Day 9 1/2: Jerash

A few minutes after the end of our Scrabble game, the typhoon that was Raj blew through the apartment clapping his hands and shrieking, "People! PEOPLE! HURRY UP PEOPLE!"

Today Raj is taking us to the ruins of the ancient Roman city of Jerash. Unless he melts down first or snaps one of his fingers right off, which is very likely. We are behind schedule and according to Raj, it is all our faults. Never mind we were ready and he wasn't; never mind he was late and we were on time. This is Raj, and if it's not handled with mounting blood pressure and hissy fits, it's not handled at all. So with a final "Get in the fucking car already people, we're late!", we pack into the Toyota and zoom off.

But wait! We're hungry. We start to whine. James wheedles and I pull Raj's ears from the backseat. This is what happens when we're demoted to "people." Most grudgingly and very loudly, Raj pulls over to a sandwich place, insults us and studies his nails while we file out to order. "You people are going to disturb my corpse when I'm dead and buried," he claims. Uh huh. As long as we're not hungry when that happens.

Saj (rhymes with Raj) is an Arabic form of sandwich that is a cross between naan and a giant burrito. Instead of a flour tortilla, imagine a piece of naan about a foot and a half in diameter, spread thinly with your choice of toppings, then rolled up, wrapped up, and presented for eating in the form of a mini baseball bat.

Mine was filled with haloumi cheese; I wasn't feeling too adventurous. About halfway through I regretted being toppings stingy and pouted until James finished it. That done, I dug into my piece of saj filled with bananas and nutella that we had gotten to share. Beautiful.

Just under an hour's drive away from Amman is Modern Jerash, and the ruins of Old Jerash are right beside it. You pay the fee, get stared down, and enter the ruins to wander at will. Earlier I'd harped on how boring ruins are, but Jerash is marvelous. It's an entire city, not just pieces of ruined city dotted throughout an existing one. We had arrived late (as Raj kept reminding us by pointing at his watch), but in the long run that turned out to be better because we had virtually the whole place to ourselves. We also had Adham.

Adham was a skinny little 13-year old street urchin with a knit cap and dirty jeans. He'd ambushed us right after the amphitheatre, wanting to know if we were interested in seeing a moving column. We said no. Turned out Adham didn't take no for an answer. He followed us for ten more minutes, ignored Raj brushing him off and finally appealed to James, saying, "Big man, would you and your wife like to see the moving column?"

Wife? For fuck's sakes! Here I am with three different men and I'm stuck married to James again. That snap question made everyone laugh (except me), James explained that I was NOT his wife (thank the lord) and, curiosity piqued, we went to see the moving column.

Adham moved the column by putting a coin underneath a crack and did something illusory to make it seem like it was turning. Impressive. We moved on and so did he, spouting all kinds of interesting Jerashian tidbits. Jerash is one of the best preserved Roman cities in the East. The roads were constructed by Emperor Trajan. The two gigantic, rectangular stones on top of the forum were actually hollow and made high pitched noises during severe winds, warning the citizens of tornadoes. Lions were kept in this old stable; here were the scratch marks from their claws.

Adham knew the history and city so well, we guessed he'd grown up sneaking through the gates and tagging along with unsuspecting tour guides. He took us to all the secret corners and alleyways of Jerash; showed us which staircases to climb, which secret doorways to go through, and which dark spaces to stay away. Weak floors. And when Adham quipped that he was in the market for a wife (every 13-year old's priority, I'm sure), James piped up that I was for sale. Fuck off, James. Well, he'd probably never been thrilled about being my husband, either. Adham's eyes lit up, a big smile crossed his face, and he offered two million camels for my hand in marriage. I guess he liked older women.

Well, two million camels is a lot of camels. And, according to James' gay mind and calculations, Adham was a seriously cute kid who would grow up to be a ravishing 33-year old when I was 50. Not a bad deal. What the hey. For the rest of our Jerash tour, my fiancee traipsed around me most protectively, saying as often as he could, "James, don't touch my wife!"

Tour over, we said our goodbyes, but not before Adham hit us up for an extra large tip. Scoundrel. He was smart enough to ask *each one* of us individually too, and not accept just one payment as a group. He made a killing. Then he asked for a kiss, and I gave him one on the cheek. We parted ways with Adham jingling his pockets and pointing his finger, warning, "James, don't touch my wife!"

There was one more stop before we left Jerash, and that was to the merchants quarter where the souvenirs were sold. I wasn't in the market for baubles today, but there was one stall I was very interested in. Sinbad the painter sold his work from a tent where every square inch, ceiling included, was covered in art. There were belly dancers, fortresses, Bedouins, gypsy girls, horses, nudes, abstracts, every topic under the sun. His work was magnificent. I bought a huge abstract of a heavily jewelled woman with long, light hair and solid black eyes, and a man standing behind her. Sinbad told me it was called "The Meeting," and happily added that I was getting a special discount for bringing my friend, husband and brother along. Of course I was used to James being my husband by now, but brother? Sinbad pointed to Raj. Aha. This man thought I was Raj's sister. My dark hair and tanning sessions haven't been for naught. I have been mistaken for an Arab. Mission accomplished.

James, Raj and Marco finished up their souvenir shopping just as the tents were coming down. Jerash was closing up for the day, and it was time to go home. We walked back to the car and Raj had the key in the door's lock, when a pickup truck sped by and Adham popped out the window. Arms up and a huge grin on his face he yelled out, "JAMES, DON'T TOUCH MY WIFE!"

Day 9: Abdoun

One of my favourite ever movie lines is from "Mansfield Park" when Fanny Price says to her sister, "I have no talent for certainty." Fanny is referring to the dashing, womanizing Henry Crawford and at this point in the film, has changed her answer a gajillion times to his proposal of marriage.

There is nothing special about this line. It's just a handful of words. But I liked it so much because Fanny is talking about a man and as such, it totally applies to me. The opposite sex and I share a very special relationship in that I have not one miserable, fucking inch of talent for certainty when it comes to men. None whatsoever.

That first morning with Marco I was determined that me and him at Level Two were all wrong. Totally ixnay. Naturally this conclusion came after a good half-hour in the bathroom privately consulting me, myself and my paranoia, and I was fine with that decision. Anything to get the storms out of my head and for a little while, it seemed to work just fine.

I stuck to my guns and so my second day and second night with Marco passed by the same way. He parted ways when we were with Raj's family and at night, we talked. About everything under the sun. We talked until we were tired, and then we fell asleep.

That third morning I woke up to James parked in front of the TV, rubbing my cocoa butter lotion onto his feet, and Raj clucking about. He had some family duties today, and so the three of us would be alone this morning. I went in the direction of the breadsticks and jar of cheese for my first meal of the day when Marco said, "Come out for breakfast with me."

My morning was blissfully free and breakfast out, I thought, would be very nice. Besides, it was his last full day with us. Tomorrow Raj, James and me would be touring Jordan's touristy landmarks, and Marco would be going home.

We got ready on the sly, he hailed us a cab and we went to a trendy little cafe in Abdoun with contemporary seating and a display case full to the brim with Parisian-inspired pastries. All sweets, especially chocolate sweets, fuel Marco's fire and he picked us a table with the nicest view of the baked goods. I had to laugh. Marco's heaven is cocoa oceans on chocolate shores, and spun sugar trees growing pastry fruit under a soft rainfall of gargantuan cacao beans. Willy Wonka's factory spread out across infinity.

My heaven is a different story, and it was his turn to laugh when our three coffees came. One for him, two for me. My heaven is orchards of coffee beans with waterfalls of espresso, rivers of latte dotted with biscotti sailboats, and creamy white clouds of milk foam against a cappucino sky.

We ordered breakfast to share: a chocolate danish, French toast with assorted toppings, and leaned back on the couch to relax. He had his arm around me and I was okay with that; he did most of the talking this morning, and I was okay with that too. Being with such a person, being with Marco is otherwordly: his voice, the way he talks, his calm demeanor. It is awe-inspiring, humbling even, especially next to the ups and downs of my pogo stick personality.

