The Aneurysm

OPENING SCENE: ROOM 55G IN GHETTO HOSPITAL. OCCUPANTS WHEEZING, SPITTING AND BLEEDING. RAJ'S BED IS CLOSEST TO THE DOOR

Me: If you ever have an aneurysm again, I'm going to kill you.

James: I second that.

Raj: What the fuck am I supposed to do, these stupid doctors won't let me go home. And look at this hospital!

Me: Yeah, it sucks. Why'd you have to come to this one?

James: Because this hospital is reknown for its Neurology department.

Me: Doesn't change the fact the ceiling tiles are falling down.

Raj: Darling, you and I have to become rich and famous so we can afford only the best and most luxurious care.

James: What about me?

Me: you're a strapping young male, you'll be fine in any situation. Me and Raj are the delicate ones.

James: (snorts)

Me: So darling, what happened?

Raj: When that bitch walked off with all my money and didn't finish the painting job, I just SNAPPED.

James: Literally.

Raj: That bitch gave me an aneurysm!

Me: Easy honey, breathe in, breathe out... I am a hollow reed... trouble blows through me like the wind...

Raj: She still gave me an aneurysm!

Me: Yes, I know she did. But you can't let your temper get the better of you.

Raj: Why not?

Me: Do you really want to stay *here* for even a minute longer than you have to?

(as this is being said, you can hear a patient beyond Raj's curtain coughing up a barrel of phlegm)

Raj: Good point.

James: (snorts)

Raj and James are renovating their house. When did they get a house? A few months ago. But you thought they had a fantastic, spanking new 1700 square foot condo in one of the trendiest parts of town being built as I type this? A condo they haven't even closed on, in fact? Of course, darling, they have that too. However, Raj has declared the condo "unfit" and "claustrophobic", so he ran right on out and got himself a fixer upper.

I'm a lot harsh on Raj, mostly because he drives me absolutely, interminably, devastatingly insane. A lot of people have driven and continue to drive me insane, but not like Raj. If he catches me at the wrong time and I hear the whining start, my blood pressure hits the roof.

So here's the five cent version. Last year Raj and James did what I had done not too long before, and that was buy their own place off a blueprint. Our town is popping at the seams which in turn sparked a construction boom, so there is no shortage of cool, new condos and townhouses to pick from. It is more sensible these days to own then to rent, however, there's a big catch: buying off the blueprint is much, much cheaper. The minute shovels break ground, prices skyrocket. You may be able to afford what's on the paper, but you definitely can't afford it once it's built. If you want to own, you have to hurry.

Raj hurried. In true Raj fashion, he forged on, full speed ahead, blinders intact, and signed on the dotted line. In true Raj fashion, he flipped out when he saw the final result, and had a series of anxiety attacks.

Raj never falls in love with the place, he falls in love with the vision. Fabulous city condo, barbecues and espresso parties on the huge terrace, which is bedecked with Japanese lanterns. He is the gracious hostess, he is the supermodel, prancing to and fro in Italian hip hugger jeans while we all marvel, "Just how do you do it?"

Reality is not the vision. While the condo is still incredible and glamorous, Raj had no control over the building coming up next door, or the neighbour's terrace that is all of 10 feet away from their own. According to Raj, this has completely spoiled the view. As we should all know, "the view is the most important thing, kookoo."

Well, then. If I operated on this theory, I'd still be holding out for the midtown penthouse with mortgage payments costing 25 cents per year. As it is, I am happy to have what I have.

Now that Raj's view has been spoiled, he does what only he can do best. He calls me to whine, makes James cry, then goes on the prowl for another home. He throws himself into this project with as much ferocity as he does everything else and, what do you know, finds a house he just LOVES, post haste.

Said house is semi-detached, three floors, three bedrooms, and located near a historic castle. But wait! Remember it's not the house Raj is in love with, but the vision. What he sees here is fresh spring mornings on the master balcony, romantic dinners by the fireplace. a hammock in the backyard, and a fluffy white poodle running around. My girls do not have a poodle, and I have banned Raj from even thinking about it. Again, in true Raj fashion, he has heeded my advice, and googled some breeders. I saw a number for one on a sticky note over the desk.

While this vision was all very pretty and sweet, we cannot ignore the fact that the house needed tons of work, and was built on faulty foundations, no less. Raj ignored this completely, purchased the whole shebang, and is now neck deep in the financial quicksand that is home renovations.

Who does he bitch at? James. Who does he bitch at when James can't take it anymore? Me. Who loses it and completely erupts, Mount St. Helens style? Me. Who then whines, puts down every screaming banshee in existence, rants that he is going to commit suicide after killing everyone around him, just because no one in the world understands? Raj. And so on.

In all fairness, some stupid things have happened. The painter girl, formerly a good friend, walked off with two grand after not even nearly finishing the job. The main contractor started to experience "dizziness and nausea," and actually had to be admitted to the hospital, where he still is. Raj even had an aneurysm during this mess, and had to go to the hospital himself.

Anyone, anyone could see that this house is a mistake, that only folk with deep pockets could restore it to its former glory, almost stress-free. It is truly hard to give your friends advice when you know they are walking into disaster, because it is not your money and therefore, not your place. It is even harder not to sucker punch them when you know they are out of control.

At the same time, you can't help but admire the guy for taking on a project so vast, so nerve popping, so completely absurd, for the simplest of reasons: he has a vision to build.

The leftover treats in their cellophane bags with cheery hydrant tags have been stocked in the freezer. With luck they will come back out for a party or two, but but right now, I don't want to be reminded of the personal fiasco that was Woofstock.

Next on my list of happenings since: the job interview. The entire time in Jordan my cell phone was completely pms-ed, and only one call in two weeks came through. That call was from Jennifer, team supervisor at gigantic movie house in my city. They needed a Closed Captioner, and was I interested? But of course I was, and we arranged to meet the week of my return.

This movie label is housed in a gigantic building in the city, and I guarantee many of you have seen the logo flash across your screen. I dressed in my most professional suit and took the turbo elevator ride up 15 floors, where I was directed to wait in the lounge.

