James and I were in the middle of a black sesame breadsticks with cream cheese from the jar breakfast when Raj announced that we were not to eat too much, as we'd been invited to his sister's for lunch. Fabulous! We love Arabic food, and the breadsticks were put away with a quickness. The stretch from breakfast to lunch might be a few hours and then some for most people, but when you're on the receiving end of Arabic hospitality, the emptier your stomach, the better.
Pit stop to Mummy's and Papi's first for some cardamom Turkish coffee when Papi, a gourmet at heart, wanted to know if we would enjoy a trip to the honey farm. I try to never deny myself out-of-the-everyday experiences, especially when they're pushed underneath my nose like that, so we piled into the family Toyota for a trip to a nearby village where Papi swore was the "best honey in the world."
Have you ever been to a honey farm? I have. Sadly I saw no actual farm, not even any hives, but I did see scores of trees in full bloom with bees busy at work. James and I were ushered onto a patio with eight or so large vats in the center, complete with mini spouts and thousands of sampling cups for tasting. And taste we did; thick, lightly golden syrupy honey that after the sweetness, left the lingering aftertaste of orange blossom. Absolutely marvelous.
I was thick in the trenches of honey Valhalla when I noticed a crop of teenage girls staring and pointing at me. Four of them, mid teens, not completely veiled but their hair was covered. Village in the Middle East, remember. But I couldn't figure out why they were staring at me. Was it my hair? My clothes? My boisterous and obnoxious laugh?
I needed a second opinion. "Hey James, check out those girls. They've been staring at me for awhile now."
"Yeah, I noticed that."
"Maybe it's because I'm so tall in platform sandals?"
James snorted. He's just so fucking good at sarcastic snorting. "Idiot. We're in a village. Look at your top."
I look down. Of course. I'm not exactly showing cleavage, but it's a bright blue, low-button dealie that shows just a hint of chest skin. These girls were fundamentalist Islam, etc. etc. I'm not sure how often they saw foreigners, but I'm pretty sure they almost never saw boob. Scandalous! These people are good enough to give me floral sheets, hummus and honey, and here I am corrupting their youth. I was sincerely and thoroughly abashed.
But then on the other hand, at home I'd practically have to be Pamela Anderson for my chest to get a double take. Do you know what this means? Eureka! 30 years old and my breasts have finally caused a sensation! I rode that high horse all the way back to the car.
On the way home Papi stopped to pick up a bunch of fresh chick peas from a street vendor. He was absolutely appalled that James and I had never tried whole chickpeas in any other form but canned. "Try! You take! I promise you like! You tell me what you think!"
Have you ever eaten fresh chick peas? I can now say I've done that, too. It was amazing, a huge bunch of tall branches full of what looked like small, plump pea pods about half the size of my thumb. They were green inside and moist out of their pods, tasting slightly like peanuts and even somewhat minty. More marvelous.
Our stomachs not quite empty we arrived at Raj's sister's place for lunch, a.k.a. the largest and most important meal of the day. You know you're in for serious eating when both dining table extender leaves have been locked in place.
True Arabic hospitality is providing your guests with far more delicacies than they can manage. I always find it amazing that Arabs and Europeans still find so much conflict with one another when they have so much in common, in this case, showing love, welcome and acceptance through food. Lots of food. And as a guest, true courtesy is never saying no. But since my stomach can only house so many servings, true courtesy is at least trying a bit of everything there.
Raj's older sister is all of five feet tall, yet she managed to fill a 10-foot long table with Indian inspired Arabic dishes. There was Biryani, a roast leg of lamb, barbeque chicken with various herbs and spices, fish, some eggplant dish, three salads, minted yogurt, babaganouj, everests of pita and oceans of hummus. There were fresh almonds in their fuzzy green shells, sour until dipped in salt, and a dish of pastries made from the Arab holy trinity of ingredients: phyllo, pistachios and honey.
It was delicious. It was magnificent. It caused blindness and memory loss. Ridiculous amounts of food do that to me. I consider myself very, very lucky to have James, and luckier still to always be seated next to him. He can put away a lot more than I can. Whenever I was sure no one was watching, I'd slip my leftovers onto his plate.
We made the trek to downtown Amman shortly after, not because we desperately needed to see the city right then, but to give our stomachs a rest. Raj's family lives in the suburbs, and going downtown is just what it is: down. Amman is limestone houses and low-rise apartments built one on top of the other, spiralling into the valleys and hills that the city is built on. Lookwise, think Athens. The houses and style are all really similar. Geographically, think Rome. Both cities are built on hills.
We wanted to go to the amphitheatre chuck in the middle of Hashemite square; it was closed. I stuck my digi through the grate and took a picture. A juice vendor accosted us repeatedly up and down the stairs and in every which direction (Raj knows his city as well as an elephant knows the rainforest - it doesn't) until we stumbled onto the Iraqi corner.
After 9/11 and the war, Jordan was flooded with Iraqi refugees. Over a million of them. And while I was told that many of them were wealthy enough to be just slightly disturbed by their change of life and location, there is no such thing as a war without living casualties, and many are dirt poor. These Iraqis that we saw were in the tourist district all day, every day, sitting in front of their blankets and selling their wares. Mostly Iraqi currency (complete with Saddam's mug) now void by the government, old jewellery, knick knacks, and what they claimed were ancient Persian artifacts stolen from museums.
Their situation is a sad one, but at least amazing in storytelling value. And, no such thing as a fixed price, so Raj bargained for us while James and I gawked at the GORGEOUS men we kept seeing. Just my style too, tall but not too tall, lean, dark hair, dark & light eyes aplenty, olive skinned (insert growling noises here). I'm definitely North Americanized but darlings, if I had to live in the East, let me assure you it wouldn't be too tragic!
The day was winding down, and so were we. Back in the car and back to the apartment where we had a small dinner of haloumi cheese sandwiches and, big surprise, black sesame breadsticks with cream cheese from the jar. "Legally Blonde" was on for background noise, and I played Scrabble with Raj. He drove me so fucking bonkers and took so much time to do anything, I gave him half my tiles and let him spell whatever he wanted. He won and gloated for two hours. "Kookoo (that's what he calls me) you're a JOURNALIST. You're a WRITER. English was your first language and I BEAT YOU. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
Beeyatch. Not ashamed enough to pinch his nipple and make him scream. Raj screams like a girl.
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