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)

“Off-book at two months?!? Who do you think we are, Bogart and Hepburn?”

We’re not in Colorado anymore, Juwad. And this week Rayjahn let us know it by mandating nightly written assignments in which we do not consult our books (the dictionary is OK, though). They have ranged from essays about our daily schedules in Colorado to instructions on preparing a meal to discussing a trip that we have taken within Jordan. For our test on Friday (I would discuss it more here, but we are both still bruised and limping) she gave us the weekend to write about any topic we like. Daph is elaborating on her experience in Guatemala, and especially the beauty of Lago Atitlan, the lake at its center. I wrote a myth about baklawa, and how it was created by a prince in his search for a princess (it sounds deeper than it is).

But things are moving along steadily. We’ve had multiple people over to our house, now, and last night we got to compare American and Turkish-style popcorn (remarkably similar, really, except for the quantity of salt). Our Arabic, too, keeps getting better. Thursday, as we were wrapping up at the language center’s computer lab, we were trying to jot down the Kiddush in Hebrew (let’s just say there’s been some jumping around on the occasional Friday night) when the security guard wandered up and peered over our shoulders, intently examining what we appeared to find so interesting. Well, we thought, we were out-ed. If he knew what it was, though, he didn’t let on, and proceeded to start a 45 minute conversation, in Arabic. Not the deepest of things, but a conversation none-the-less, and quite something given that our first week in Irbid he repeatedly tried to start conversations that typically lasted ten minutes yet successfully communicated less than a full sentence. He did express an interest in coming to America (and marrying Yael in the process), and in showing us around Jordan. He also casually asked if we knew any languages other than English and Arabic, and when we mentioned Spanish and then (Kaleel, kaleel) Chinese, he seemed very content.

The security guard also made the same assumption it seems that everyone does here. You see, Daph and I are together constantly. We go shopping together, we go to class and study together, we go out together, we travel together. On the rare occasion that people see us apart, or even work up the nerve to ask to both of us, we hear: “Sadeekan?” or “Ayna Saddeek-kee/Saddeekatka?” That is, “Are you friends?” or “Where is your friend?” They always appear to be overjoyed when we drop the “married” word. Sometimes they proceed to, more-enthusiastically, re-welcome us to the country.

That, in fact, happened today when we were buying our tickets to enter Ajloun Castle (one-eighth the cost with your student ID!). We chatted with a couple of the workers, and then one asked if we were friends, and when we answered, we finally got the hearty welcome. The baby question, of course, followed, but we still ended up with a ride up the hill to the castle (the worker, en route, was very happy to share that he was an orthodox Christian, but a little disappointed we weren’t Catholic – we’re going the Presbyterian route. . . . best ministers in America, I dare say, “semi-retired” as they are. . . .).

Ajloun Castle, our adventure this week, was beautiful. A castle originally built by Saladin’s nephew in 1184 to protect Northern Jordan from the Franks (the castle had a 16 meter wide moat) and later used by the Mongols, the Mamluks and the Ottomans, it is also known as Qal’at al Rabadh. Stunning in its power, sitting on top of a mountain with views in every direction, the castle gives a sense of power in how far you can see, and at the same time, a sense of how small you are in such a magnificent place. Everywhere the dark green of olive trees hovered over yellow wildflowers, mountains rose up with gardens and beautiful gold and brown rocks, and in the very distance, sits the water that draws the boundary between Jordan and Israel. I felt myself thinking of how many people had died for and in this place – just this single castle on a hill that was built under Saladin – and yet how incredible its existence is. In the castle’s museum, there were glass bottles from 1700 years ago. Glass. Glass that has survived millennia. It felt like a startling statement, seeing the unscathed glass in this crumbling stone war-torn building, about humanity.

Your Arabic phrases of the week:
Welcome! “Ahallan wa- Sa-hallan.” أهلا و سأهلا
The rocket scientist rode the rocket to the stars. “Ra-kabah mohundussu as-Saruchee as-Saruchah ila al-najmat.” ركب مهندس الصروخ الصروخ إلى النخمات

في عربية؟ "Miscommunication" كيف أقول

How do you say "Miscommunication" in Arabic?

From time to time, when traveling in a foreign country (and especially when writing a blog that relates to food), the time comes to eat your words.

This week, it has come for us.

So yes, there is whole wheat bread here. At nearly every bakery. It is the bread that looks like whole wheat bread. We were simply led astray by the fact that they call it “diet bread”, which gave us nightmares about aspartame-laden cancerous white fluffy dinner rolls. But no, it’s merely chubz with whole wheat and no sugar. Even when we first asked our teacher Adela about it, she looked at us a bit crooked and said, “Are you going on a diet?”

But ask for brown rice, and they really do look at you crooked. Even Safeway doesn’t carry it (and when Safeway has a mini-amusement park and no brown rice, you know that you’re in trouble). But alas, we have eaten our words (and over a kilo of whole wheat bread).

We have also eaten nearly our weight in ful. Yes, the real ful, the ful medammes that we were so sure was inferior to our precious white bean “ful”, aka white beans mashed with tahini and cumin and garlic, etc. No, my dear reader, oh no. This ful –broad beans, fava beans, whatever you want to call them, are eat-straight-from-the-can yummy. Rejahn, our “serious” teacher (see below for further explanation), came over to show us how to make the real thing. And, alas, to the detriment of our pride, it is, as she constantly kvells, “too delicious” (the way she talks about food gives you the sense that she is constantly fainting from ecstasy, only to get back up and try it again). Two strikes.

