An Introduction

″A traveler without observation is a bird without wings.” – Moslih Eddin Saadi

The apartment slowly comes together. I’m relearning how to not live out of a suitcase. Nevertheless, my giant, red monster of a bag lays collapsed in the middle of my room, gaping open with the remnants of my unpacking spree strewn all around it.

Nicknaming our home Balconyland, my flatmates and I decided on this apartment for the view. The expansive scenery before us includes the valley that cradles Downtown Amman, also known as the Balad, the country. On the opposite side of the valley, buildings upon buildings stack the dramatically steep hills. Their sandstone walls radiate blinding whiteness under the unrelenting sun. Every morning, when I look out in quiet awe at the crystalline purity of that intense light, I don’t wonder why Amman’s own nickname is al-Medinet al-Beidha, the white city.

We’ve known our landlord for less than two weeks and he already claims that we are like his sisters. In the apartment below us live six Egyptian men. Whenever I tell someone in Amman about these particular neighbors, their facial reaction reflects either shocked concern or intrigued humor, either “Why are you living there?” or “This will make a great story some day.” I’m more concerned about the ants that have declared war on our kitchen.

The road that our apartment building opens up on must be steeper than a 15% grade. One roommate, whose room faces the street, tells me that she regularly hears cars stalling in the middle of the night as they labor their way past her window.

Some neighbor down the road likes to blast music until one in the morning. Someone else has a rooster. I almost always hear fireworks every night, celebrating a birthday or some big occasion for a couple. The morning call to prayer comes at about 4:30 am. I usually lie awake in the dark and listen to the half hour of hauntingly beautiful recitations until the gradually fading notes settle me back to sleep. Rowdy children noises, prominent among the rising buzz of a waking city, eventually rouse me awake.

The surreptitious and yet ubiquitous dust of Amman stubbornly clings to every facet of my life. No matter how many times I clean and scrub and clean again, the windowsill collects a fine film within three days. I gape wide-eyed at the jet-black color of the post-wash water that comes out of my washing machine. Do my clothes really have that much dirt on them? Yes, my roommate who has lived here before assures me that I do. The dried dishes should be put away as soon as possible. Sweeping the porch seems to be a futile effort. Being a conscientious consumer in this thirsty country, I try not to lavish in a shower for too long, but the water always feels great.

Dehydration comes swiftly to the inexperienced. The city’s atmosphere makes me forget that I’m in a desert. I can’t feel myself sweating. The sun feels so pleasantly warm. What's the harm in walking around outside for twenty minutes? In no time, I have a piercing headache and a bad temper. I'm amazed at how much drinking water I consume every day.

I could go on and on, but for now, I'll stop here.

The Movers, the Shakers, and the Birds

“A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.” – Lao Tzu

That quote is for my uncle.

According to Lao Tzu, I am a horrible traveler. I love planning and thinking forward, into the future. Counteractive to my goal-oriented mindset, I am also both lazy and indecisive, which eventually mixes to create a peculiar concoction of relaxed apathy. As I looked for an apartment, these two aspects of my personality battled against each other.

We drove around on a mega tour of Amman apartments, seeing everything from the good and the bad to the ugly. True to the harshness of reality, my dream apartment did not exist.

Until we came upon an expansive 2-bedroom apartment nestled near Rainbow Street with balconies overlooking the city’s rolling hills. The landlord seemed kind and respectful. I wanted it immediately.

Of course, complications set in. The program coordinators insisted that we did not immediately settle and that we continue looking. Roommate pairings continued to switch and realign. Our hotel stay continued to grow more and more expensive with every night that we squatted in indecision.

We toured more apartments, finding a variety of apartments, from a bird nest in the window of one to a tousled, quirky tenant rolling out of bed in another. We still wanted the first apartment.

Then, in a matter of 24 hours, we had a home. We toured the apartment again, moved in the next day, and signed the lease agreement the day after. Shockingly, after a few days of stressful house hunting, I found myself sitting on the plush sofa of a living room, a living room that would be my living room for the next 12 months.

I am living with two other girls. One of the girls’ mothers affectionately nicknamed us “the movers, the shakers, and the birds.” One of us is studying birds, I am studying earthquakes, and the other is studying politcal movements. So there we are, appropriately named for our speedy move.

I am happy. I will write more later, when I have more direct access to internet and more free time.

Vigor

“Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.” – Seneca

I could not find more truth in my favorite philosopher’s words, if vigor in my case primarily means overcoming sickness and dealing with several frustrations. Indeed, the relaxed smile I told you about in my previous entry quickly furrowed into a determined, thin-lipped grimace as my final days in the States drained away, as I tried to maneuver my way through dozens of packing set-backs and tearful goodbyes.

Now, finally, I am here, in Jordan. My eyes woke up to their first Amman morning, to the unfamiliar surroundings of my hotel room, to the immensely bright mid-morning sunlight and the whirring hum of traffic that insists I get up and explore.

I’m up, uncertain of time, getting dressed in the cognizant haze of jet lag. I’ve been throwing up and nauseous all night, but I won’t let a silly stomach bug keep me from exploring my new hometown. My roommate and I walk five steps out of our hotel room door before I buckle over with stomach cramps and run back to the bathroom. Perhaps I’ll rest, after all. My thoughtful roommate returns later to the room with a small, light fare of breakfast foods, which I’ve been barely able to nibble on. I’ve had the exact same type of gastroenteritis before, so I’m not concerned about the recovery so much as the dehydration. Each sip after sip of water has become a small victory during this day of bedridden misery, but at least it affords me the time I need to rest and relax, along with writing my first blog post in Jordan.

The plane ride from JFK to Queen Alia Airport ran smoothly, except for the initial hour-and-a-half delay due to torrential rain from whatever tropical storm the East Coast is experiencing now. I have left the soggy marshes of Princeton for the crisp desert that surrounds Amman.

Rami, the cheerful driver who picked me up from the airport with a handful of other Fulbrighters, instantly began quizzing us in Arabic as he sped the car onto the highway. He would declare a sentence in Arabic and then look at me, saying in English, “What did I say?”

He would also announce points of interest that we drove by. Bedouin tents, the palace of the King’s brother, the US embassy (“you know what sefara means?”), wild camels. I felt like a giddy tourist, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the sights. Rami’s ability to multi-task while driving a manual was another impressive sight. I can barely sip a coffee while driving an automatic, yet here Rami is, rolling through prayer beads or engaging us in lively conversation if he isn’t on the phone, organizing Fulbright rides with the other drivers.

The sunset highlights the city’s array of modern and traditional architecture in punch-red light. The crescent moons atop the mosques’ spires kiss the sky goodnight as the city settles into deep-ocean blue.

After forty minutes, we finally roll up to the Al-Qasr Metropole Hotel, and the heard of us gradually trickle in through the hotel’s security checkpoint. An hour later, we meet up to wander around the neighborhood, looking for dinner. We shyly engage in conversation, looking around at these new streets with travel-fatigued numbness. A party bus full of young men brakes besides us and entreats us in English to join in the fun. Despite the hypnotizing music they’re blasting, we decline in favor of continuing our search for food.

I just want to keep walking, breathing in the jasmine and watching the people almost as much as they watch me. But, eventually, we stop for dinner, and, eventually, I succumb to the tiredness by returning to Al-Qasr and collapsing in bed.

Now, this morning, I continue to lounge in bed while most of the other Fulbrighters explore. My roommate is keeping a kind, watchful eye on me as she studies Arabic. I am quietly celebrating two hours without throwing up and watching Al-Jazeera.