Day 8: Amman

For breakfast we had breadsticks and cheese from the jar. Nope, novelty still hasn't worn off.

The stuff's fantastic: gooey, drippy white cheese and homemade flavoured breadsticks that could easily be classed "gourmet" at home, and therefore cost $8 per dozen in fancy packaging at the organic specialty foods store. To accompany our usual breakfast today is zatar flatbread, compliments of Marco's mother.

Today we are going back downtown to be tourists, and so we pick up Raj's youngest nephew, who is 11, and hail a cab. Why hail a cab when we already have a ride, you ask? Because Amman taxis are a wonderful thing. You can sit in one for a half hour and not pay more than two dinars, tops. Considering the price of gas, it actually costs less to cab it, than drive yourself.

Marco is with us today, plus nephew and cabbie makes six, all crammed together and bumpety-bump on the downtown trek in a Fiat. With insane Arabic folk music blaring from the back speakers, no less. We are headed to the "castle ruins," as Raj calls it, but looked more like a mess of ancient columns to me. He was right in the respect that they are ruins, and they are also on the highest hill in Amman, with a spectacular panorama of the city wrapped around us below.

Thanks to the takeover habits of the Greeks & Romans and their love of columns and arches, I have seen a lot of ruins. A lot. I remember the first time I was in Paris and giddily squealing at my first glimpse of the Arc du Triomphe, only to see another one in Spain. Then in England. Then a half-dozen more in Italy. Rape, pillage, burn then build they did, but when it comes to Greek and Roman architecture, trust me this one tidbit: once you've seen a few batches, you've seen 'em all. When you're showing the "My Trip" pictures back home, there's nothing like a good debate of Ionic vs. Doric to keep them yawning.

Having fun in ruins, now there's something. Scaling a column pretending you’re King Kong, for instance. We did this. In the old arena where chariot races were held (think Ben Hur), James kneeled over and stuck his head on my butt so we could be a horse. He was the backside, I was the head. Marco took a picture of me sticking my tongue out between the legs of some god statue. We ran to the doors of the ancient mosque and yelled out, "Sanctuary!"

Your pictures, your time with friends, your life is just so much better when it’s fun. Try and make it so.

When we weren’t fooling around like kids, we were climbing up the highest rocks and crannies the other tourists didn’t even attempt, walking along the tops of thick stone walls to look down at our universe. Thousands of years ago, people built these walls. Maybe before the roofs were on, roofs that lay ruin eons ago, they walked on these same stones we now did. Taking these steps, thinking these thoughts, is truly humbling.

And then, back to our childish ruckus when I got stuck in a high place and couldn’t come down. James had to carry me. Imagine carrying me, of all people, off a ruin. Bless his little heart.

We saw the ruins, we saw the mosque, we saw the armpit of a museum that had some nice old jewellery for me to look at, and a fossilized baby corpse for the boys. And now it was time to see more of downtown, where we haggled for bargains in every which corner, and people stared at James and me in every which way. Nothing kinky or out of bounds, just plenty of staring. A lot of women veiled in the city so I guess my hair and bright l’il toes drew their own attention, but the stares for James were absolutely unreal. He’s just so big, and so blonde, and so… white. A great sun god Viking descended upon the land of milk and honey. I highly doubt Britney Spears would get so much attention, provided the glitter thong stayed on.

Back in the taxi to Mummy’s and Papi’s, and a little more room this time as once again, Marco departs. With the exception of the one nephew he will not meet any of Raj’s relatives during his stay. For the sake of questioning and people who have become, in all our eyes, my adopted family, this is how it must be.

Mummy and Papi greet us with a tremendous feast. Again. At this point, was there any doubt? I don’t remember this meal so much as I remember the slight problem that James and I were beginning to notice.

See, the two of us and our North Americanized stomachs are having problems with the Middle Eastern diet. These people sure do love their meats. And rice. Bread, grains, beans. Chickpeas, oh man they have a thing with chickpeas. Vegetables, not so much.

James and I are used to salad or veggie sides, often both, covering at least a third of our plates. And because vegetable servings are in such high proportion throughout our meals, we are used to regularity. To be very blunt, it’s been days since either of us has taken a proper crap.

Once back at the apartment we take another little walk to the grocery store, meeting Marco on the way, where we buy ourselves the precious gift that keeps on giving: All Bran Cereal. Once back at home we cradle our bowls with loving care, saying little prayers all beginning with "please" and ending with "toilet," eating fiber like it’s going out of style. Throughout our pathetic but desperate little ritual, Marco sits, smokes and laughs. Can you blame him?

Towards the end of my first bowl and James’ second, Raj walked in and demanded we go out. I eyed my empty cereal bowl. I’d actually been hoping to stay in and have a little bathroom action, but I’m game. We all clean up and head back in the car to not only lament Raj’s driving, but to figure out what on earth we’re going to do.

We end up at Kan Zaman, a complex just off the highway and the pride of traditional Jordan. Kan Zaman is antique shops and Bedouin tents, a restaurant with grilled food and live music in the Arabic classical fashion. The walls and floor are made of stone, and there is a hookah at every table.

We looked around, we ordered some finger foods, we sat at a table that was far too short for any of us to be really comfortable. We talked and enjoyed the music. I remember what everyone wore that night. Raj was in jeans and a white shirt, vintage brown leather jacket, D&G prescription glasses, sneakers. James was also in sneakers and jeans, and a most dashing striped button-down in various shades of pink. My "I hate pink" rule extends to men even more, but it was very becoming on big blonde James.

I was wearing green pants and Chinese girl green canvas shoes, a white linen blouse with a Mandarin collar, and my white knit poncho. It was chilly that night. I’d decided to let my hair down and it was being defiant, poofy and frizzy in all the wrong places. Every now and then I’d excuse myself for a trip to the ladies room to try and calm it down with some water, but there was no saying goodbye to Jungle Jane tonight.

Marco was in freshly polished black dress shoes, black trousers and a charcoal gray shirt that suit his dark hair and olive complexion to the tee. I remember sitting across from him at Kan Zaman, watching him dip his pita and nod along to the music, thinking about how very nice he looked and wondering why he hadn’t said anything about it all day. Marco knows when I’m myself and when I’m not. As for how I’ve acted today, he’s smart enough to know the difference.

I was also wondering why, oh why, am I such a stupid girl?