″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.