my life in print

almafia alarabi…? mish. quais.

I’m sitting in this really sketchy cafe/restaurant that’s relatively close to where I live. I ventured out of the house, looking for food and internet (what else is new?), and possibly a place to study. Study. Right. How can I study when I am convinced this place is Amman’s own ‘Louis’ Italian-American Restaurant’?*

I walked into a cafe that I’ve never seen anyone eat in (usually that’s code here for drink the cocktails, smoke the arghilah, but dooooon’t order the burger), and am greeted by a server in a really fancy outfit. The chairs are plush, and the tables look like they’re meant for conference rooms, not a cafe. I try to order, and the waiter nervously asks me to wait; he gestures to the Boss, a man sitting at the only other occupied table in the place, who raises one finger. My waiter cowers back, begging off and scurrying away. Wha…?

It’s okay though, because momentarily the Boss finishes with the man he’s speaking rapid-fire Arabic to–with a dismissive wave, the poor guy (he doesn’t know yet he’s gonna give the name of the Dead Sea a whole new meaning) beats a quick retreat.

The Boss approaches me, asking how he can help me. I tell him I just want to order. I hope he understands when I say “just” that I wasn’t sent by the Gainesvegas family for a deal or something. I order in Arabic, and he asks me– do I know Arabic?

Um, no. I hate when people ask that. I say something in the language, and they ask me if I know the language. Well, if I’m not very good at it I’m obviously trying to be, right?! Right. But I’m not going to give the Boss a hard time about it. I order the first thing I see that looks appropriately inexpensive enough, and he says he’ll take good care of me.

Uh-oh.

At least I have a comfy chair to read in until….[insert finger swipe across throat here].

* The name of the eatery that the Corleone gang reportedly made most deals in, Bronx-side. I researched for ten minutes to give you that fantastic frame of reference.

nature’s cool

Today was a really good, relatively uneventful day. I slept in, and woke up to make myself coffee. Hanin and her mom took me to breakfast (at 11:30 am–the transition to meal times here is a bit rough) at a cafe called Wild Jordan. It’s actually a part of the Royal Society for the Conservation of Nature, a valuable NGO supported by the kingdom to preserve, protect, and enrich Jordan’s fragile natural systems.

When you picture Jordan, it’s a bit legit to just think of deserts and camels. For the most part, that stereotype is true. Jordan is the world’s fourth poorest country in its water deficit, and its natural reserves are being threatened by a community that doesn’t know much about ecological preservation or sustainability. But beyond the deserts, there are quite a few landscapes you wouldn’t expect. There are hot springs about an hour outside Amman, a forest called Ajloun nearby, and wadis (various valleys, sometimes originating as dried up riverbeds) that host an impressive amount of wildlife.

I’m dying to volunteer at Wild Jordan’s city center–calling tomorrow to see if anyone even wants me, seeing as how I’m a bit useless as of now to Arabic speakers.

Educate yourself! Come on, it’s fun….

www.rscn.org.jo

my tuesday is your wednesday.

It keeps throwing me off that the American week and the Arab week are slightly shifted; my weekend starts Friday and ends Saturday, so Sunday is technically my Monday. But who could ever get used to saying “ugh, it’s such a Sunday”?  So today, though being Tuesday, is really my mid-week. Are your eyes crossed yet?

I wasn’t feeling too hot after class today, so I went home and read my Kindle (thanks to my wonderful parents) and watched a bit of Gilmore Girls (yes, again). At around four thirty, I went to eat an early dinner by myself at a Tche Tche–and the waiters (who have nothing to do until the normal dinner hours of 7-9) were falling all over themselves to praise my feeble attempts at colloquial Arabic. I felt like Audrey Hepburn or something. And I might be going back there soon.

Some of the other Rotary scholars and I hung out after class today, which was good if not a bit awkward–more because I was the only girl in the midst of four big guys, and that draws a bit of attention here. Two girls and four guys, not so weird. One girl and four guys, and the hijabi girls won’t stop throwing eye darts my way. BUT there was a cotton candy vendor!!!!!! I felt like it was a falafel theme park. Only ten fils for a little bag, so of course when the guys had gone home I ran back and stocked up. One dinar is ten bags of cotton candy, enough to keep me giddy for at least the next eight hours.

yallah, imshi.

I had the nicest taxi driver today. He knew as little about how to get home as I did, so we drove around in circles (mind you, I was coming from work to home– a route I’ve taken EVERY DAY for the past two weeks) until he could call his boss at the taxi center to tell him where the only landmark in the city I know is. We went from there. Basically, I know how to get to Starbucks. The university? Every taxi driver so far has known where that is, so not sure if I’ve ever actually paid attention. Work? I still have to get out in the general vicinity and wander for about twenty minutes before I find it. Gym? Right next to work, so a bit fool-proof. (As fool-proof as possible when I’m the one in transit.) He felt so bad for me, he only made me pay 1/4 of the fare. And complimented me on my Arabic. But I think that might have been out of pity, too…

However, I’ve come to appreciate these circumstances where my lack of an internal compass sets me wandering on foot. I plug that blessed thing that is my iPod in (to drown out any unsavory speech that would otherwise reach my ears), and strut away to Miley Cyrus or Taylor Swift. Don’t make fun, they have uplifting beats. And who wouldn’t want to listen to “Party in the U.S.A.” on repeat while strolling through the Middle East?

