Day 7 1/2: Abdoun

Raj's sisters live in Abdoun, a showier section of the Amman burbs riddled with limestone buildings and trendy shops. The three of us pack off for the barbecue; Marco goes his own way. He has friends to visit, so we'll catch up later.

Layla's apartment, or condo in North American terms, is gorgeous. High ceilings, very spacious and decorated with more of a European than Arabic twist. I suppose the fact that her husband spends a lot of time in Holland on business has something to do with that. Lots of pets too, since their two boys love animals: cats, fish, and two birds. One of the birds is friendly enough but the other is super crotchety, decides right away that it hates me and starts squawking so loudly I'm actually asked to leave the kitchen so the maid can work in peace.

It's not yet time to eat, so Raj's nephews have a little fun with us by testing mine and James' tolerance to wasabi peas. I'd brought some with me from home. Normally I'm not into traveling with freeze-dried legumes, but when I'd quizzed Raj on what to bring his parents (in thanks for the gracious accomodations) all he could answer on behalf of his dad was, "snack foods." Rising to the occasion I brought lots of chocolates, nuts, jams, and my own personal favourite, wasabi peas. Not a success though, I'm afraid to say. Sending an old man spluttering for a glass of water five minutes after you've met is not a good icebreaker. The wasabi peas were such a failure, in fact, that Mummy actually repackaged them up, put them into my hands and said, "Please, we cannot eat this."

Fortunately Raj's brother in law is a foodie and gave them a good home, but not before his sons bet how many James and I could chew at once without wheezing. Nine for me, 14 for James. Damn him. But I got my revenge with a winning Bingo game when one of the kids insisted we play. Nanner nanner.

Have you ever seen a gynormous banquet table piled four feet high with food? I have. An exquisite smorgasbord from hell, that's what it was, full of every Middle Eastern barbecued delight you could possibly think of, and then some. Paradise for your taste buds, catastrophe for your stomach. To give you an idea of just how surrounded we were by edibles: there were seven dips alone. Barbecued chickens, lamb, beef, some ground meat sausage things, salad, rice, it never stopped coming. Worse, as the honoured guests, James and I weren't permitted to fill our own plates, meaning they were always filled for us. And these servings put the Hungry Man meals to shame. At one point I asked for more bread to mop up the barrel of hummus, oyvey, growing before my eyes, and my response was met with a rainfall of pita from every direction. James took one in the eye. See whenever one of us asked for something they assumed that both of us needed it, so he got more bread too. Does that make sense? Of course not! God love those Arabs.

What's more, not ten minutes after the meal has been declared over, Layla tosses some bills at Raj and tells him to show his friends (us) the neighbourhood, and could we please pick up dessert on the way? Double oyvey. I can barely make it out of my seat without assistance, and I'm doing it now to get dessert. Oink Oink.

Dessert was wonderful, some phyllo, honey & cheese concoction, and they made me eat two slices. Two. Post pastry I was most unglamourously reduced to leaning back on the sofa cushions to accomodate my meal while breathing through my mouth. I ate so much in fact that even my vocabulary was affected. Someone asked James and me what we'd thought of Amsterdam and its many canals, and all I could think to say was, "It was very lovely and very moist."

Moist? Yeah, it was time to go, at least before the onslaught of Round #2. Raj dropped us off while he went to run an errand but instead of giving in to blissful sleep, the favoured pastime after big meals everywhere, James and I went for a walk. Where we bumped into Marco, who took us to an internet cafe and grocery store.

Out of the country, everyone should go to a foreign grocery store. It's cultural, it's off the beaten path, and it's great for souvenir shopping, even just for the comedy value. I guarantee that in any foreign marketplace you'll find something completely weird, so badly translated that the English name makes you howl, or both.

For instance: Cow Extract. Yes, this was the name on the can, in big blue letters, 100% COW EXTRACT. North-American translation: Spam. Into my basket it went. Next, a can of cheese. Yes, you read that right, a can of cheese. Never in my life have I ever needed to use a can opener to get to cheese. Gold, I tell you. That went next to the cow extract. And finally, a bag of coffee. Beirut Blend coffee. All I could picture was Juan Valdez with a machine gun.

Shopping trip over we headed back to the apartment for a quick change of clothes and out to a bar, where the four of us enjoyed martinis and drinks from a rooftop terrace. James' mojito tasted like a stick of gum and my martini tasted like rubbing alcohol, but the view was very nice all the same. Even if Raj and James insisted on polishing off two bowls of popcorn. Seriously, after all that food today?

And the rest of the night, nothing special. I fell asleep early, almost right away in fact. I'd been blinking sleep away for hours since I hadn't gotten any the night before.