What is your most intimidating experience at a job interview? Here's mine: sitting in an Eames chair and pretending to read the Time magazine in my hands, but instead sweating under the fixed gazes of dozens of Oscars, Emmys and Golden Globe awards lining the walls.
Shucks. Of all days to leave my Oscar at home. Maybe they could loan me one for Worst Performance Under Pressure.

It got better, though. Jennifer came out shortly and led me to her office, where I had what was definitely the most enjoyable job interview of my life. At one point we were even talking shoe stores, and she was showing me pictures of her pets. The boring stuff was first though, like job expectations and what I would be doing. A Closed Captioner watches shows and with a special little computer program, types in everything that is said so it pops up at the bottom of the screen for the deaf and hard of hearing audience.

Oh, the deaf. I wonder how much longer you'll have to suffer me.

There are more perks to the job, Jennifer said, the best one being that after a few months, when the closed captioners get bored of what they're doing, they are asked to write. Would I be interested in this?

I tell you, when I heard this, it took every fibre of my being to keep from drooling and whining while on my knees in the standard begging position, and screaming, "YES!" in the most orgasmic way possible. How could I not be interested in this?

The questions started to get more interesting after this too. Jennifer asked about my most difficult jobs, my most demanding requests and unusual editing experiences. She wanted to know what it had been like for me to work overseas, and my five-year goals.

My five-year goals. Where did I see myself in five years? I was tempted to tell her the truth, which was, "Lady, I'm really on a day-by-day existence for the moment," but knew that would get my name crossed off the potetentials list in a heartbeat. So I made it up as I went along.

Here is what I told her: "First and most important, I'm not going to say it's my goal to get married. If you meet the right person then it is what it is, something wonderful that happens along the way. Marriage isn't something I aspire to."

Jennifer nodded in a positive way, and actually wrote that down on her clipboard. I've never been professionally commended on my marriage attitudes before. Keeping up with my on the fly responses, I then said, "In five years, I'd like to be running my own business, living in my own house, and enjoying the days with my dog."

Here is what she said in response to that: "Perfect."

Here is what I thought in response to that: "It is perfect." I don't know how I thought of that future for myself, but whenever I do think about it now, there is nothing I'd like more.

After the interview, I parted ways with Jennifer and was taken to Leigh, who sat me down in front of a computer and gave me a bevy of tests. Typing speed (I aced), editing (I so aced), grammar (hate grammar so, mostly aced), and spelling (in the bag). The last test was actually close captioning with their program for a half hour, and I didn't see anything difficult about it. Leigh praised me throughout.

I was incredibly positive on the way home. Jennifer had basically told me I'd gotten the job, as did Leigh. I all but walked into the house and toasted my brilliance with champagne.

I didn't get the job. The girl that did get it has a PhD in Political Science, and was the first in company history to score 100% on both the grammar and editing tests.

How can I possibly compete with that?

Woofstock

I wore my hair in pigtails for the event, with blue jeans and red flip flops. I was mightily perky on arrival and ready to sell sell sell. Had everything I needed to hit the ground running, except my darling Bluetooth. I would have loved to bring him, but alas, my munchkin is terrified of children. Thanks to a demonic little two-year old and her puppy strangling ways, he is forever scarred and unfortunately, crazily vocal around beings under four feet tall.

Woofstock is a weekend-long event that caters to people and their pooches. True to most overdone dog deals, it's all about the people. In most cases, I do think the dogs could care less.

There are lots of vendors, treats, and events, like the Stupid Dog Tricks contest, and a Doggie Fashion Show. Dog fashion shows? If you dress your greyhound up in a cheerleader outfit - I saw this, believe it or not - then in my mind, you have issues. If you dress up your chihuaha in a pink bonnet to match her pink ruffled dress - I also saw this - there should be men in white coats chasing you with butterfly nets.

Then again, who am I to talk since I love to spoil my dog? Bluetooth has a winter jacket. I have justified this in that it's black and very basic, and he's just a little 35lb guy in -35C windchill. Yes, my dog has boots. They are very simple and necessary because, sheesh, I can't make him go bare-pawed in salty, icy streets in that such weather.

Bluetooth also has a Manchester United jersey. I have justified this in that Man U is one of the most badass teams in the league, and a dog wearing their jersey becomes a conversation piece with random sexy British men. This has been proven. The day I find doggie Juventus, Rotterdam and AC Milan jerseys, he's getting those too.

Loulou is super talented, and a firm believer in durable, well made, contemporary garments with clean lines. No beading or feathers here. So far, the Biscuit Dog line is higher end hoodies, pea coats, trench coats and bags, all arranged on mint green, bone-shaped shelves. She set aside one shelf for me in our happy little booth near the entrance gates, where we waited for our onslaught of customers. That never came.

Saturday was mediocre at best. Loulou sold a very small handful of hoodies, and I sold an even smaller handful of treats. But Sunday, that was Loulou's day. Hoodies and pea coats were flying off the shelves, and she was very happy. I was glad too, there's such a shortage of decent dog stuff on the market. Plenty of poop, figuratively speaking; not much quality.

Sunday wasn't exactly bland for me, as it was a carbon copy of the day before. I made the exact amount of money both days which, I can assure you, was nothing to get excited about. The dogs loved the samples and plenty of people were taking the "free" stuff, but not many actually wanted to buy.

This had me stumped. I'd spent days making the healthiest, most unique treats that I could think of, and yet people were walking right on by. Not to stereotype, but if you are a city girl or a gay male, you know that buying for your canine is a half you, half dog experience. You want them to have healthy and tasty things; you also want the experience to be fun and unique for yourself. I buy Blue liver treats because he loves them. I buy him Scooby Snacks because he loves them, and I love saying, "Oh, I just had to hop out to get some Scooby Snacks."

Homemade, organic sweet potato maple treats, strawberry treats and banana treats fit my description of that bill. I suppose there just aren't many people out there like me.

In the middle of all this, I started to feel bad about myself. If you've ever been in that difficult place in life, where you've tried so much and achieved what feels like so little, you know exactly what I mean. You try and you fail, you try and you fail, and while you're always upbeat enough to pick yourself back up again, it gets to the point where you really want something to work. You need something to work.