But it was frustrating being with him too, because I just couldn't believe he hadn't said or done even one thing to react to my freezing up the way I had. One part of me I wanted to shake him and scream, what's wrong with you? Why haven't you stormed off or told me off or done anything you're perfectly within your rights to do because I've been such a bitch? While the other part of me wanted to bury my face into his neck, apologize profusely and cry for a hundred years over all the mess I'd made and emotions boiling inside me. How on earth could he always be so balanced?

But with Marco there is no overreaction or screaming over anything; this is just the way that he is. Definitely a more advanced human being than I am, that's for sure. In Buddha's books, I am positive that Marco is on his 99th life. I am even more positive that I am on my fourth.

Breakfast over, we headed back to the apartment where Raj was still awol, so the three of us played a game of Scrabble to kill time. Marco won and I would've come in second if James' sucky expression hadn't played on my sympathies. I gave him a U tile, ignored the word IQUEER, and lost by a mile. Bastard.

James took off for his room leaving me and Marco alone to clean up. He was putting the tiles in their cloth sack when he said to me, "Thank you for breakfast."

"For what, I didn't even pay. Thank you."

"No, thank you for coming along."

"Yeah, issues and all."

That was the first reference I'd made about my shittiness. He just smiled. "Your issues are what I like best about you."

If this conversation had taken place at a meal and my mouth was full of food, I would have been choking on it. "You're kidding, right?"

Marco laughed, stood up and pulled me into a hug. "No, I'm serious. You wouldn't be you without them."

It is very nice to be accepted. It is even nicer to be understood.

I started to let go.

Why am I the way that I am? That said, how can I possibly be any different?

The morning that I woke up with Marco, I felt different. A little weird. A lot freaked out. Why? Because in spending the night with him, even mostly in innocence, I felt I was betraying Jess? That I still love that man and despite it all, want to believe things will work out? Or because this was Marco, my lovely Marco that I’d known in one way for so many years and was now faced with the prospect of seeing him in a whole new way?

You’re right.
You’re right.
You’re right.

It’s a lot to take in. It’s a lot to think about. I think too much.

And so, I started to pull away. When he woke up and didn’t find me beside him, it was because I was in the bathroom, yet again. Repeating the antics from the night before, yet again, but on a whole new level.

I am a very stupid girl. But Marco, he’s one smart cookie. It took him all of a few seconds to get it.

What did he do with this newfound information? Well, he was pissed off. He’d come all this way to see his friend, and in her place was a cold fish. He shouted his mind, threw in some profanities for good measure, and stormed off back home. I haven’t seen him since.

No, he didn’t do that. Not any of it. He was wonderful. He took a deep breath (I’m guessing), took a step back (I imagined), and gave me my space (this I saw). He let me be, let me think my crazy thoughts, and didn’t for one minute make me feel bad for thinking them.

At night, he was ever the gentleman. He let me talk, paid me full attention, and didn’t make any moves. I took some of the edge off, let him talk, paid him full attention. I didn’t initiate anything because when we were like this, just like this, it seemed that everything was right with the world. I felt at peace.

It didn’t last.

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?

Not much sleep, that is.

Inspired by my stupidity and brazen first kiss, Marco had brought on the second kiss, then the third, fourth, fifth and so on. Actually he kept bringing them on for about three hours and after that, got even more inspired. And even more brave.

It was the most intense experience of my life, being with Marco. Imagine dreaming about something, waiting for over a decade and then finally getting there. It's so much more than the cool drink of water after crossing the desert, it's like paradise after the gutter. And looking into his eyes, I knew he felt the exact same way. It was so passionate, so beautiful. We saw stars. We were knock knock knockin' on heaven's door. It was so incredible that we knew right then and there we were meant for each other and could never be apart. Imagine my shock and surprise when he got down on one knee and said what I'd been waiting to hear my whole life: "Will you marry me?"

Of course I accepted, he made me a ring out of chewing gum and then we got right to work conceiving our twins. That's right, I'm pregnant. After the babies are born we will move to Costa Rica and set up a catering busines with a menu that revolves around bananas. We love bananas because they are tasty, yellow and phallic. You're completely bananas if you believe any of this.

Hooey, the whole load. Most of it anyway. So, what really did happen with Marco?

The first part is true. My idiocy did inspire him, and he took the lead. Very slowly, very gently. Marco knows how neurotic I am and nicest of all, Marco doesn't push. It was wonderful to be kissed.

After a few minutes we got tired of standing and settled into bed where we made wild, insane, vein-popping love. Nah, fooled you again. I love to kid my darlings mostly because the real answer isn't nearly so interesting: we talked. Kissing occasionally, but talking more. A lot of years to catch up on, remember. Until the wee hours of the morning we were all words, closeness, and his fingers playing with my curls, one by one. His hands never strayed beyond that. Marco was always the gentleman. Sweet. Innocent.

Shortly before the sun came up, we drifted off. I woke up to blue skies in my cupcake pajamas, tangled up in floral sheets and in a man's arms. A man I'd vowed a long time ago to never touch. And for the first time in many years, a man that wasn't Jess.

I wanted to be happy. I thought I would be happy. Instead, my heart dropped into my stomach and my mouth went dry. Something wasn't right.

This is when I started to pull away.

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.

Day 7: Abdoun

Woke up to NO breakfast of breadsticks and cream cheese from the jar. Not that we're sick of the stuff, but today Raj's sister Layla is having a barbecue. Mainly for us, but a lot of other people will be there too. More people = more food, so even if lunch is at 2pm it's suicide to contemplate anything but water meals until then.

My two goals for this morning are to get my camera dust-free, and an appropriate level of pretty for the barbecue. It's still early, so camera first. I attack my Nikon with everything I have, including lens wipes I'd picked up in Sweffiyeh the day before, and James' hair dryer. Nothing, and nothing. That damn dust won't move. I'm seriously irritated by now and take the camera apart, zoom in, zoom out, dust in every which cranny I can get my greedy little fingers on, and as a result, break my lens. Well, "throw out of whack" is a more appropriate term since all I can see out of it now are strange, kaleidoscope-ish patterns.

My beautiful, dusty Sigma lens and the three-dozen rolls of professional film I bought before coming here have been laid to waste. Booyah. I don't know whether to cry or throw it out the window, followed by all that film to rain down on the goats grazing outside. I settle for packing it all up in my suitcase, and giving the bag a good kick. Well, a gentle kick. Expensive camera. I'll get it looked at back home.

Alrighty then, pretty time. I dress & accesorize myself, Raj does my makeup and James does my hair. How can you not love living with queens? Raj initially wanted to do my hair but interestingly enough, the fashion designer turned image stylist turned Middle East reality TV star is absolutely horrible with hair.

OPENING SCENE: BEDROOM/MAKESHIFT HAIR SALON, OCCUPANTS CRANKY

Me: Just simple you know, half up half down, something to show off the curls. Nothing fussy. I really mean that. Nothing. Fussy.

Raj: How about this?

James: The Carmen Miranda look really isn't her thing.

Me: Okay, I wasn't quite envisioning a coronet on top of my head.

James: You know, if we put some cherries on that...

Me: Let's try something else.

Raj: (twisting and gathering) What about this?

Me: Oh lord...

James: Fabulous. Now she's a Byzantine whore.

Raj: You people are too complicated!

Me: Darling, I thought when you were at the TV station you did makeovers all the time?

Raj: I didn't do any of the work myself, I told the hairdressers and makeup artists what to do.

Me: Well if only I had known this ten minutes ago. Hey Marco! Need some laughs?

(Marco walks in and in no time is reduced to fits of laughter over my slutty, curls-in-the-air hair)

Raj: For fuck's sakes! Fine, I'll try something else!

Me: Let's concentrate on simple... very simple... James, he's fussing! JAMES!

