of the day:

Elrajel elmunasib fee almakan almunasib. The right place at the right time. (Literally the right man at the right place). الرجل المناسب في المكان المناسب

chubz, wah maoz, wah ful sudani, fa-cut. Bread, and banana, and peanut butter, only. خبز و موز و فول سوداني فقط

Dayenu

We climbed up the mountain together, stepping on and over the chipped sandstone, and then turned around, and gazed at what our distant ancestors must have looked at thousands of years ago.

Wadi Rum is a desert within a desert. In fact, per its name (Wadi means valley), it is a flat expanse between harsh rocky mountains that contains occasional sprouts of greenish-brown plants that approximate tumbleweed but is otherwise devoid of life. Visually it is stunning, and as we climbed, further layers of rock mountain came into hazy-blue-view in the distance.

It was the second day of Passover, and, for the first time, I understood why the Israelites cried out, “Why did you bring us out of Egypt to die in the desert?” I could see one person – or maybe two – managing to survive in Wadi Rum without modern technology and the ability to import water, food and shelter, but for ten to survive would necessitate a series of miracles. For hundreds of thousands of people to survive, you would literally need food to magically appear every single morning. No number of miracles in Egypt, no quantity of plagues (be they 10 or 250 or more) hold a candle to the 40 years that the Israelites wandered in this desert. In a modern-day Middle East when we are constantly reminded of how much easier destruction is than creation, I kept thinking that God created this desert simply to show how incredible God could be. The people who left Egypt only having seen the destruction of which God is capable may not have been ready to enter Israel, but those having seen the creation of life that God engineered over 40 years in this desert . . . they must have been willing to follow God anywhere.

And we traveled backwards. After leaving Wadi Rum, we arrived at Aqaba, Jordan’s only port, a touristy free-market city on the Red Sea. The water is beautiful, and it sits at the heart of so much that holds the world captive right now – at one point (at the Royal Diving Club, where you have to pay $25 to use the beach, but where you can at least enter the water – two friends had been hurt, one by urchins and one by a broken fishing hook, at the public beach) we were within five kilometers of the Jordan/Saudi border, looking across at Eilat and Israel’s border with Egypt. Here, perhaps, Jews walked on dry land so many years ago.
Under the cloudy sky, the water was bitingly cold, but we snorkeled with Evan and Ayhem (the trip’s organizer, who was excited to come, but didn’t mention that he couldn’t swim and spent the time doing small circles around the dock) and saw great coral reef and ocean life, including sea snakes and lion fish and many others. I did wonder, though, how, with all this coral, walking through along the sea bed was possible. . . .

The trip itself was exhilarating and frustrating. Traveling with members of seven nationalities and in all age groups can be an incredible experience, and a very frustrating one. Unfortunately, much of the trip was segregated by culture and language – though, we did get the chance to chat quite a bit with Evan about his diplomatic adventures. Everything was further complicated by the intense range of cultural expectations, especially concerning punctuality (for instance, we left Aqaba a half hour after we were supposed to arrive at Petra, which is two hours away) and noise levels (as a note, we tended to side with the Koreans on both). We were happy to see all the sights, but truly driven to return to only one: Petra.
Petra is incredible, if mind-boggling. Here a successful trading village was literally built into rock. People carved out homes (you can see neighborhoods, and we wondered if there was a rivalry between those near the theater and those near the Palace Tomb, for instance, or any other type of my-home-cave-is-better-than-your-home-cave type of dynamics). The whole concept is rather startling, and, where they decided to do it with class, it is truly amazing. Apparently, as well, we didn’t even see the largest and most fascinating, but we are looking forward to making the trek when Mark and Ken are here. Pictures abound.

We miss you all, and are sending love from the desert.

Your Arabic phrases of the week:

Bahar al-ihmar – The Red Sea

Hal wasalna hata alaan? Are we there yet? (Literally, Did we arrive until now?)

The Notes that Never Made It

In the past week we've had several mini-events that didn't make it into the last blog, and we wanted to update you all on them.

My favorite moment from the week was when Daphna turned in an assignment with the title: أنا سنيّة. She meant to write: أباسنيّة, which is the name of our favorite Ethiopian restuarant back home (Abasynnia). Instead, أنا سنيّة means "I am Sunni." Our teacher picked it up and went fairly white. We hadn't truly discussed religion, and here it appeared that Daph was well on her way to converting. . . . And what did lentils have to do with her conversion, anyhow?

At least, in this heavily Sunni country, she didn't write "I am Shiite." We might have had to find an early flight home. . . .

Oh, the little dots that are so important to Arabic. . . .

The same teacher invited us to lunch last Thursday at a restaurant. She introduced us to several new dishes -- semi-pickled turnips, fatoush (Middle East taco salad: basically "Israeli" salad with fried bread in it), an odd canned-mushroom salad, and more. At the end of the meal, Daph and I did what was only natural. We grabbed the bill. When our teacher realized we were serious, she went really white and got rather upset. Apparently, while trying to be American-polite, we had insulted her honor (though she still won -- she was able to pursuade the cashier in Arabic to take her money and not ours. . . our skills are still not beyond hers). . . .