On the upside, I ran into an aquaintance who runs a super successful dog store. So successful, they are flying in a New York stylist to groom the dogs of the area. How's that for insane? He was willing to take a look at my stuff, and told me not to worry if I achieved nothing from Woofstock. It was the aftermath, he said, that would matter. So, maybe mine and Loulou's 1000 flyers advertising doggie parties (yes, you heard that right) would veer towards some kind of future. It's still still too early to tell.

On another upside, for two consecutive days I was completely molested by puppies. Poodle crosses fell from the sky to cover my face in kisses; a two pound Schnauzer licked my chin, and a handful of Boxer bit my nose.

Puppies always make it better.

Almost 1700 of the biscuits I made went to Loulou. Tiny, thin, cheddar garlic biscuits shaped like bones and put in little paper bags, in batches of three or so, sealed with a sticker that said "Biscuit Dog Apparel." That's Loulou's fledgling company.

These biscuits took me one week. When I was done, I waited a day before starting up again, and ignored every yearning in my body to hold a sacrificial burning for that fucking cookie cutter.

It took me another week to flesh out some new recipes, or as I like to call it, fuck up time. I thought out some funky flavours, I experimented, I baked plenty of screw ups but even more successes, and here's what I eventually came up with: Froo Froos, Dumbos, Georgia Blues, Mac Daddies and Johnny Pumps.

Froo Froos look like crackers, and are flavoured with gruyere cheese and rosemary. I call them that because if your dog is eating gruyere, that makes the both of you pretty damn froo froo. They are actually very tasty; Oli couldn't stop snacking on them.

Dumbo was an elephant, elephants like bananas and peanuts, and so I named the banana, peanut butter, honey & oat mini scones Dumbos. If Oli couldn't stop snacking on Froo Froos, she had no limit with Dumbos. Said they tasted better than granola bars.

Georgia Blues are long, thin, crunchy rectangles flavoured with blueberry and peach. Detoxifying, good for their tetth, and as rated by Oli: "These taste like dog biscuits." Duh.

Mac Daddies were the biggest pain in the ass to make, but the most rewarding in the end. Also mini scones, they are chock full of grated sweet potato and maple syrup, and I must admit, is some of the tastiest dough I've ever had the pleasure to try. It was almost a shame to bake. Yes, I caught Oli trying to sneak several in her pocket.

Last but never least, my signature cookie: strawberry pecan biscuits shaped like Johnny Pumps, or, the term New Yorkers use for fire hydrants. Bluetooth's favourite, and my mother's too. Needless to say, everything I made was people tested.

It took another week to make these (hundreds and hundreds) of biscuits, which in the end were all packed into small, cellophane bags, tied with a metallic red twisty and a tag with an animated fire hydrant on it.

The hydrant the logo of my company. Not so much my fledgling company; very much my fledgling attempt.

Although I'd like to begin chronologically, as one of you suggested, in this case I have to go last event, first. 2500 doggie biscuits. That's a lot of doggie biscuits. That's a lot of anything.

When I first got Bluetooth, I was like any eager mother making sure her baby had the best bed, toys, clothing, schools, and food. I'm not a dress your dog sort of girl, but winters can be harsh for a little 35lb guy, and I'm a firm believer that every puppy should go to obedience school. The food part I threw myself into, and Bluetooth started out with rice, chicken, sweet potatoes and carrots. Thanks to my mother, anyway, since she spoiled him rotten. But to this day, I get him the finest chow money can buy.

Baking his treats started out by accident. Due to the sweet potato and chicken stews made just for him, Bluetooth is a picky drama queen. Hey, I would be too. Imagine having your own special food made from the best ingredients, and then having some godforsaken kibble shoved in front of your nose, first ingredient, tired cornmeal? It doesn't work. This shitpicking, of course, extended to his treats. He'll either take the most expensive stuff, or nothing at all. The amount of money I've spent on trial treats probably tops my cashflow towards hair and beauty products. As you can see, I love my dog beyond any measure of sanity.

Around the time Bluetooth was turning his nose away from positively everything, I tracked down some dog cookbooks. Boring, lacking, spice-less, the most of them, so I went out on a limb. If you like to bake and can read between the lines, homemade dog treats aren't that much different from people treats. Go through the dog toxicology lists first (i.e., chocolate, onions and grapes = BAD!), then just leave out the salt, substitute butter with oil, and sugar with honey or molasses. Soft treats are fine, but if you want them nice and crunchy, just do a double bake. Bake the treats normally first, then after they've completely cooled, put them back in the oven at 300F for a half hour or so, depending on the thickness. Easy stuff.

Needless to say, anything I made with beef or cheese he gobbled down like a greedy little monkey, then came back begging for more. Happy that I'd done my baby justice, I baked treats in such large batches that even all my friends' dogs had the pleasure of sampling goods from the baker's oven.

This is where my friend Loulou comes in. On the outside, she is everything I am not: short, straight blonde hair, and the body of a lingerie model. On the inside, we are the same person: sassy, outspoken, entrepreneurs born in a family business, and intense love for our pets. In Loulou's case, the object of her affection is Petey, a tiny little Jack Russell who wolfs down my treats, then licks my ear in thanks.

Loulou and I clicked a few years back while working at the same store in a very chi-chi part of town. Later, we toyed with the idea of starting some kind of canine-related business. Loulou has a background in fashion design and does her own sewing, I bake and come up with ideas at a million miles per minute. We whipped up a dozen different scenarios before settling on this one: just this past weekend, Loulou rented out a booth at Woofstock, doggie festival extraordinaire, to show off some flash little peacoats and hoodies. She remembered some cheesy biscuits I'd whipped up awhile back, and asked me to provide a bunch of itty bitty ones as a promo piece. And then, in the middle of my baking frenzy, she also suggested that maybe I should have my own little table of delicacies to sell.

Life takes you in strange directions. Student turned Journalist turned Writer turned Typist turned Dog Baker. Which of these things just doesn't belong? Everytime I mixed up ingredients or took out a paw-shaped cookie cutter, I reminded myself that liking something doesn't mean you'll do it forever. I didn't start out as a canine pastry chef, and lord knows I won't end as one.