James: Honey, that looks like Spanish moss.

Raj: You don't like this either?

Me: The retired flamenco dancer look? NO!

Raj: Okay then I have another idea...

Very lucky for me, James caught my whimpering and wet puppy dog eyes. Mouthing "help" didn't hurt either. In one swift motion he scooped up a handful of hairpins and jerked me into the bathroom, away from Jose Eber's clutches. Ignoring Raj's shouts and trying to pick the lock, it took James all of three minutes to deliver exactly what I wanted. Who knew a chef could be so talented with hair? Oh yes, he's gay. Almost forgot.

Khaki cargo pants, white peasant blouse, black sandals, my favourite gold chandelier earrings with blue stones. Bit of lip gloss, bit of black eyeliner, bit of black mascara, lots of black curls loose around my shoulders. This was how I looked when Marco arrived.

It was the Thursday night of our first week in Amman. Raj and James were watching a movie in the apartment and enjoying a light snack of breadsticks and jarred cream cheese. I, on the other hand, was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I ironed, I showered, got dressed, shitpicked myself up and down and cursed the pedicurist for my chipped toenail polish. Terrible pressure it is, trying to be perfect for "the event" that has been a long time coming, especially when you know there is no such thing as perfect but strive for it anyway. And while I realize that I did absolutely nothing for myself by applying extra mountains of nerves onto an already stressful situation, why, of all fucking times, did my turquoise toes have to be less than stunning?

Finally ready, pretty and perfumed, I joined Raj and James for what I assumed would be a few more hours of waiting, but it was all of a few minutes after I'd made myself comfortable that the phone rang. His taxi was waiting downstairs.

Ah, those moments in life when your heart drops into your stomach and you want to puke. So few, but always so important. I jumped up and ran out the door, ignoring Raj yelling, "I'll come with you, kookoo!!", flew down the stairs and outside.

It was dark, and street lamps were few. The road was littered with parked cars, but up ahead a trunk was open and bags were being unloaded. There he was. Marco.

A few weeks ago I wondered if when I saw him, my heart would stop or I would shriek in euphoria. Neither of those happened. Instead I ran without thinking, jumped straight into his hug and barely heard his smiling, "Hi, sweetie," when I did something incredibly, horrifically stupid. The kind of idiocy I'm only capable of when my brain shuts down and the space between my ears is a bag of hot air.

I kissed him. Bang on the lips. A crazy Hollywood smack with my arms around him and my eyes closed. And somewhere in the middle of that, a little voice in the back of my head said, Good lord. I just kissed Marco.

When our lips came apart and I opened my eyes to his smile, the sledgehammer of reality whacked me upside the head and I started to get dizzy. GOOD LORD. I JUST KISSED MARCO.

Stupid stupid stupid girl. It wasn't supposed to be like this! What in hell must he think of me now? Quick, assess the situation. Okay, he was still smiling. Good sign. Rewind scene in head. He kissed back. Better sign. Now stop gaping and do some damage control.

What do I do when I screw up? I really go in for the kill. Marco asked me how I was doing, but I was still too appalled by my Oscar performance to answer. I knew I had to do something quick, and a brilliant idea struck me: his luggage. He had luggage! Of course. I would carry something upstairs. I grabbed the nearest bag and, not even checking to see if he would follow, started hauling it towards the building. At lightning speed. When I got to the sidewalk I passed by a mystified Raj who hissed, "What the fuck are you doing?", and I replied the best I could: with some kind of noise that was a cross between a gurgle and a hiccup. And kept going. Too late to stop now.

I went through the building entrance, up the stairs and kicked open the apartment door. I then dropped the bag in the living room right in front of a confunded looking James who said, "What's the matter? Is he here? What's wrong?", but just ignored him too on my way down the hall and into the bathroom, where I locked myself in. It was a prime opportunity to scream my head off but since I wasn't alone, I had to settle for sitting on the toilet with my head between my knees, hyperventilating in private.

I'd love to say that never in my life have I acted so hysterically, if only to make myself feel better, but then I've done a *lot* of stupid things. This one though, deserved some kind of prize. Sitting there on that toilet and replaying it over and over, I figured all that was missing were some circus poodles and Bozo the clown. Wait, Bozo had been there all along. I was Bozo. Bozo the demented, inbred clown.

Couldn't stay in here forever, and I didn't want to. Marco was out there. One of my best friends for fuck's sakes, and here I was having an asthma attack on a toilet. And no matter how disastrous I'd just made things, I'd have to face him sooner or later anyway. Unless I could somehow sneak the washer out of here without anyone noticing - doubtful - this bathroom was far too small for a comfortable night's sleep.

Okay, Bozo. Deep breath, stand up, hand on doorknob, that's it. Little by little. Move your feet out of the bathroom, across the hallway, into the bedroom.... and there he was. Taking off his watch and putting it on the nightstand like it was the most normal thing in the world, almost oblivious to the fact that I'd just acted like the biggest loser on earth.

Almost. He had heard me come in and so turned around, smirking, left eyebrow up and that "Uh huh" look I knew so well written all over his face. Well, if anyone knows how big a loser I can be, it's Marco. If I'm going to make a complete fool of myself in front of anyone, it may as well be him.

Marco went around to shut the door, and then came back to stand right in front of me. He took both my hands in his, kissed each one, then pulled me in for a big hug and started to laugh. "Silly."

"Oh, shut up."

This only made him laugh harder and even though I was probably blushing like mad, I started to relax. I started to breathe. I settled into his arms at last and when he pulled me in for a kiss, I noticed something that just a few minutes before I'd been too panicked to enjoy: he tasted like sweet tobacco and fresh mint leaves.

Day 6: Sweffiyeh

We wake up to a very light breakfast of black sesame breadsticks and cream cheese from the jar - the fact we're still eating the stuff tells you just how very big that jar was - and chill in the apartment. In awhile we will head to Mummy's and Papi's but right now, with the time I have to myself, I am appropriately nervy and sick. Marco is arriving tonight.

This morning Papi is taking us to Sweffiyeh, a fantastic shopping district plunk near the burbs. More specifically, Papi wants to show James and me his favourite shop in Sweffiyeh: Izhiman Coffee. Without even asking Raj if he wants to come along, Papi packs the two of us in the car and we're off. Papi loves his son more than anything, but his love of exotic food and shop scouring doesn't extend to Raj. Like I said, Raj doesn't like to mix with the local riff raff.

Izhiman Coffee is one-third coffee, two-thirds spices and everything else. I have always wanted to visit a Middle Eastern spice market, it's even #32 on my list of travel goals. Here's an excerpt for you:

29: Ogle a Venetian glassblower (done)
30: Pick tea in Ceylon
31: Ride a camel without assistance (done)
32: Visit a Middle Eastern spice market (done)
33: Visit an African spice market
34: See the Rosetta Stone (done)
35: Eat Peking Duck in Peking
36: Bungee jump off a Bavarian suspension bridge

And etc. The path to fulfilling goal #32 started with Mummy and Papi being so thrilled with James' and my love of their fabulous Turkish coffee (the rest of the country drinks Nescafe, yuck), and knew that we wanted to see a spice market, too. Izhiman fit the bill. The front of the shop is all coffee, various roasts and flavours, the middle is spices, and the back is tea, perfume & naturopathic remedies.

Either Papi is such a regular or Izhiman loves tourists so much that Omar, employee extraordinaire, was appointed our personal shopping stooge. Omar knew his shit. I knew Omar knew his shit when he brought over a large scoop of what looked like clear crystal chips, gestured to me with a smile and said, "Here, smell."

At the time I didn't know it was a scoop of pure menthol. I leaned over and took a sniff that cleared out my sinuses, orifices and entire body cavity in .03 seconds flat. What a wallop! James was spluttering from his first inhale and I'd just started to ride the menthol high when smiling, I put my arm in Omar's and said, "So tell me, what other interesting things do you have here?"

