Day 3: Hello, Jordan

Very, VERY early Monday morning, our plane landed in Amman, Jordan. Even though I hadn't slept in close to 40 hours I was still bouncing off my seat from excitement, and couldn't wait to get my first taste of the East.

And here it was: waiting in a miserable lineup for entry visas while elaborately dressed sheikhs and royals bypassed economy right through "Crown Class." Crown Class, I tell you. I toyed with the idea of informing the airport officials that I'd given myself a crown a long time ago, but they looked stern and carried machine guns. Never piss off a stern airport official with a machine gun. It can't lead to anything good.

Thanks to North American media brainwashing of the Arab world I was tempted to think this was going to be a tightass couple of weeks, until one of my bags got checked. Normally this consists of a Security Guard pulling on latex gloves and rifling through my suitcase behind a metal screen 15 feet away and shutting me up with, "I don't remember asking your opinion, ma'am."

Well here was my bag check in Amman airport: friendly little non-uniformed, unarmed chap says to me, "Would it be possible if I could check this bag, Miss?," and points to my carry on. Gotta love when security people ask if they "can" look at your stuff; say no and you're stuck in jail for the night on suspicion of drugs. Sure, take the damn bag. Not like I have anything to say about it. Four smiling men appear out of nowhere to put my bag up on an inspection table - relax boys, it's not that heavy - and they let me unzip.

Non-uniformed boy points to the innards of my bag and says, "You have technology?" (Wasn't that a line in Six Million Dollar Man?) Yes I say, my camera is in here, and started to unwrap my zoom lens from the poncho I'd housed it in. "No no no!" he says with a big smile on his face, shocking the hell out of me and taking my hands to put them aside. And then he zipped my bag up and sent me away with, "We are sorry to have disturbed you! Welcome to Jordan! Enjoy your stay!"

Well, that was easy. Weren't they supposed to probe me or something? James and I make our way out into the terminal where I, still stunned from that super happy experience, walk right by King Abdullah of Jordan without noticing, because I am too busy noticing his hot attendant, the Arab Orlando Bloom.

Hello Raj! We haven't seen each other in three weeks, which is one thing for me and Raj, and totally another thing for James & Raj, who molest each other in the car the entire way back to the apartment. Lucky, lucky me. I absorbed myself in Jordanian architecture on the drive back to the apartment, which Raj's family has been good enough to lend us during our stay. It's his uncle's "summer home," currently not in use.

It's gorgeous and most importantly, it's huge. James gets the King suite, and I am ushered into the Queen room. See, told you I gave myself a crown a long time ago. It's sparse, it's simple, and has the sweetest girl furniture on earth, a wrought-iron white bed covered in pink floral bedsheets and scented with geranium water, courtesy of Raj's mother.

Let's make one thing very clear: I hate pink. I loathe pink. My furniture, paint, sheets at home all play with shades of the most amazing contemporary colours ever made: brown, white, blue and black. Pink flowers is something I would never, ever do for myself, but when someone else does it for you, especially your best friend's mom, it has to be the sweetest thing in the world. I wrap myself up in my pink cupcake pajamas - a parting gift from my mom! - and flop into my good smelling bed for some welcome, blessed sleep... very quickly interrupted by squeaking bedsprings and Raj murmuring, "Ohhhh booboo!"

Ah yes, our rooms share a wall. In full anticipation of my darlings' horniness, I pop in my orange earplugs and they are muffled to a nil. I'm such a smart girl.