But then again, I do love to try new things. So for now... why not?

It was a good homecoming. Bluetooth did a double take when I walked through the door, did laps around the house out of pure joy, then jumped me tried to lick my nose off. Oli loved her clothes, moms loved her teas and spices; dad loved his Dead Sea salts and defunct Iraqi banknotes. Raj's cab arrived not too long after we'd gotten to the house, and we all settled in for a nice dinner together.

I have been back for six weeks now, maybe a little less, and in that time I have gone through a 10 day jetlagged haze, applied for several jobs, went on one job interview, accompanied my sister to a bridal gown fitting, chosen my maid of honour dress, helped out James & Raj with the house renovation gone wrong, been invited to a huge birthday party, been invited to a bridal shower I don't want to go to, had meetings at two art galleries, and baked upwards of 2500 doggie biscuits.

Which would you like to hear about first?

Day 14 3/4: Homecoming

Schipol airport is great for shopping, so we did more of it. James got cheese, sausage and chocolate, and I got some chocolate. And a T-shirt for Corey. Then we went through our gate, and spent a healthy 15 minutes watching the sexy window washer at work. Tall, dark and handsome. His biceps bulged out of his short sleeves, and you could see the outline of a six pack. Glistening with just the right amount of sweat, too. Sinful.

Two gate changes and a long marathon across the airport later, we are just about ready to board the jumbo jet that will fly us home. Her majesty the flight attendant, queen of the known universe, has different ideas and tells everyone off, including me. Seems I'd put a toe out of line before she'd given permission to board the plane. Alrighty, then. Her Royal Highness declared all needing assistance should board the plane first - fair enough - and an elderly couple came forward for that privilege.

They were roughly in their seventies, and walked at a snail's pace. He had a cane, she held to the railing for support. Ten minutes later they'd barely turned the corner, when queen stewardess let *everyone* on board at the same time.

Until my dying day, I'll never forget the look on that man's face when he turned around and saw hundreds of people rushing towards the plane hatch, ready to mow him down. He abandoned his wife, who yelled out for his help, and did this wobble-run towards the door. He made it in okay, but was plenty grumpy. I know the wife wasn't trampled, I didn't hear any screaming, so I'll just assume she made it onboard in one piece.

The flight back was positively fabulous, especially because we had emergency row seating. All the leg room in the world, more than enough to stretch out. The food was even terrific, some kind of curried chicken and rice dish, and the boy sitting next to James was positively divine. Beautiful, gorgeous man who probably thought I was married, just like everyone else did, so nothing came of it. James and I played Scrabble again, and I completely slaughtered him. Vindication!

There was a bit of admitting, too. At one point James turned to me and said, "You know, I thought we'd be at each others' throats for two weeks."

Maybe if this had come from anyone else I would have been surprised or insulted, but in this case I wasn't at all. Whenever Raj talks to me about James it's usually after they've had a fight, so I get to hear about a lot of his faults. Magnified in the most dramatic of ways. Knowing Raj, I can only assume James has been hearing about me on the same levels. So I did a little admitting of my own: "Me too."

Plane landed, out to customs where I always manage to sweat buckets from pure fear, waited a whole hour for all our luggage to come out in one piece, and then out into the terminal where Oli was waiting for us. She hugged James first and then came over to me, and did a small double take. "Well, look at you!"

"Look at me what?"

Oli threw off her little half-smile, which is always there when she's doing the observing and thinking thing. "You're... radiating."

"But I haven't been swimming in toxic waste."

"Oh shut up. You know I hate the word 'glowing', and I don't know what else to use. You're radiating."

Oli kills me. "Darling sister, what the heck am I radiating?"

"Happiness. Goodness. Lots of stuff. Had an amazing time, huh?"

I didn't give her a half smile, I gave her a huge grin. "Incredible time. I'll tell you all about it later."

And that, in an elephant's nutshell, was my trip.

Day 14 1/2: Amsterdam

The last time we were here, it was early in the morning on a Sunday. Here we are again, on a Friday at the crack of dawn. If it wasn't happening then, no way it was happening now.

The European mentality is a lot more relaxed than ours. They get to it when they get to it. Europeans open stores later, close earlier, have at least five weeks vacation per year, and take time out for naps. Whereas in any major city of the Western Hemisphere, it's unheard of to not have something open at all hours of the day or night.

Nothing, but nothing is open at 6am in Amsterdam, which is when we rolled back to the Leidsestraat. Not a convenience store, breakfast place, or even a Mickey D's which reduced us to wandering around with our carry ons like total morons. It's not that we're hungry, or even thirsty, but it would be really nice to use a bathroom right now.

Remember the All Bran? Almost a week later, and it keeps coming. James called it "The Great Purge," and I couldn't agree more. In my case, combine that with the Airport Neurosis, and Houston, we have a *major* problem. So between the hours of 6-7am, James and I wandered downtown Amsterdam rolling our bags to and fro, frantically looking for open establishments, and squeezing our asscheeks as tightly as possible.

Seven sharp, a very hungover looking waitress opened up a pancake house nearby, and we took ourselves and our luggage inside. James went to the bathroom first, came back out with a sour look on his face and declared it "unfit." I took his word for it. Since nothing else was open and there was nothing to do anyway, we ordered some breakfast.

More comparisons. When you order pancakes in North America, you usually get a bunch of small ones in a stack, or a handful of medium-sized ones in a pile. In the Netherlands, you get one huge, gigantic pancake that overlaps the dinner plate they serve it on, with your choice of toppings.

Holland is expensive. The last time I was here they were on Guilders, which wasn't so bad, but the Euro is crippling. I considered the pancake with strawberries, but no way I was paying, translated into my currency, over $12 for one pancake. Even if this thing was bigger than my pants, there are some things in life that just shouldn't be expensive.

I got a plain pancake. James got a plain pancake. We will each have one topping, and that is Stroop. That's Dutch for syrup. Stroop is way thicker and way sweeter than anything on our shelves back home, and we slathered it on with a vengeance before digging in. Five minutes later, I scraped most of it off with a bread knife. Too bloody sweet. Whatever was left I washed down with a double shot latte.