As it turned out, plenty of interesting things. I bought biryani spice, Egyptian chamomile tea, over four pounds of wild tyme (known as zatar), sumac, Nigerian black soap, cardamom, the darkest roast coffee beans available, and a special present for Oli: Snake Oil.

Snake Oil came in a small orange box with a picture of a cobra on the front. Underneath the picture it said, "Immediate Treatment for Damaged Hair". Perfect! Oli is terrified of snakes, but has some seriously thick hair that is tortured with a flatiron every day. And this is definitely one of the quirkiest gifts I could ever hope to bring back. It went into my basket, to the cash and out the front door.

Goodbye Izhiman, hello bakery. Papi loves sweets and baked goods; who were we to argue? He bought zatar bread, fresh pita and an assortment of arabic pastries for us to try... and laughed when we stocked up on black sesame breadsticks. Ooo, they had mint flavoured breadsticks too. We were going to need more jarred cheese for this.

We left Sweffiyeh with a full trunk and most satisfied with our visit. I crossed off #32 before we got back to the apartment, where yet another huge meal was waiting. A gigantic whole fish from the Red Sea, stuffed chicken, vine leaf wrapped rice rolls, hummus (I wasn't as overjoyed to see it yet again), and babaganouj. Better yet, we were joined by Raj's sisters and their kids.

Raj has one brother and two sisters, Nadia and Layla. They have two sons apiece, and really remind me of, well, me and Oli. The older one is shorter, mouthier and very much in charge. The younger has bigger eyes and likes denim jackets. They also happen to live next door to each other. Did I ever mention that Oli's townhouse is behind my loft? I liked watching them talk and argue, it made me nostalgic. Besides airports and her lack of the punctuality gene, Oli and I travel great together and it was refreshing to see sisters prod and insult one another, all in good fun, as much as we did.

After the meal, after the coffee, after yet another failed attempt at trying to read my future in the cup (I really have to brush up on that), Nadia started picking on Raj because he hadn't taken us shopping yet. James and I were just about on our knees praising her good senses when she ordered us all back into the car and back to Sweffiyeh for some decent retail therapy. When she told me she had a jewellery and pashmina addiction, it was all I could do from keeping her for life.

First stop jewellery and accessories store, where James picked up some cute things for his little sister, and I got a Yemeni necklace for ME. Yup, it's all about me right now. Second stop, pashmina store where I just about drowned myself in a cashmere ocean. I couldn't believe the quality of this stuff, and the prices to boot, easily half what they would have been at home. I got myself two gorgeously beaded works of art, and three silk shawls for moms. Would've draped Oli too but she's not a Bohemian like me.

Oli did get shoes, though. Leather wedge platforms that I knew she would die for. I never forget my big sister on an international shopping spree. Her purchase was made right as Sweffiyeh started to close, and so we loaded back into the car, dropped Nadia off and went back to the apartment where a big, big pile of laundry waited. Unfortunately, thanks to Raj's bad positioning of the drainage pipe, my bathroom got flooded and the three of us were reduced to mopping up the pools of soapy water with kleenex and paper towels. In such situations it's safe to say our true selves come out: I swore, Raj bitched, James took it all in. How I love my queens, even in the biggest messes. I was just titchy at the bad timing, see, cause it's not terrific for your bathroom to flood when you're busy preparing for Marco.

Day 5 1/2: The Dead Sea

I'm not the kind of girl that goes around with an extra pair of shoes, but I'm a huge believer in beach flip flops. The busted Skechers were thrown (quite hatefully) into the back of the trunk, and my indestructible blue Havaianas came out. All hail plastic.

The drive to the Dead Sea was all of a half-hour or so from the Jordan River, and very scenic in the "look there's another Bedouin with his herd of goats" kind of way. We also drove by a nomad with his camel while I squealed in the backseat - baby's first camel in the Middle East! - then kicked myself when James said, "Why aren't you shooting any of this?" I'd packed up my Nikon and left it in the trunk. Champion photo girl was off to a really bad start.

Every picture I'd ever seen of the Dead Sea seemed to show a beach made entirely of mud, and perky looking people covered head to toe in the stuff. The ones in the water are perpetual backfloaters, faces mucky, reading newspapers. I thought we would go to this beach, roll around in the mud like beached whales then partake of the Dead Sea waters with the other happy, happy tourists. Heck, it's a giant spa. How can you not get along at a spa?

Well, it's not that way at all. Turns out you have to go through a hotel. As in pay the ticket for pool facilities, beach pass and towel service for the day. I highly suspect there is a public beach somewhere, but Raj wouldn't tell us because he hates mixing with the local riff raff. When he knows the scene and we don't, he really takes advantage of it.

Raj's hotel of choice was the Marriott, and right away it reminded me of the hotels on the Vegas strip. Large, immaculate, themed. Red carpet to the door, uniformed, smiling host ready with complimentary lemonade, overpowering air conditioning, yadda yada. Gorgeous, otherworldly, unnervingly perfect. We each coughed up 20 dinars for said services, and headed to the back.

It was breathtaking. At least four swimming pools that I could see, striped deck chairs, bridges, flowers of every colour. Stone trails heading downhill to more pools, more gardens, tiki umbrellas and hot hot hot cabana boys attending to your every need at the lowest point on earth.

I know what you're thinking and so I'll answer that question post haste: while in Nirvana, did Fat Girl partake of these glorious services? Very politely, for two out of three, no. The one I did use was towel service, only because James is large and wanted my extra towels. Pool and beach service I did not use.

Here are my two reasons, #1 being that I did not know about the pool. I didn't find out until the evening before the trip about the Marriot hoo-ha, I honestly thought all there would be was a beach. With that in mind I didn't even pack a bathing suit. In my defense I did check out the suits available at the gift shop, but lord, they were tacky. If you're thinking I'm a snob for missing one of the most gorgeous swimming pool opportunities in my existence, then yes darling, I am. Simply put, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a fuschia bikini with cartoons of fish skeletons on the boobs, and "I swam in the Dead Sea" printed across the ass. No way, no how.

So why didn't I pack for the beach? Reason #2: I am not allowed in the Dead Sea. Ever. I would love to tell you that I broke some international law, got in all kinds of trouble and was prohibited from entering the nation's precious resources - adds mystique, see - but the real reason isn't nearly so interesting. Da da dum... no Dead Sea for me because of health problems. Well, former health problem. I'll get into that later.

But I did get my feet wet. I rolled up my pants for the second time that day and waded in a little over ankle deep into the Dead Sea, and took pictures of everything I saw. Floating people, muddy people, a Chinese tourist swimming with all her clothes on. Raj striking poses up and down the beach, James pretending to be a viking boat. My toes.

After shooting more than just a few rolls with my dust-infected camera, I started to get bored. I couldn't use the beach, couldn't use the pool, I'd already walked around the hotel, wasn't hungry, wasn't thirsty, and I didn't want to write anymore either. What's a girl to do?

Go to the spa. And not just any spa, the... most... heavenly... spa... I... have... ever... seen... in... my... whole... life. As a connoisseur of spas and paid luxury, you can take my word on this. A haven of soft music & lighting, desert ambience, plushy bathrobes, a gigantic solarium and indoor pool that just screamed "Nicole Kidman swam here." A menu of offerings that reading the descriptions alone, quite frankly, brought me to my knees. How's that for embarassing?

I didn't become a spa junkie until a couple of years ago, after throwing out my shoulder pretty badly. I was sent for weekly massages for six consecutive weeks, where Havel the Hippie Masseur beat the problem right out. Nowadays, a trip to the spa is the best gift you can give yourself. Heck, it's the best gift I can give myself, and after reading the treatments available at the Jordan Valley Marriott Resort and Spa, I was fully prepared to give myself Christmas and several birthdays right then and there.

