Ancient Land

People call the Middle East an ancient land, but it seems a little ridiculous - it’s no older than the land anywhere else. Of course, it’s the history of the place that they are referring to. These mountains and deserts are, after all, the birthplace of the world’s three major religions. I’m convinced, though, that people also call it ancient because it looks and feels old. It is dry and rocky and majestic, giving the impression that it has always BEEN and will always BE.

I have settled in here. This week I’ve felt almost entirely at ease (there is still the language barrier) in my new country. I’ve been out several times and forgotten for hours that I am in the Middle East. Yesterday I tried to plug my hair straightener directly into the outlet without an adapter. This can only mean one thing: I have arrived.

I feel safe. Everyone still stares, but I just ignore it. Most people are really friendly, and if they aren’t, I don’t know what they’re saying anyway. I have friends too. Yay! I find it easier to make friends here than in the U.S., although I’m not sure why.

Over the weekend I traveled four hours south to Aqaba to cover the Goodwill Campaign story. Aqaba is a resort town, for the most part, and the sea is gorgeous. I stayed in the numerous-starred Movinpick Hotel, and I loved it – a huge bathtub, a comfortable bed, a fantastic view… What more does a girl need?

I did not, however, love anything about the ride back to Amman. The original plan was to leave at 1 p.m. I set my alarm for 9 a.m. so I could work on my resume for a - get ready for this - j-o-b. My phone rang at 10 and the voice on the other end was one of the journalists with whom I was traveling. He said: Can you check out now. I wanted to wring his neck. I am not a huge planner. We all know this. I do not like schedules. It’s true. But I cannot handle this lackadaisical attitude about timetables and agendas. Don’t make a plan if you’re just going to change it at the last minute anyway. That’s what I say.

So I did the only thing I could do - I packed my things and went down to the lobby, where I sat not speaking to anyone, as I had ceased to be the pleasant American. Mostly I just wanted everyone to shut up. A four-hour ride in a van with seven Arabic speaking dudes (fellow journalists) followed. One of them smoked a cigarette every 80 kilometers. Love it. Cigarette smoke in a CLOSED van with no ventilation. I found myself becoming very self-righteous. I am, most of you know, an equal opportunity organized religion rejecter (for myself). I am not fasting for Ramadan, not on purpose anyway, but by the second cigarette, I wanted to yell at the guy. What about Ramadan?! WHAT ABOUT RAMADAN?!? Huh?!

All’s well that ends well, though. I made it back in once piece, hamduallah, finished my resume and ended the night with a lovely meal and argilleh (water bong with flavored tobacco, also known as a hookah). Mmmm…Arabian nights.