We learned very quickly that breakfast was a big mistake. All Bran flashbacks, Airport Neurosis, gigantic greasy pancake, shaky caffeine hands and stroop is not a happy balance. If we were squeezing our asscheeks before out of necessity, now it was pure desperation. Jumpy James and Manifested Me stormed around quick as can be until we found a lone coffee shop with a WC the size of a broom closet.

We took turns and after a good hour or so, felt better. And then we had more coffee. Didn't want the waitress to think we were loitering for free toilet credits.

Left the cafe around the time the shops opened up, oh glory be, so I went on a mad fashion dash for Oli. My carry on was almost empty for this, and boy, did my sister benefit. I got her a leather trench coat, a brown linen jacket, and an orange purse. Being a professional shopper on a mission, I did this all in seven minutes.

And, before we went back to the airport, a special present for me: the Lomo Holga camera. Bargain Russian photographic innovation in my grubby little hands. All mine!

Day 14 1/4: Somewhere over Cyprus

Meet Mass. Yes, that is the name of the man whose hand is on my boob. A bald, miniscule Brit standing all of, oh, 5'2-ish, Mass waltzed onto the plane wearing a suit, a beanie, and a limp. Never fear, to help out with this was a four-foot long cane that any self-respecting pimp would be jealous of.

Like I said, James had the window seat, I had the middle, and Mass was on the aisle. Right after takeoff I pulled out Scrabble, and it wasn't long before I noticed the hairy little man on my right breathing down my neck. Feeling the peer pressure, I invited him to play.

Mass wasn't the most intelligent person in the world. Not to toot my own horn, but even I know that it's not spelled Kat. James and I hurried things up to get him out of our hair, ate our meal then got as comfy as possible for some shut eye. James leaned up against the window, and I rested my head on his shoulder. I did manage to doze off, and when I did wake up, Mass' head was on my shoulder.

Umm, okay. Perfect stranger whose ass I'd just kicked in Scrabble has decided he wants to sleep on my shoulder. Without my permission. This is definitely not okay with me, and I gently ease him back into his seat so as not to wake him up. My head goes back on James' shoulder, and I close my eyes again. When I open my eyes, Mass' head is back on my shoulder, he's all snuggled up against me, and his hand is completely spread-eagled over the right half of my chest.

Oh, hell no. This does not work with me one fucking bit. I pick up shithead's hand, toss it back into his lap, and shook James awake. His cheek was red from leaning against the window, and his hair was in his eyes.

"Everything okay?"

I snorted. I do that a lot. Then I gestured to still sleeping Mass. "He felt me up!"

Wasting no time at all, James reached over me to tap him on the shoulder. Instead of waking up, Mass made a huge production by snoring and turning around to face the aisle, apparently still in a deep sleep. Uh huh. James poked again. Nada.

You have to know how to pick your battles. What Mass had done was totally wrong and I was totally disgusted, but to the rest of the world that hadn't experienced it, I would be wrong. Why? Dude was asleep. Of course I knew he was faking, James knew too, but it looked pretty real to everyone else. Looks are all that matter sometimes. If we woke him up to tell him off, it would look like we were making mountains out of molehills just because a man in a deep sleep had accidentally put his hand where he shouldn't have. Mass would be the victim, and I would be the paranoid freak.

Sometimes, you just have to let things slide. And so on the grander scale of things, I let this slide. But not completely.

It's great to have a big, bad James. He's huge to the average person, but to a little person, he's a mastodon. He doesn't say much, which is brilliant, meaning he's all the more intimidating. Mass might've gotten away with first base, but he knew he screwed up. He also knew James had over a foot and 100lbs on him, and he stayed "asleep" for the rest of the flight. He didn't even crack an eyelid until the plane had come to a complete stop, and then he got up, collected his things, and stormed right on out.

He sure walked fast for a guy with a limp.

Day 14: Goodbye, Jordan

Our flight is a 2am deal, so we're at the airport before the midnight hour. It's going to be one long day, that day we fly: we have a five-hour flight back to Amsterdam, a six-hour stopover in the city, then another seven-hour flight home. I'll be in the house before dinner, local time.

But right now I'm in Queen Alia with super horny James, whose lover has fondled him the entire drive here. To answer your questions, yes, I was staring out the backseat window for the whole drive. James and I have said goodbye to Raj, who will be coming home all of two hours after us, via London, and have done the airport procedure thing. We have checked in, had our luggage weighed, gotten our seats and gone through security.

Security for James was going through the beep thing, then being scanned up and down by a portly gentleman. Security for me was the portly gentleman pointing me to a large, metal-like tent about 50 feet away where, once I passed through the heavy tarp curtain, a woman veiled from head to toe probed me with her giant magnifying glass. I was okayed to leave, and that I did that oh so quick. Didn't need to see Stage Two of the process.

With some time left to kill, James and I did what all people do when they are bored in the airport while waiting for their flight: we shopped. Queen Alia actually has a pretty decent shopping section, with a lot of imported everything from everywhere. James fell so in love with a blue Energie shoulder bag, or as he calls it, a "Murse" (men's purse), I got it for him as his early birthday present. I fell in love with plenty of things, but only bought breath mints. I'd had a silver slaughter that morning, after all.

Almost time for our flight, but we're still bored. We had to occupy ourselves, and so James choked on a mint while I plastered my greedy face against the frosted glass of the Crown Class lounge. Sheikhs, gold money clips, Eames chairs. No naugahyde here.

When it was finally time to board, I got redirected to yet another metal tent, heavy tarp curtain, and ninja security lady #2 who probed me with an even bigger magnifying glass. What the hell? With all these checks and probing, I was seriously happy I hadn't worn my Punk Royal pants with the logo across the bum for the return trip home. I passed the test and she waved me out, but my luggage was another story. Up onto the metal table went my carry on where smiling, mustachioed guard unzipped, poked through and then recoiled in horror. He'd found the most sickening thing, the most dastardly contraband ever found in any suitcase, anywhere: Travel Scrabble.