The third time we had to eat our words this week was, well, just a misfired joke. You see, writing dialogues gets fairly repetitive when the extent of your vocabulary doesn’t stretch much farther than the supermarket and two or three books. So you put in jokes. Like, for instance, Daphna goes to Dr. Ben and he writes her a prescription even though he doesn’t know what the problem is (See: DR. SPACEMAN, 30 Rock), and she, undaunted, takes the medicine. All three kinds. Now, we aren’t sure if Rejahn didn’t get our silly satire, or just thought we were clueless Americans who were unwittingly putting our lives in the hands of morons. She made us rewrite the dialogue with Daphna rejecting the medicine and reporting to her husband (aka, just Ben) how horrible the doctor was. “Crazy,” was the word she gave us. We have hence given up all attempts at humor in Arabic.

But we will end with a tale that had us eating, not words, but dinner. We invited two guys who are studying at the language center from Turkey (“Turkeys,” as one of the Italians innocently called them) to come over for dinner, and to show us how to cook the bulgur we bought. Instead, they brought their own Turkish bulgur and pasta, a hookah, and movies in Arabic (including Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles! It’s like my inner child’s dream come true – the TMNT come back, and I have an excuse to watch them without feeling guilty). The bulgur was awesome (I’m sure that had nothing to do with the fact that it included a quarter liter of olive oil), and it was an altogether enjoyable night. Not only are they co-students, but the three of us have formed a little basketball team, and on Wednesday we came within a point of beating three of the players on the Yarmouk U team. We’ll keep you posted. Plus, next time they come over, they’ve promised to bring the Hagia Sophia (it’s difficult to one-up yourself when you start at this high a level).

We love you all.

Your Arabic phrase of the week is: La ta-ka-luk. Don't worry.

A Tale of Two Cities

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Okay, it might not be fair to dub this week “the worst of times,” unless you consider being so inundated with homework that it dribbles out your ears “the worst of times.” On Tuesday we nearly gave up all bodily functions in order to finish (which we did, after working nearly straight through since 5:30p, at around 11:30p).

And it might not be quite fair to call it the best of times either (see above homework situation, combined with a lack of tofu and distance to Denver and its residents). We did, however, get to experience the “Souk” (codename for the “Shook,” or outdoor market) and downtown Irbid for the first time. As we walked amongst the plentiful veggies and fruits, awash in cries of “Farowala! Farowala! (Strawberry! Strawberry!)” and “Maoz! Maoz! (Bananas, not Communists, though they were for sale, too. Really),” we picked out enough produce to feed an army of Bens and Daphnas (onions, oranges, grapefruit, zucchini-like squash, lemon, banana, spinach, eggplant, cauliflower, dried beans. . . .). All for about $10.

We also made our way to Jerash, a town known for its incredible, primarily Roman, ruins. Nestled among green hills and sprouting yellow and purple and white wildflowers, old rocks and columns and theaters sticking up out of the ground. . . it was enough to make you think, “Hey, those Romans really did have something going for ‘em.” It was beautiful. It was also the most touristy place that we’ve been to, complete with a souvenir bazaar. We ran into a man selling souvenirs inside the grounds who was so excited to hear that we also attend Yarmouk University that he took us on a small guided tour and showed us how the columns rock (ever so gently) in the wind. You could feel the movement on your fingers.

Jordan continues to confound as well as amaze. Most people here are incredibly polite and, at times, shockingly honest. When we bought the dried beans, Daph and I misinterpreted the Amia (the Jordanian dialect of Arabic, considerably different from Foos-ha, or “Modern Standard Arabic”, which is what we are learning but is actually spoken. . . nowhere. . . except on television), and gave the storekeeper exact change plus a bit more. He shook his head, “tut-tutted” in an Arabic fashion, and put the extra money back in my hand. Now, of course, there are less pleasant encounters, and for us, here, they have been restrained primarily to transportation (taxis love their foreigner tax everywhere, it appears). Today, leaving Jerash, multiple men tried to convince us that all public transport back to Irbid had stopped and that their private car was the only route back, for a mere 10x bus fare. We caught a mini-bus on the road for the same price as the one that brought us. . . .

And, there are always the surprises. Trying to find the souk, we asked a policeman for directions. He seemed to be at a total loss, but a student came over who spoke good English and gave us directions. Before he would let us walk, though, he said, “But tell me, what do you think of Islam? I know that over in America, it’s like everyone in Islam has big beards and is a terrorist. But it’s not like that. What do you think?” I thought that, if we thought that, we probably wouldn’t be in Jordan, but. . . . we chatted for a bit (I wasn’t that snarky), and we found out that he was a Hebrew language major. “Why?” Daph asked. “Because,” he said, “they’re our neighbors, and it felt like my destiny.” Daph coaxed a “Ma Shlomcha?” out of him, and when she responded in turn, he said, “Wow, you’re good,” and then seemed to fade back into how important it was that we feel welcome in Jordan. He sent us off after taking a picture with each of us on his cell phone.

Your Arabic phrase of the day: Lam a’akul al-shokoladah al-letti kanat fee beytna, liannahu akula jami-oo alshokolada awalan. I didn’t eat the chocolate which was in our house, because he ate all the chocolate first.*

Or, Sah-phara Ben wah Daphna ila Jerash alyom. Ben and Daphna traveled to Jerash today.

*That’s right, folks. . . necessity is the mother of invention, and we are making our own vegan chocolate candy and halva from scratch. . . . We’ll keep you posted. We love you! See the posts below that have had pictures added!!!!!