The Jordan Valley Full Body Massage with Hot Stones, oh yes. The Purifying Dead Sea Mud Facial, oh yes yes. The Dead Sea Aromatherapy Salt and Oil Scrub, dee-lish, and whatever the hell a Dry Flotation was, that sounded good too. By this point I was salivating so badly I could have put Bluetooth to shame. It'd been months since I'd had spa anything, and all this sounded *so good* and had me so relaxed already, I almost fell over getting to the front desk.

This is when the concierge said the most terrible words I'd ever heard: "I'm sorry ma'am, but we're fully booked for the day."

WHAT?? NO!!! No pool, no Dead Sea, and no spa? No spa? All this and a broken sandal, dusty camera and whining Raj? Seriously peeved, grumpy and still clutching my spa menu to cry over later, I turned and left the garden of eden. All I wanted to do now was sulk in my deck chair the rest of the day... after I tried one more thing. This day couldn't be a total jinx.

I gathered up James and went back to the gift shop, bypassed bathing suits and my heart did a little cartwheel. Jewellery. Nice jewellery. If I can't have anything else I set out for today then dammit, I can have jewellery. I bought a gorgeous silver ring with a crown of spiralling turquoise beads on top. Funky and different. Jewellery always makes it better.

By the time we were done our shopping excursion and ogling the dining room waiters, the sun was going down and stomachs were growling. We left the Marriott in pursuit of fish in the middle of the desert. One hour and four wrong turns later we made it to the fish farm and restaurant that Raj's brother-in-law had told us about that was, quite literally, surrounded by desert. Our evening ended at a plastic patio table loaded with grilled fish, hummus, drinks, arabic music, the wind in our hair and the lights blinking in nearby Israel.

Once during the meal I got up to use the restroom when the restaurant manager stopped me and asked if my husband would be needing anything else? Husband? I turned and followed his gaze to James. Sheesh. Five days en route and I'm already married.

Day 5: The Jordan River

Good morning! For breakfast we had black sesame breadsticks with cream cheese in the almost empty jar. Seeing a theme yet?

Today we are going to the Jordan River and the Dead Sea. Today I will be the championship photographer, as soon as I get the dust off my lens. Note to Self: force Raj to take me to a camera store, as soon as he hauls his ass out of bed. Of us three Raj is the biggest time nazi, and of us three Raj likes to sleep in the most. Go figure.

Mister Sister finally gets out of bed, screaming at us the whole time even though we're fully dressed, ready and waiting. We're used to the fact that Raj just likes to scream. He's like a toy poodle that way, needs to bark to hear his own voice. So with a "Let's go let's go already people! We're on a schedule you know!", we march out the door, down the stairs and into the car.

First stop, falafel. James and I have whined for falafel from the minute the plane landed. In short, we cannot believe how many hours we have been in this part of the world without having a falafel. What's that all about? Raj drives like mad to a falafel place in the center of town, insulting us and our choices the whole way. We have a full day planned and just don't have TIME for falafel, people! Lucky for me the best way to shut Raj up is blackmail, so I threaten with one or two damning scenarios from our school days. Before I know it, he and James are - quietly - in the falafel place ordering our breakfast.

I'm on car duty. He almost got a ticket the night before, see, so my job is to sit in the passenger seat and honk like mad if police person comes at the windshield with a pad and pencil. It's a gorgeous day, the sun is out, the sky is blue, and young, hot busboy from the restaurant has just brought me some complimentary tea and stuffed falafel balls to snack on while I wait. Ah, young & good looking servile male bringing me tasties. I love it here.

We have to forego the camera store because we are running late. Damn. We also have to eat in the car because we are running late. In fact, we have to eat in the moving car because we are running late. If you're having problems picturing what I'm about to describe, just try this: take the most reckless, hissy-fit driver you know and clock them at 100kph in a very swervy part of town while you have a falafel in your left hand and a full cup of hot tea in your right, arm hanging out the window in case of spillage. It was pretty hard at first and I did some toy poodle barking of my own, but I managed better after dumping half my tea in the street.

Next stop, Jordan River. This is where Jesus was baptised. Again, I am not seriously into Christian heritage sites, but when in the area, what the hey? The scenery is gorgeous and if anything, it's nostalgic. Under one condition, though: if at any time we were subject to candle-bearing religious heretics singing "Kumbaya," vamos.

We parked the car, then got on a bus with a dozen or so other tourists, several of them Italian. The bus rolls along while the tour guide gives a very important, factually significant ditty (I'd repeat some of it but we weren't paying attention), and the load of us were dropped off onto a sidewalk in a field where the walking tour began. They don't exactly tell you that this sidewalk just happens to be in the middle of a minefield, but they do tell you that you are very, very close to the Israeli border and that these important landmarks have been "protected" by all means necessary. Or as James put it, "If you stray off the sidewalk honey, do us all a favour and keep running."

The sidewalk leads to a forested area, then a bridge, then another bridge, then the river, etc. etc., you get the point. Our trio was the tail end of the group, and I was the last. And this was it! I could feel it in my bones. The time was right for my own personal tour-de-force. I whipped out my camera - dust be damned! - and prepared myself to start shooting like mad. Just one more thing, and this I'd been waiting for a long, long time.

Hairclip had to come off. Now. Curls have been up far too long and what better place to make a fresh start? Hell, Jesus did it. With my thumb and forefinger I undid it my clip in one fluid motion and shook my hair loose a la Charlie's Angels style, singing "Born Free!" in my head, intending to savour the moment forever.

Then, at that precise moment, the damndest thing happened. My right sandal snapped. Off. As in broken. As in, You've just started a 1.5 hour walking tour in a minefield in some godforsaken desert, and will have to do most of it now without your right shoe.

What the hell? What was this? Were the planetary alignments against me or something? Bullshit! I swore several times (rather loudly) so that James and Raj came running back to see what'd happened. And thus I was reduced to the remainder of the walk with a step 'n slide. Forget photography, just getting through this stupid tour on one foot was priority now.

James was an angel. He carried my camera, took pictures for me, caught me every single time I almost fell, waited with me and missed most of the tour watching me drag along like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Best of all he told stupid jokes that at times had me laughing so hard I was reduced to a crawl. How ironic. Crawling in the Holy Land.

Raj was a miscreant. He did not wait, he did not help, he just rushed ahead repeatedly snapping, "Come, James!", seriously annoyed that his lover was missing even one second of this precious, sacred information. Best of all, he felt the tremendous need to inform me every few minutes or so of fatefulness of this whole situation. He would click his tongue and everything. "This is a sign, kookoo."

No shit, it was a sign to buy better shoes. "A sign of what?"

"You're being punished, kookoo."

"For wearing Skechers?"

"You're being punished for all your sins."

Oh, that was rich. "Are you fucking mental?"

"Do you think it's a coincidence that your sandal broke? Here? It means you will have a very hard path through life! You have to repent now!"

"Said the gay muslim whose parents still think he's straight!"

"You have to repent, kookoo!

James: "Actually, I think it's a sign that you should walk barefoot while I dance behind you singing 'Everything's gonna be alright.'"

Back to laughing, back to the crawl. As for Raj, he is very lucky I was one footed. He is even luckier we were in a minefield. Nikes in a regular field, and I would've wrung his neck.

But then sometimes Raj can be very useful. He knows a handful of languages and when he started chatting up the Italians, James and I just assumed he'd left us because he was embarrassed by our uncouth behaviour and couldn't understand out jokes. He never understands our jokes. Shockingly, while mingling with the fashionable - Raj thinks all Italians are fashionable - he managed to find a way to help.

Raj comes running over to me, pointing to a smiling (and very good looking) man in a striped shirt and says, "You're in luck, this man here is going to try and fix your shoe. He says he's part of the Italian military, and has been trained for all kinds of rough, wilderness situations. He can survive in the desert on practically nothing."

"Does that mean I can have his sandals while he walks barefoot?"