That's right, I got to hold up an entire plane full of people because of Travel Scrabble. Dude didn't stop at taking it out either, he had to open up the whole bloody thing and even go through every tile. Individually. There are 100 tiles in a Scrabble bag, and in the travel version, they're as big as Tic Tacs. After fucker was done with Travel Scrabble, he took out the next illegal thing: the holy water from the Jordan River. Apparently, it had the same size and shape as a pipe bomb, didn't you know? He even uncapped it to have a sniff.

Ordeal done, I took my bag back, swore at the guard in a language he couldn't possibly understand, and stormed onto the plane with James. We found our places, I stuffed James into the window seat, took the middle, and prepared for takeoff.

This is total cheese, but whenever I'm sitting in a plane on an airport runway about to take off, I think about the place I'm about to leave. I think about everything I've done and experienced, and, if it applies, the difference it has made in me and my life.

Needless to say, it usually applies. And so, here was my Jordan prayer:

Raj, thanks for the invite.
Myself, to save enough for the ticket.
Mummy and Papi, your hospitality. I'll never forget you.
James, you're one of a kind.
Marco, if I was a goddess for only an hour, it was because of you.
Zuzu, march on.
Jerash, peace of mind.
Ocean waters, my heart.
The desert, my soul.
Amman, I'll be back. But in the meantime,
I'm ready to go home now.

Takeoff was very smooth. We got a meal shortly after, I'll assume it was eggs, and after dozing off for a couple of minutes, I woke up with a man's hand on my boob.

Day 13 1/2: Amman

Well, he can't know about it for awhile. On yesterday's downtown errand, James spotted something he wanted to get for Raj. James asked me to distract him, but as we both know very well, there is no distracting Raj. Once he sets his mind on something, he plows forth like a bull in heat. He would not leave James' side for an instant and therefore, we were unable to leave downtown without that precious cargo.

What James wanted was a wedding seal. Imagine a great big ring, I mean huge, two to three inches in length alone, with a large, flat stone on top. On that stone are Arabic carvings to symbolize one's marriage. It's what you stamp the documents with after you are declared Husband and Wife.

The wedding may have been put on hold, but it'll happen one day. James wants to get something special for his little monkey and that magical moment, and so he bought a pair of matching seals. It's going to be a secret from Raj until the moment he and James are declared Husband and Husband.

And what was I to do, while James was busy in that shop, picking out mementos for his beloved? Well, the proprietors, a brother and sister from Jerusalem, were so happy with my purchases yesterday they brought an entire bag of new goodies for me to look at. Including a decades old antique Persian wrist cuff, a think, chain link bracelet with dragon heads on each end, and a ring set with an orange stone. Of *course* it had to all come home with me. Cha ching!

Quick cab ride back (which we were able to secure ourselves, we were so proud), and we were back at the apartment. Everyone wanted to know where we'd been, but we wouldn't tell. Raj just gave us a *look* and said, "You two are up to something." After that the whole family gave us a *look*. They probably thought we were playing dirty games in the bushes.

Lunch, our last one here for at least awhile, was more special this time because the whole family came to bid us farewell. Not just that, but they brought us gifts. Can you imagine? You visit the most wonderful people who pour their hearts out to you, give you everything within their power, treat you like royalty, and they give you presents on top of it all. I was beyond words. Nadia and her family gave me a necklace, Laila's family got me antique earrings and a beaded belt. Mummy and Papi gave me a crocheted blue cushion that I'm only supposed to put out once I'm good and married.

We had a couple of hours left to kill, so Raj's youngest nephew coerced James and I to his lair to play video games. "World of Warcraft" for James, and "Need for Speed" for me. I love racing games and I love speed, and what a fantastic way to let go of everything. I really think some imaginary illegal street racing and crashing some pimped up rides loosened me up, and my Airport Neurosis. Note to Self: purchase a portable PSP. Even if all it does is occupy me at the terminals, it occupies just enough to let go of the freak in me.

We have to get back to the apartment, but there's just enough time to for some final goodbyes. Mummy and Papi cried when we left. So did I. They'd treated me like their very own; how could I not be sad? We promised to take excellent care of Raj, and we promised to come back. We also twisted their arms to come and see us during the summer.

Raj's nephews, brother and sisters said goodbye, and Nadia gave us what was probably the best compliment of all: "You two, you're different. You're not like foreigners, you're more like... us."

Thank you, darling. We consider you, all of you, our family too.

With that it was back to the apartment, and some last minute packing. Not much to be done, since we'd worked so hard at it the night before. James' suitcases weighed a ton, and so did Raj's, who would be taking a different flight home a few hours after us. You know you're a girl traveling with a gay couple when, of the three, your suitcases are the lightest.

10:30pm-ish, we rolled our way back out and to Queen Alia airport. But not before a goodbye toast: we had some breadsticks and cheese from the jar.

Day 13: Amman

My last official morning in Jordan, I wake up extra early to snuggle in the floral sheets and listen to the morning prayer. I can't appreciate the message since I can't understand it, but musically it is a beautiful thing, this sheikh singing to the city every day, five times a day. His voice rings out across the houses and the hills, praying the same prayer as the sheikh before him, and the sheikh before him, and the sheikhs over 2,000 years ago. I will miss it.

Someone else is singing a song, and that's James. James is singing a song not only about me, but a song that refers to me as Satan. Here's how it started: James said something to me after I hauled out of bed and made my first hallway appearance of the day, I don't remember what exactly, but I do remember that I answered back in the most snappish way possible.

SHE'S BACK! James remembers very well what I was like on the flight here, and he now knows how totally titchy I am the 24 hours before I set foot on a plane. In short, James has been a victim of Airport Neurosis. Once you are a victim of Airport Neurosis, you make sure to know ALL the telltale signs so you can a) get the hell out of my way, or b) run like mad.