Speaking of (and in) Arabic, each week at the Souk, we start at the same dried beans and spices store that we are loyal to because on our first visit, due to a misunderstanding, we overpaid and the owner called us back and returned the extra money we had given him (even though it was clear, due to the denominations, that we didn't have a clue). Now, each week he gives us a chocolate and his cousin speaks "Arabeezi" (read, Spanglish without the Spanish but with Arabic) with us and helps us select what we want for the week. This week, his cousin, who is 18, told us that he wants us to teach him English. We agreed to do a trade at 6:00p the next night. True to form here in Jordan, he called around 8:00pm and asked where we were. He and another cousin then joined Fellatta and us at a cafe. Between Fellatta seeking advice on how to pursue a Tunisian student, and the boys talking about their various girlfriends (and the holy grail -- an American woman), we spent more time talking about dating then. . . well. . . it felt a lot like middle school. Is it love that is the international language?

We have also been peer-pressured by our other teacher, Rayjahn, to go on the Language Center whirlwind trip through Wadi Rum (the desert valley), Aqaba (the Red Sea Resort), and Petra this weekend. Wish us luck. Clif Bars, here we come!

We want to thank, again, everyone who has posted on the blog. Your e-mails and comments make us very happy, though we have some difficulty commenting back, for some reason. Know that it makes our day to read your notes.

We will be sleeping in the desert, now, for the second night of Pesach, perhaps even a stone's throw from where the Jews wandered oh-so-many years ago. We hope that you all enjoy your Seders, and find in the holiday a holy, happy, and (if desired) transformational experience. We are sending our love and thinking of you all.

Your Arabic phrases of the day:

Mustahil! مستحيل Impossible! (like in Kung Fu Panda.

Hal anda Elijah aseer anib? هل عند اليجح عصير عنب؟ Does Elijah have grape juice?

The Pella Period

This week was a lesson in contrasts – a week mired in awareness of everything that Jordan lacks, and yet punctuated with a sharp reminder of everything that it has.

In many ways, it is hard to feel comfortable in Jordan. Reasons range from the obvious – the distance from home and loved family and friends, the sharp awareness (as Jews) that merely honestly identifying ourselves could be dangerous, the food, the strange language – to the unapparent: the lack of pleasant sidewalks, say, or the ability to go outside in shorts, or, for Daphna, a t-shirt. There are days when one or both of us have trouble fully enjoying ourselves here. On Friday night, we were sitting around with the Italian girls and the “Turkeys”, and commiserating about the complete lack of things to do in Jordanian cities (which Fellata, our Nigerian friend, encapsulated in his question earlier in the night: “Do you want to go to a café and then dinner, or dinner and then a café?”). There is no movie theater in Irbid, no bowling, no putt-putt, no disco, no live music. . . . And when was the last time you heard us asking about a disco?

And we miss you all.

This weekend, though, was a very bright capstone to a fluctuating week. We traveled to Pella today with the Italian girls and Evan, a Canadian diplomat who is receiving language training before being posted to Saudi Arabia for two years. Pella is completely overlooked in our travel guide, and we hadn’t really planned on visiting it, but it seemed like it might be fun to travel with everyone today. And the sight wasn’t nearly as visually spectacular as Jerash or Ajloun, but it was incredible to be in a place that has been inhabited constantly for the past 6000 years. Our guidebook mentioned that people have been at Pella since the stone age, and there are ruins from the time of Mohammed. Unlike in America, in Jordan you can basically climb all over anything – you stand on pieces of Roman columns, you traipse over mosaics that are just beginning to be uncovered from layers of dirt. . . . and you peer out into the lush area around you that has made this land so desirable.

We walked for several hours, and after an overpriced ($6 each, can you believe it?!?) but tasty lunch, we were waiting for our ride when I asked the owner of the Resthouse what all we were looking at beyond the ruins. He pointed and said, “OK, you see that plastic? That belongs to the Palestinians. And all that water? That’s Israel. That mountain is Israel and that mountain is Israel, and there is the largest castle I’ve ever seen, and it’s in Israel.” And then he said goodbye and went to take care of some new customers. Evan turned to me and said, “You know, there are some moments when you really get that you’re in the Middle East, and that was one of them.”

Perhaps it is this land’s ability to create comfort that has made it so uncomfortable, so crowded. We are close to everything that we read about (there is a road in downtown Irbid called “Baghdad Street” because. . . you guessed it! It goes straight to Baghdad!), and yet, even looking into Israel, it feels we are so far from everything we know. That, I suspect, is the beauty of being here. And the pain in it.

So many adventures, so little time.

Your Arabic phrases of the week:

Ta-bahn layla-tek! Good night!

Leysa shay sachif mithla tofu! Tofu! Hahaha. Not something silly like tofu! Tofu! Hahaha. (From Kung Fu Panda, which we watched dubbed in Arabic this week)