He clicked his tongue again and gave me the 'I can't believe these people want to help you and you're still making jokes you're such a shithead' look, stuck out his hand and I put my sandal in it. Five minutes later it came back, mended with red twine (who the hell carries twine on the Jordan River tour, MacGyver?). Not perfect, but doable. I was so happy to be able to partially walk again I gave Signore a big hug and kiss and at least a dozen Grazie's. And for posterity, he let me take his picture holding my reborn sandal.

We finally came to the site where Jesus was baptised. It was a patch of cracked dirt. It was obvious there had once been a river there, but now there was just a big moisture spot. On the cracked up dirt. Alrighty, then. Ten dinars entry for a dull tour, broken sandals, a minefield and cracked dirt? I don't think so. The tour guide saw we were getting antsy and took us to the "new" baptism site, even if just to see running water.

The Jordan River was actually a river! That's more like it. Sure, it was small, brown, and patrolled by some pinch-faced armed guards a stone's throw away on the Israeli border, but it was a river. The Italians all took turns getting their hands wet and taking pictures, when Raj pulled out his camera and gestured at me.

"I'll take a picture while you cleanse yourself, kookoo. This is your chance to repent."

Cleanse myself? Repent? He was still on that? "Nope. That water's filthy. No repenting today."

Raj tightened his lips and puffed out his cheeks. Then he stomped his foot. Tantrum time. "I've had it! H-A-D it! I bring you here and you don't care about ANYTHING your fucking shoe BREAKS all you do is JOKE and LAUGH you MISS the tour this is a ONCE IN A LIFETIME opportunity and if you don't CLEANSE YOUR SINS in the Jordan River RIGHT NOW I'm going to SCREAM!"

If you like your eardrums the way they are, you don't mess around with Raj when he threatens to scream. Fine, then. Cleansing time. I took off my shoes and walked over to the rocks. There was only a small space where you had the freedom to stick body parts in the water, and it was steep. James came over to help and took my left hand. I still wasn't too sure about this. "It's dirty!"

"NOW!"

Bossy-pants. I stuck my tongue out at him, right before sticking my big toe in the Jordan River and feeling something murky that I didn't like ONE BIT!

This is Raj's picture: James is holding my hand while my other arm is out. My pants are rolled up, I very carefully have my right toe in the river; my hair is loose and wild. I am looking into the sky, completely disgusted, shrieking for all I'm worth.

Day 4: Amman

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.

Day 3 1/2: Hello, Jordan

Sometime around noon I wake up to three noises: James shuffling around the apartment in search of breakfast, the noon prayer broadcasted on loudspeaker from a nearby mosque, and a beep from my cell phone with a text message from Marco: WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD! SEE YOU ON THURSDAY NIGHT XOXO

Very early Monday afternoon versus later Thursday evening, do the math and we have three and a half days, three and a half days, three and a half days. So fabulous to finally be able to shake off my Airport Neurosis, only to make way for the Waiting Game. How on earth will I wait for three and a half days? With my heart in my stomach, naturally, but until then it's time to get dressed and meet Raj's parents.

I have been hearing about these people since I was 19 years old, and from what Raj has been saying, they've been hearing about me for just as long. No sooner do I walk through their door then I can see exactly why Raj is my sister soulmate: while they look nothing like my parents, they talk, gesture and feed us with atrocious amounts of food exactly as my parents would. I therefore christen them Mom and Dad Jr., or as I called them later on in the trip, Mummy and Papi.

Mummy and Papi seem to like both me and James enough, and most importantly, do not seem to realize that Raj and James are 1) gay, and 2) together. In fact, they're too impressed with James' basic Arabic to even pay attention to Raj's little pinches and constant glossing over his lover.

OPENING SCENE: MODEST HOME IN THE MIDDLE EAST, SITTING AROUND THE DINNER TABLE WHILE RAJ LOSES HIS HEAD. BOTH OF THEM.

Raj: Mom, Dad, I would like to show James the apartment. Come, James (takes him by the hand and tries to pull him out of his seat).

James: (laughs nervously and takes his hand back) Maybe later?

Me: (standing up and taking Raj's hand, squeezing so hard a blood vessel pops) Now sweetie, wouldn't you like to show me the apartment too?

Raj: No, you're a big girl, you can look around yourself. (tosses my hand back and takes James' again) Come, James! (Off they go)

Me: (smiling at the parents, showing a lot of teeth) You know, James is really bad with directions.

Mummy and Papi: (nod)

Absolutely, unbelievably, totally fucking beyond me. So from this point on, I will stop asking questions.

Back to the meal. Mummy and Papi make us right at home by stuffing us to the gills with various Arabic delicacies (including HUMMUS, my cravings sang hallelujah), and cap off lunch with cardamom infused Turkish coffee. Thick as mud. At this point I attempt to amaze all with my firsthand, extremely corny knowledge of reading fortunes in coffee cups, but all I manage to see are images of dogs. Even more corny, I really miss Bluetooth.

The evening is young, so Raj drives us to Mount Nebo. This is apparently where Moses died, and it's not long before we are awash with bible thumpers galore. Even better, we are also awash with some seriously good looking security guards. Good looking enough that James and I had to force our eyes back in our skulls with Raj shrieking, "You two are so stupid!"

I am not seriously into Christian heritage sites, but I am seriously into fantastic views for the sake of photography, and I happily pull out my Nikon to the drumroll in my head. Super picture girl is back! Pick subject, assume position, look through view finder, manually focus and see... ... a seriously bad case of dust. Dust? What the hell? I cleaned everything out before I left. I take it apart, clean all with my funky little camera cloth, put it back together, repeat steps one thru four and see... a seriously badder case of dust.

No no no no no. I can't have dust in my lens. It just won't do. I take it apart again, clean everything out again, and ignore Mr. James know-it-all telling me that I'm probably making it worse. Yeah, yeah. He thinks he knows everything. I know he hates me. He's getting back at me for not letting him have the window seat on the plane, that's what he's doing.

But no matter what, I can't get that fucking dust out. Not on the mountain, not outside the church, inside the church, in the bathroom (which smelled bad), and back in the car or on our drive through the town, where I stop to get my mother some holy water. I may not be into Christian heritage sites, but she is. I'm tempted to bless my camera for the sake of better pictures and no dust, but hold my breath all the way back to the apartment where we finish our first Middle Eastern evening to Jurassic Park III on the tube, and a snack of black sesame breadsticks with cream cheese from a jar. And plenty of camera dust.

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.

Day 2: Amsterdam

Snob day. How often do you get to say, "Oh, I spent Sunday in Amsterdam. Pish pish."

Well never, of course, and we intended on using that 11 hour stopover to its fullest. So after the niftiest plane breakfast ever (served in a box!) and landing in the Benelux, James and I zipped off to the hotel our travel agency had graciously provided, with every intention of dumping off our luggage and a quick shower before heading into the city.

I'm still in the throes of Airport Neurosis, remember, so it didn't help one bit that a corny Asian woman shoved ahead of us in line to flirt with the concierge. (Batting eyelashes and twirling hair) "So KLM doesn't allow meat on the plane? How about cheese?" (smile) "I just don't understand why they don't let me bring dairy products on the plane. Are you sure about that?" (wink) "Okay then, what about smoked meat? Jerky?" (positioning fingers suggestively)

By this point I am giving her the most evil eye I can come up with and ready to mow her down with my carry on. Meat and cheese? If you're going to be a flirtatious bimbo, for fuck's sakes do it properly and show some cleavage.

After Miss Asia orgasmed from her check-in sex with the concierge, James and I finally got our rooms, dumped off our luggage and showered. I insulted him thoroughly for not cleaning up quick enough (yes I know, Airport Neurosis), then piled into Mario Andretti's cab and barreled towards Amsterdam, city of fashion, sin and bacterial culture at no less than 160kph. Have you ever repeatedly body slammed an extra-large homosexual in a foreign cabbie's backseat? Yeah, I can check that off my list now.