Well, we were both in the same space, so there was no running, or even getting out of the way. James chose to sing, and better yet, was gracious enough just this morning to provide me with full lyrics. Sing the following to the tune of, "It's Beginning to look a lot like Christmas":

She's beginning to seem a lot like Satan
Every time she flies
Just a look in her flaming eyes
And toddlers start to cry
Get in her way and kiss your ass goodbye

She's beginning to seem a lot like Satan
As boarding time grows near
And the freakiest sight to see
Is the harpy-like lady
Screaming in your ear

Clutching my ticket I'm dragged through the thicket of passengers, feeling remorse
Hear objectifications on failed vacations to Minsk and the Azores
While stewards and pilots can hardly wait for her wine to run its course

She's beginning to seem a lot like Satan
Every time she flies
Would much rather be in Hell
Or far too drunk to tell
Pitying looks from all the other guys

She's beginning to seem a lot like Satan
On a jet powered foray
For lucidity it's a must
To have a misplaced sense of trust
That her fare's one way.

Poor James. I made a mental note to be nicer to the guy this time around, after all, he's been my husband and table scraps buddy for almost two weeks now.

Our first stop this morning is to Mummy's and Papi's apartment once again, but we barely set foot inside when Papi ushers James and I right back out the door. It's a gourmet kind of morning and Papi, that connoisseur, is taking us out for bread. Not just any bread though, but specially baked rounds with various toppings like egg, salami and cheese, wild thyme, etc. I get one and James gets one but magically, when we get back to the apartment, there are a half dozen in the bag. Note to Self: learn more Arabic for the next time around, I just get too easily swindled.

This bread, along with a bunch of other delicacies on the table, is our breakfast. Once we have stuffed ourselves to the gills and declared breakfast to be over, we are informed that lunch is in two hours. Never fear, James and I have figured out a creative way to work off those calories and best of all, our first sojourn in this city without Raj.

We are going to have SEX! Nah, just kidding. He's bent and I'm straight, it could never work. But we are going downtown, us whitefolk, and we're doing it by ourselves. We have a quick mission to accomplish, and one that Raj must know absolutely nothing about.

Day 12 1/2: Amman

We have a brief rest, Raj and James have a quickie, I pretend to hear nothing as I buff my nails. I really can't stand filing nails since I'm more of a biter, but then I do love a nice bit of shine. A couple of good looking hands and two smiling homosexuals later, we're on the road back downtown.

We have two city missions today: jewellery and clothes. The jewellery part is for me. I haven't gotten nearly enough of it since I've been here, and feeling totally withdrawn. Need bracelets! Need necklaces! Need, in general, pretty baubles to dangle and dazzle. If I can't stop a man dead in his tracks with my knockout body just yet, at least I can blind him with the brilliance of my bracelets.

This is solved by going back to the Iraqi corner and up a flight of stone steps to some amazing pawn shops. When on the road, pawn shops are your best bet. In North America, your everyday pawn shop is usually overstocked with pipes and old microwaves, but in the rest of the world, they have the best stuff. I got old coins, mother of pearl necklaces, this amazing Bedouin pendant with a red stone, and another amulet made with silver and a seashell. I've yet to go to an overseas pawnery and be disappointed.

The clothes part is for James. Raj wants James to have traditional clothes. In other words, that very long dress shirt you see Arabic men wearing, complete withYasir Arafat headscarf. The long dress shirt is called a Dishdash. James calls it an Arabic eating dress, since there are no buttons or zippers to loosen after a gigantic meal. I call it James' wedding dress. The head scarf is called a Hatta. James and I both that, 'The sheikh thing." James got his dishdash alright, a nice long grey one, with a matching black and white hatta. We thought it would go nice with his eyes.

Downtown errands done, we went back to Raj's parents place for a quick dinner, and more hummus. By this point, I never want to see hummus again for as long as I live, or at least another month or so, but I love Mummy and Papi. Their efforts to make us feel so at home are really touching, so what else can I do? Pass the pita. The All Bran is still doing it's work, so James and I won't be suffering too much for it.

And then back in the car for the last stop of the day: Mecca Mall. Just like I have yet to see a bad pawnery overseas, I also have yet to visit a foreign city without a completely Americanized mall smack dab in the middle of it all. Mecca Mall is a pretty new place and has all your latest Western needs and wants: designer clothes, a multiplex, and Cinnabon. All of which we bypassed to go to the music store. Ever since our night at Kan Zaman, I've been wanting some classical Arab music to take home. The twenty-something kid at the cash was good enough to not only let us pick out a dozen or so CD's, but unwrapped every single one so we could listen to our selections before buying. I bought five discs and Raj got four; cash boy gave us two free downloaded & burned compilations as a parting gift. How very, very nice.

We went back to the apartment early to start our packing for tomorrow night. James had way too much liquor in his bag so I took some in mine, which made my bag way too heavy so he took my honey and some other stuff. We were making pretty good time and I knew I'd never have this opportunity again, so I asked James to try his new outfit on. His answer was, "No, because you'll take a picture of me in it." I promised I wouldn't, then pouted for good measure. James hates it when I pout, so he tried his outfit on. The dishdash was too short, and the headband keeping the hatta in place was too small. After Raj and I both killed ourselves laughing, I took a picture.

Recap: The one souvenir I regret not buying in Amman was that nice, big bottle of genuine Hogo Boss perfume. Only two dinars. The "Hogo" part isn't a typo, either.

Day 12: Aqaba & Amman

After much, much ado in our Business Class room, the three of us made our way down to breakfast, featured on the Lido Deck. Okay, it wasn't exactly called the Lido Deck, but the surroundings of that place, down to the ruffled curtains and last wicker chair just screamed, "The Love Boat." We had our table, we dealt with the rude waiter (that kept ignoring me whenever I asked for more coffee); we had cereals, yogurt, a make your own omelette station and yet another juice bar. Your standard three-star hotel buffet.

After that, we had the morning free in Aqaba. Per Raj's request, we spent our time venturing next door to the Intercontinental, to see what luxury had been so close to us and at the same time, so very, very far away. The Intercontinental's spread was nothing like the Radisson's, and therefore, absolute heaven. Crystal blue water in the three swimming pools, tiki huts, a bar, good looking people running around and splashing by the ocean shore. Their beach was ten times as long as ours, too. If there's a next time in Jordan for us, guess where we're staying?

