Day 11 1/2: Aqaba

Driving into Aqaba, Abu Fadi turned to us and said, "This entire town is Duty Free." Well, then! That's always something to celebrate.

Getting to the hotel wasn't as thrilling. The Aqaba Radisson SAS must have been a real kickin' place in the yesteryears, but it wasn't Y2K compatible. The entire place had the look and feel of Miami, circa 1985, having gone to seed. The lobby alone was complete with aqua themed furniture, gold trim and neon lights in the shapes of palm trees. I wouldn't have been surprised to see Crockett and Tubbs in their pastel polyester suits, sans socks, drinking cocktails complete with little paper parasols.

We checked in and went to our room, which turned out to not be in the hotel, but in one of the "charming" cabanas closer to the pool. The lock was jammed so badly, a bellboy had to force it open. We walked through the door, switched on the lights, and listened to Raj scream in horror.

Raj is a red carpet girl. He is in love with first class, at economy prices. As you and I all know, that doesn't exist. James and I had long ago accepted that 230 dinars for a three-day tour was a beyond reasonable price, and since the Petra Marriott had been exceptional, the chances of the second hotel being a diamond in the rough were pretty damn slim.

We didn't like the tiny room, chipped teak furniture, weakly buzzing air conditioner or nubbly peach bedspreads on sinking matresses, but recognized this as our budgeted fate. Not Raj. The look on his face was worth a thousand words, but being Raj, he had to add some more. "Oh my God... Oh my God... Oh my GOD, people, this is terrible! Disgusting! I can't sleep in these conditions! This hotel should be burnt down!"

He whipped out his cell phone, dialed like mad, warbled in Arabic for a good ten minutes or so then, lo and behold, in came two attendants and whisked our luggage away. James and I weren't surprised: Raj's needs for high maintenance could raise the dead. We were transported to the fifth floor and a room with BUSINESS CLASS stamped on the doorplate. It still reeked of shoulder pads and perms, but was much nicer. Best of all was the view with the jutting mountains of Jordan to your left, Egypt straight ahead across the Red Sea, and Israel to the right. Three countries in one viewfinder.

Today, Raj is going to the beach, while James and I wander about town. Again, no beach for me today. You will be tempted to think it was a self-esteem issue, but not so. It was Aunt Flo, that ho. We found Raj a deckchair on the wasteland of a beach (man, did that hotel need a makeover), and set out for our first stop of the day: McDonald's.

It was down the street from the hotel, and James was hungry. When in a foreign country, you go to McDonalds for one of three reasons: you are a neophobe who is completely afraid of trying something different, you are hooked on it like cocaine, or you want to see how the menu differs from the North American standard. The latter was our reason, and we were awarded with the McArabia.

The McArabia looks like a Ronald McDonald-ized shawarma: Arabic bread piled with grilled chicken, lettuce, tomatoes and Arab sauce. I don't know what "Arab" sauce is, or what's in it to make it so Arab, but then I've never known what's in the Big Mac special sauce, either.

Another reason travelers to go foreign McDonalds is because outside the Western hemisphere, they still deep fry the apple pies. We so had one. While this is not an ideal menu health choice, I'd like to remind you that I've had deep fried apple pie four times since my age hit double digits. Do the math.

Hunger satiated, we went to discover the city. I read somewhere, after I got back home, that Aqaba is not that exciting to superficial travelers, or people expecting to see cities through hotel windows and package deals. It needs to be excavated. Smart person, whoever wrote that. If you were to pick Nice out of France, toss it in the desert and let it simmer awhile, you have Aqaba. It's part European beach country meets tropical resort, with the wildness of the surroundings stopping the place short from reaching its goal. The structures of the past have aged while new developments are being built, and it has all become very mixed up. The Hotel Intercontinental, for example, is one of the most glorious hotels you will ever see. Up the street from there are vendors selling hookahs and Spiderman blankets.

But that's just what makes it Aqaba. James and I walked endlessly through this, looking for a mall we never found. He helped me bargain for jewellery. We went to an internet cafe, scoped out the public beach, and noticed two carloads of women craning their necks to breaking point to get a glimpse of James. Eat your heart out, Brad.

The absolute best was one of the souvenir stands by the beach, specializing in souvenirs for English-speaking tourists. Spelling mistakes of the world are some of my funniest memories. Dude was selling plastic hearts with touching messages written across, that were supposed to say "I Love You," "I Love You Very Much," and "Happy Birthday." These said, "I Lave You," "I Lave You Strong," and "Happy Berth Day." Also for sale was some Lemon perfume, the exact colour and smell of lemon scent Windex, or again in his words, "Limon Colone of the Highest Qulety." It cost a dinar, but I had plenty of Windex at home.

At this point we were about 20 minutes walk away from the hotel, and this is when the text messages from Raj started to come in. First message: COME BACK I'M BORED AND HUNGRY. Considering the room upgrade he'd gotten us, we heard and obeyed. Ten minutes later, second message: THREE HOURS IS ENOUGH PEOPLE, TAKE A TAXI FOR FUCK'S SAKES.

He was most sour upon our arrival. We'd "deserted" him all day, see. I thought that Deserted in the Desert was just hilarious, but Raj didn't find it one bit funny. He complained, walked to the room without speaking to us, demanded to use the shower first then used all the hot water, also used all the towels, insulted James and picked on me. He said I looked "washed out." I told him his head was too big for his body.

Stupid Raj. We went to dinner not speaking to each other.