Amsterdam was sleeping when we got to the Leidsestraat, a narrow street lined with shops and filled with trams. It was Sunday morning, and if you've ever been to a major European city on a Sunday morning, you know it's not happening. Everyone's just too busy sleeping in from the madness of the night before. We did our best with the few things that were open, mainly souvenir stands, a few eateries and a small grocery store called the Big Bananas Nightshop (gotta love Amsterdam).

James and I hit up a French cafe for some sandwiches, where he gets miffed because the waitress slipped him a cold wiener. In his baguette, that is. And to make up for it, James goes on a tasting spree with the passion of a five-star food critic. James is a chef, you see, and very much the foodie. Pre-travel, he likes to research local fare of his destination city and sample it all. Another sandwich, fries and mayo, cheese, chocolate, spice shopping and one salad later, James gets lost in a restaurant bathroom for long enough that the proprietor feels the need to ask me if my husband will be needing any help?

Umm, husband? No no no no no. Do you see a ring? Do you see rampant heterosexuality past my hairclip? Do you really think I want to search your toiletten for my opaque, vertically gifted friend whose stomach is probably doing the chicken dance as we speak?

And in saying all that, what better to prompt me towards space cake? I dragged James to the Dampkring Cannabis Cafe, where I'd had some PG-21 rated fun a couple years back... but at the last minute my Airport Neurosis wouldn't let me get torched. Sad, so sad, I know. But we sat there for awhile anyway, determined to fly off secondhand buzz.

Stores finally opened, and after much parting with Euros on the latest styles for Oli, James forced me away weeping from the Lomo camera I've been dying to own so we could make Mario Andretti's cab on time. We had our rocket blast to the airport, boarded without much incident, and if memory serves me correctly, I spent my second consecutive midnight in the air pulling James' head out of the aisle so he wouldn't get hit by the food cart.

Day 1: Exodus

Every time I wake up on the day I travel, I'm sick. Inevitable, thanks to many, many past trips with Oli and everything going wrong due to her lack of the punctuality gene. So when I fly, everything has to be EXACTLY where, how, and the way I want it. I call this little quirk of mine Airport Neurosis.

Thus, after re-packing my suitcases three times and suffocating Bluetooth with extra goodbye hugs, I call James and repeatedly berate his shitty timing. I then call Oli, our ride to the airport, and berate her even more. Normally she would berate me right back, but she knows it's her fault I'm like this.

Passport, check. Ticket, check. Money, suitcases, tags, check check check. Sanity, ha! No check there. Change into my funky travel clothes, a white corduroy blouse and low slung pants with PUNK ROYAL written across the butt. 'Tude for Amsterdam, darlings. Moms sends us off with a dinner of pizza, cheesecake and raspberry ice cream, we stuff our luggage in the trunk, I molest Bluetooth one last time, and kiss my parents goodbye.

Check-in at the airport, no emergency row seating for James, which totally stinks since he's 6'4 and will now be a confined hamster to its wheel for the entire flight. Upon boarding, the KLM crew decides to seat everyone "needing assistance" first, when lo and behold, at least 60 people all of a sudden become cripple and need wheelchairs. Fakers. James points to me and yells, "This one has bunions!" but that doesn't seem to work. I guess my elbowing his crotch totally invalidated the story.

We board, I stuff James into his seat (no easy task), takeoff is nice and smooth. Wish I could say the same for dinner, since it fell into the category of tragic plane food, but the fact that KLM serves free liquor with meals made it ALL better! Hello, mini-bar sized red wine. Goodbye nerves, panic, and my winning Travel Scrabble score, since red wine makes me stoo-pid. The stewardess tried to help me by spelling out James' letters in the air while he wasn't looking, but by that point I'd decided to find the phrase "cabin pressure" absolutely freakin' hilarious, and he wiped the board with my face. Shits and giggles.

Lights off, time for bed. Such a shame I can't sleep on planes. I pull out my copy of "Eastward to Tartary: Travels in the Balkans, the Middle East, and the Caucasus" and read a page before stuffing it back in my purse. Didn't feel like educating myself right that minute. I look over at James, snoozing like the peacefully monstrous lamb that he is, and climb over his legs to get to the bathroom. I admire my sexy plane hair and make faces in the mirror right before getting my finger caught on the garbage chute. Sure hope no one heard me yelping.

I came, I saw, I conquered. Not quite.

I saw, I experienced, I felt. That's better.

I'M BACK!

I'm back I'm back I'm back from my trip and darlings, it was a heavenly adventure. The kind of thing that's exactly what you need, but don't fully realize until it's all over.

I did things I've never done before. I ate chick peas off the branch. I climbed the rocks of Petra. I drank tea with bedouins. I rode a camel named Zuzu.

The things I saw, the times I had over the past two weeks make my heart explode with gladness and gratitude every time I think about them, that I was so tremendously blessed to have seen and done the things that I did. Incredible. Miraculous.

And now I'll shut up because you've been in the dark far too long. Welcome to my day-by-day review. Please make sure your seatbelts are fastened, tray tables and seats in the upright position, and for heaven's sake, don't get up until the plane has come to a complete stop. One stupid old man did that on one of my domestic flights awhile back, and big surprise, he fell and sprained something.

It would totally suck if any of you fell and sprained something. So sit still, shut up and read.

P.S. Alas, my faithful, while I mindlessly and passionately cherish you every one and want to vacuum pack you into my pockets to share in this tremendous journey, I have a two suitcase limit and in all likelihood, little to no internet access for a couple of weeks.

My computer stays at home, but my workbook and funky German pen are making the trip. Carpal tunnel forbids me from writing it ALL down, but write I shall. So you may not get me for 14 days, but you do get 14 entries the next time you visit!

My Jackie O sunglasses are on and my gloved hand bids you adieu... until we meet again, darlings!

I went to the tanning salon today. My skin is just the right shade to accomodate my nice new haircut & colour (chocolate truffle), my toes have been pedicured (turquoise), the shopping has been done. All bills have been taken care of, Bluetooth had his annual checkup a few weeks early (just in case), my intinerary has been written out, copies of important documents have been made, my new passport is in my travelling clutch, money has been converted to the currencies I'll be needing. My bags are packed and locked. I'm ready.

I'm a well seasoned traveller. If you were to look at my life from the outside in, I'm as prepared as they come.

In other ways I'm not so ready, meaning that I don't have a cute l'il bikini body to flaunt around the beach with. Not even close.

I had pictures in my mind for this trip. Gorgeous me traipsing through the desert, almost black curls flying out behind me and impressing all with my fabulously new and much smaller wardrobe. I was going to take pictures again, I was going to write again, I was going to have the air of confidence that made people double take when they saw me with a, "Hey, sexy lady!"

It was going to be the start of a whole new life for me.

The funny thing is, I'm not disappointed. Not at all. If this was a few years ago I would beat myself up into a crying fit and be down on myself the whole while. I don't want to do that anymore. And while my bikini body has yet to make an appearance, my sources tell me I'm several pounds lighter, and a whole size smaller.

How will I go to Jordan, then? I will traipse through the desert sans hair clip, and my almost black curls will fly out behind me. I don't know if I'll be impressing anyone with my wardrobe since none of it is new, but then it does happen to be the next best thing: a good pile of fabulous fashions that sat in a pile for years, neglected, because I couldn't button up any of it. I will take pictures again, I will write again, and I will have the air of confidence that will make people turn their heads when I walk by, even if just to think, "Who's that girl?"

It's not that this was supposed to be the start of a whole new life for me, it's that this IS the start of a whole new life for me. I'm not going the way I wanted to, but there is change in me. I can feel it working, and I know it shows.

I am very, very happy with that.

The picture I had in my mind three months ago does not match the picture of me now, but I'm more ready than I've been in years. Let the adventure begin.

The Men and the Boys: Marco

It would be easy and appropriately fictional to tell you that I've wallowed over him for years. The passion that never was. My long lost love. The one that got away.