twerk outs

I love going to the gym here. Something about physical exercise makes so many cultural quirks apparent. I joined a very “western” gym near where I work, and I’ve been going around the same time every day (5:30 p.m.–yuck). Though there are a few more gyms in the city that live up to the western label, mine is very much a standard of Amman in that the men and women work out on separate floors–which I think I actually appreciate. I’ve always hated that aspect of going to gyms at home, where so many of the guys (and girls) who work out are doing it to pick someone up. Here, there’s no self consciousness–which I like. But the funniest thing to me is that Arab women come in full makeup, decked out in matching spandex Nike tops and shorts. (For each other!) They come, walk on the treadmill for about fifteen minutes, switch to the elliptical for another ten, and they’re done. Khalas. When finished, they head to the in-gym salon to get their nails done, their legs waxed, and their backs massaged. All in all, a very different experience than at home.

All the while, I’m the grungy American standing out like a sore thumb in a baggy t-shirt, running shorts, and worn out sneakers. But I think they’re impressed that I actually run on the treadmill. So, points once lost….now redeemed. Phew.

i’m discount worthy :)

I just have to write this,  out of nearly desperate gratitude. I woke up this morning, skipping my one hour Arabic class (I know, I know) to come to Starbucks for a mental health  morning. (And to surf the web for puppies to my heart’s content. In case no one has heard, Grant said I’m getting one when I get home.) I’m waiting outside Starbucks,which doesn’t open here until 9 AM—soooooo Arab, and when the guy finally gets here to open the shop I scuttle right over to my usual little table with the outlet. By the time I go up to order, he’s made my cafe mocha (in a mug, extra whipped cream), and rings me up as a “discount customer”. I nearly cried it made me so happy. Such a small thing, but I wanted to give him a big big big medal for showing kindness, and making me feel a bit less alone. O Happy Day, with a discounted cafe mocha in the morning, the possibilities await!

mish hijabi?

This morning’s Arabic class turned into more of a debate than a lecture. Yesterday and today, students have been taking turns giving monologues on their studies and how they came to study Arabic. My class is incredibly multi-cultural; Bosnian Muslim, Korean, Japanese, Chinese, German, Spanish, British, and Turkish students allow me to learn a more worldly Arabic—it’s a bit unexpected to hear MSA with a German, then a French, then a Korean accent.

There are quite a few Turkish students in the back row; the interesting dichotomy in the way the women dress represents what apparently is the crux of what’s going on in Turkey right now. Half the women dress like Americans, the other half are completely covered. Though a secular state, its population is divided over the issue of how religion can and should be expressed. Some of the Turkish hijabis came to the University of Jordan solely because they can’t attend public universities in Turkey while covered.

I’m really not sure where I stand here. It’s a huge issue that’s taking root even now in Cairo–the lead sheikh at Al Azhar is banning the niqab (the little drape that covers a woman’s face). There are issues with covering–problems with identification, association of the more conservative Islamic dress with spreading fundamentalism, and even cases where friends sneak in to take exams on behalf of students. But…could this be termed a human rights issue? Should the way you dress be determined by the government?  Any thoughts?

a breakdown….or a breakthrough?…..hmmmmmmm

So. Yesterday was not such a great day. Being completely on my own here has taken a bit of its toll, as any little thing is a chore. Going to buy a phone card to call home: disastrous. Catching a taxi to a gym supposedly everyone in the city is supposed to know of: um. Sure.(Question: How is it that since I’ve arrived, I’ve managed to find every single taxi driver in the city that knows absolutely NOTHING about Amman?!)

Let’s just say that all in all, yesterday I walked for probably more than two hours, fruitlessly, in attempts to find places that the most novice Arab speaker should be able to find. Alas, my name is Jacque. And I have the sense of direction of a dying flea. Thinking about starting a support group when I get home.

And today, while being a bit better, was when I finally had a bit of a release of cultural tension. It’s been really hard here walking alone as a girl, and an obvious Westerner. I feel incredibly safe, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that culturally, the men here seem to never grow in maturity past what a twelve year old would possess. So, walking down the street, men (gross, middle aged men) will stop their cars that are driving in the opposite direction of where you’re walking and back up to follow you, making ridiculous comments in Arabic. If you pass a group of men on the street, they will stare you down, make hissing noises, and in some cases make as if to follow you a few meters.

Today, I just was not in the mood. Walking from school in the direction of work after waiting for a taxi, a guy maybe about forty-five stopped and backed up, looking at me but not saying anything. AAAAAnnnd I completely lost my cool. Having learned the ever useful term for “donkey” (yes, same connotation as in the States) from Hanin, I walked up to his open window, flinging my arms open and shouting “aysh biddak, ya hemaar?! AYSHHHHHHH?!” [roughly translated to, “What do you want you donkey?! WHAAAAAAT?”

And you know what? I think I scared that little groucho. He rolled up his window, shaking his head with huge bobbly eyes, and drove off. Pretty sure that’s the best I’ve felt since I landed here…. Who says you have to be over 4’10 to be intimidating? HA!

**note to friends and family: I realize this was not the way to handle the situation. Alas.