I haven't. I didn't let myself. Besides, if this was a great, true love, wouldn't at least one of us have tried that much harder to go over those obstacles? Wouldn't one of us have tried to make it possible? Put fear aside? That never happened.

In one way, it's sad. In another way, it's my solace.

Marco has had girlfriends over the years, and he almost always tells me about them. I have had boyfriends over the years, and I almost always tell him about them. It was hard in the beginning for all of five minutes, until I forced practicality back in and reminded myself that this is the way I made it, and this is the way it's supposed to be. But one thing that hasn't changed, that I hope will never change, is Marco and I are still the closest of friends. Be it on the phone or the internet, usually the internet, our cards and conversations travel the great distance that is the spine of our relationship.

His heart leaked through once. Shortly after he'd arrived back home, I received a forward from him that probably every person on the planet has seen, the one asking ten questions like, name your favourite song, three of your closest friends, yadda yadda, and you're supposed to jot down the first things that come to mind. When you're done answering, a quick scroll down reveals what your answers mean.

The first question of this forward is to name a person of the opposite sex. Without a second's thought, I typed in Marco. Scroll down, and sure enough the interpretation was, "This is the name of the person you love."

He called me a day or two after that e-mail and I avoided the subject at all costs. Unfortunately for me Marco's memory is a steel trap, and he didn't let it slide. "That forward I sent you, whose name did you put down for the first question?"

Think fast. "Raj," I said.

Pause. Long, horrible pause where my fingers were crossed and I mouthed an I'm sorry into the phone, an apology he would never hear. "Okay," was all he said. Translated, I put down your name, too.

I'm a bitch. It goes without question. A cruel, insenstive bitch-girl who's barricaded her heart with dobermans and an electric fence. A bitch who thinks of no one and nothing but herself. Well no, scratch that last part, because as much sense as it doesn't make, I did what I did for him, too.

A few days after my blowout with Jess, Marco called wanting to know if I would still be going to Jordan. I said that I was, and he wondered if I wouldn't mind a visit? Besides wanting to see me after an impossibly long absence, the doctor needs some suits tailored. Apparently, Jordan is known for this. And when I yelled, "Are you kidding?! Yes!" into the phone, I could feel him smile. Be it for a few days only, we can at least watch a soccer match and tell stupid jokes again.

Situations too, have changed. He is currently without significant other, and while Jess is still very much my heart, I am freshly single. How can I not think that after all this time, after maybe learning my lesson once, with both of us in our current circumstances, that something just might happen?

It's possible, of course. I won't deny that. There will never again be the campus house party and that one defining moment, but then, there will never again be the two students with pressure coming from every which direction, and more questions than any human being could ever answer. We are older now. Wiser in the ways of experience and years lived, and different in where the past decade has taken us.

I thought about that as I was packing my suitcase last night. This boy I made my friend is now a man with his own practice, and his own life. What will happen when we see each other, will I shriek in euphoria, or will my heart stop? Will I be thinking, This is my chance and I can finally take it, or, It goes without question that I did the right thing? How will I arm myself?

With chopsticks, of course. We both collect them. I go expecting nothing, and I leave the rest to chance.

Today's text from Raj:

HI SWEETIE I'M IN AMMAN RIGHT NOW, I'M FINE AND WE'RE ALL WAITING FOR YOU GUYS. LOTS OF LOVE AND KISSES!

Today I did something that I have never before done in my entire life. In my 30 years and a few months on this earth, I did something so shocking and so horrific, I had to look into the mirror to make sure I was still myself.

I woke up early and went to the gym.

That's right, I actually a) woke up early on my day off, 2) ignored the shitty weather, 3) packed my gym bag and hauled ass to 4) the gym where I 5) worked out like a maniac and 6) sweat my yitz off. Whatever a yitz is, I'm sure I sweat it right off.

But the worst, most perverse and disturbing thing of all, 7) I actually liked it.

If change is good, today I am its poster girl.

The Men and the Boys: Marco

Another night, another party. Again, my house.

It wasn't a kegger or a massive social gathering, just a casual little soiree, 20 or 30 people. Marco was with me, as were many of our friends, and the time passed pleasantly enough.

As the night wore down and the alcohol set in, as it got later and the music got slower, it became a different setting altogether. I wasn't a makeout party afficianado in high school (strict parents, remember), but I'd been to a couple and knew what they were all about. I also knew that when you were in University, when there were no parents and/or guardians around and you had your own room a few steps away, it could go to a whole new level.

The room was hazy, couples were drunk and all over each other. Everyone had a necking partner, except me and Marco. The sexual charge in the air was overpowering, and everyone was in heat. Including me and Marco.

We sat on couches directly across from each other, and I knew his eyes were fixed on me. I was too busy trying not to notice, concentrating on my drink, ignoring the insanity building inside of me, anything to not look back. I knew I would have to eventually though, and so I looked up. Right at him.

That was the first time in my life when I knew exactly what a man was thinking. And it was the first time in my life that I knew we wanted the exact same thing.

But I was young and inexperienced with men. I didn't or couldn't understand the concepts of casual sex, seize the day, live for the moment. I honestly thought it was better to walk away and never have the experience, never know what you were missing, instead of having those minutes and suffering the loss when they would inevitably be gone. In the long run he could never be mine, and I could never be his. We both knew that. Why bother?

I was scared. Not of what could possibly take place next, but of losing him. I knew I was going to lose him soon and I'd made my peace with that, but losing him that way I just couldn't bear.

So this is what I did. Ridiculous, level-headed, practical me took a deep breath, put my drink down and stood up. I looked him in the face and said, "Goodnight, Marco."

He looked back at me, and it was all I could do to keep my knees from giving out. He was hurt, but I knew he understood. I never needed to explain myself to Marco. He stood up and took me into his arms for a tight hug. "Goodnight sweetie," he said quietly and I noticed, held on for longer than usual.

I must have been beet red. As normally as I could, I went up the stairs and to my room, where I promptly sat down at my desk and started the first assignment on top of my "To Do" pile for the paper. A commentary about the ineffectiveness of campus police, if I recall. I wrote it in record time with headphones on, blaring whatever the fuck the radio was playing so I wouldn't hear my second guessing.

We were still friends. It was as if nothing had changed. We talked, we joked, we met for lunch and went to pubs together. This is for the best, I told myself over and over, until it was burned into my mind. This was for the best, I did the right thing, and we're both better people for it.

By the time I'd regretted my decision, Marco's time at our school was up. He was already home.

I am almost ready for my trip. I have all my products, almost all my clothes, my ticket is on my desk and insurance has been purchased.

Now to face the demons of my past in a resplendent, epic, Return to Me: I haul out my dusty Nikon, and admire the quality of my choice. The F90X is the camera of cameras. It's durable, takes great pictures, and while not part of the professional Nikon F series, is the camera of choice for most National Geographic photographers. On mine I have attached a Sigma telephoto zoom lens that will not only allow me to spy on my neighbours, but have a look see on the Eiffel Tower every now and then. It's that powerful.

That powerful and that expensive, but it didn't dent my pocket too much thanks to the infamous Tax Refund of 2000. Thinking I'd be the next Jodi Cobb, I put myself in the market for a picture colossus, and lined my path to the F90X with drool.

We've had fabulous adventures together. Grecian villages, the Rockies, Bohemia, the Magnificent Mile. It's heavy as hell but was always at my side, until my life spiralled out of control. Among other things, the Nikon was shelved. A few years ago I was shooting like a pro, and now I don't even know what half these buttons mean.

But we're both ready for another adventure now. A few quick internet lessons and some messing with it should get me back up to speed. Now all I have to ask myself is, what on earth am I going to do with all this film? Professional film is crazy expensive, and here I am with 15 rolls of prime quality, past its prime film that I found tucked away in my old camera bag.

I don't know much about film, but I do know that every roll comes with an expiry date. I also know that I'm going to be completely reckless on this one and take a chance by using it all. It's time I gave life to the shreds of my past.