Abu Fadi came by to collect us, we checked out, and started the drive home... but not before going back to the liquor store with the Tequila Jesus. James hadn't forgotten those prices, and wanted to do some more souvenir shopping. He got various alcoholic delights for his friends back home, while me and Raj got some more alcoholic delights for ourselves. Raj got a lime vodka cooler for himself, and another cherry one for me, which we drank down super quick, and then took pictures of ourselves with our tongues sticking out, his green and mine red.

The drive back home was a calm one. Abu Fadi put in an Om Kolthoum disc, the "Diva of Arabic music," who also looks a lot like Rosario from "Will & Grace," sunglasses and all. Her smoky tones carried us the entire three-hour trek to Amman. James slept in the front seat, and Raj slept next to me in the back. I put my sunglasses on, leaned back and noticed the scenery on the Desert Highway, since I knew I wouldn't be seeing it again for maybe a long time. I also took the occasional picture of Raj sleeping, mouth wide open, with a bit of drool.

Abu Fadi dropped us off back at the apartment, and gave me his business card for "next time." We thanked him, we tipped him, and went back upstairs to rest a bit before digging into the rest of our day.

At this point our trip is starting to wind down, our entire stay in Jordan that is, and I can feel it. It's that stirring I get in my bones of a journey come to end, and the onset of Airport Neurosis about to take place. We're leaving tomorrow night, after all.

It would have been nicer to say it with him, say it to him, or just think it while being next to him.

Sitting there on that sandy dock in Aqaba, looking out over the calm waters of the Red Sea and drinking in the quiet night and salty air, he was the only one I wanted with me.

Because this is the man I love more than anyone in the whole world.

Day 11 3/4: Aqaba

Raj and I don't speak to each other often. It happens at least once a day.

This is the usual: He says something, I either retort with sarcasm or tell him he's overreacting, and then his voice goes up to blinking red on the meter, or, Exasperation Notch. He insults me, I insult him back, we both start to scream, then storm off in opposite directions. Most of the time he phones within the hour and we pick up the conversation as if nothing's happened. Sometimes, we both stay shitty because we're so unbelievably peeved at what the other has said.

This was one of those times. In addition to telling me I looked "washed out," Raj also said I had a bad attitude, shitpicked my makeup and wardrobe choice. Yep, I was staying mad. I stayed mad all the way down the hall, in the elevator, out the hotel and during the entire walk to the seafood restaurant. In fact, I stayed mad right through ordering, and until the appetizers came.

James played the glue, as he always does, made Raj see he had been unnecessarily testy, starting with those nasty texts, and got him to apologize to the both of us. This in itself is absolutely shocking. Raj doesn't apologize, he just says, "Anyways" and goes right on talking as if nothing ever happened. I was on cloud nine thinking that a "Sorry" had actually come out his mouth, when my balloon burst itself all over the calamari. "Kookoo, I totally forgot it's that time of the month for you. No wonder you're acting weird and saying stupid things." I knew it was too good to be true.

Dinner over, we rolled out of the restaurant and took a taxi to a mall. Yes, a mall. Malls in Jordan are open until the wee hours of the morning, just in case tourists or the rich ever need designer shoes on the fly. We didn't last long in there either, just not in that shopping kind of mood.

All the way to the mall, James and I listened to Raj cluck. All the way back, we listened to Raj cluck. We got out of the cab and walked around, listening to Raj cluck, so I wasn't surprised one bit when out of nowhere James said, "BOOZE!", and mowed us down to get into the liquor store not ten paces away.

This was my first liquor store in the Middle East, and I was pretty surprised to see it. Evidently there's more incentive to being a Christian in Arabia then just eating pork chops: you can own a liquor store, put a huge, light up Jesus in the tequila section, wear three gigantic gold crucifixes, and a Hawaiian shirt. Yes, that's what the shopkeeper was wearing, and that light up Christmas Jesus over the tequila totally freaked me out. I supposed that whole turning water into wine thing gained him a few fans.

The prices in this store were so amazing, Raj had to convince both me and James to not buy the five litre bottle of Chivas Regal for a paltry 47 dinars. It was the size of my torso, and while every fiber of my being knew I'd never make it past airport customs without getting thrown into a cell, my inner shopping diva was screaming, "Do you know how much this costs at home? Get it!!"

Reality won. I did not get the Chivas. James did not get the Chivas. I got some cherry vodka, and James got beer. We'd had enough clucking, and needed to drink. We got Raj a beer too, and wandered around looking for a place to guzzle.

My bottle wasn't a twist off, so James cracked the cap off a brick wall, and we tucked in to drink right there on the sidewalk. This is when Raj started freaking us out about religious fundamentalists shooting us if we were spotted, so we liquored up sitting between a Volkswagen and a Peugeot in a parking lot. Privacy AND necessity. Not long afterwards, we celebrated our daring with gelato.

Significantly loosened up by alcohol and ice cream, we ended our night back on the Radisson beach. Not so yucky at nighttime. None of us is a big fan of night swimming after seeing "Jaws," but by the ocean at night is a wonderful thing. The air was cool, the breeze was in my hair, and the water nipped at my toes. I left Raj and James alone awhile to do their mushy couple thing, and got comfortable on a dock aways from shore. I saw my first and only night in Aqaba sitting on sandy wood planks and looking out across the Red Sea, over to the lights of Egypt and Israel.

Venice, Barcelona, Aqaba. My three most romantic places that never were. Venice for the narrow streets, masquerade shops and impossible canals; Barcelona for the dancing and Spanish fire of it all; Aqaba for the impossibility of being in three places at once and saying, "I looked out across the ocean to Egypt."

It would have been nice to say, "We looked out across the ocean to Egypt."

It would have been even nicer to say it with him.

Day 11 1/2: Aqaba

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 11: Wadi Rum

The next morning was your typical one in a hotel room shared by three people: foggy bathroom mirror, towels all over the floor, and a "get the hell out of here I'm changing!" or two.

The Petra Marriot breakfast was fantastic and, I hated to admit, a really, really nice break from breadsticks and jarred cheese. Eggs, french toast, pancakes, cereals, beef bacon, cheeses, a juice bar, and even a trio of French jams on the table. As in French. Any old hotel can give you Smuckers, but this is Bonne Maman we're talking here. After that we just checked out, Abu Fadi loaded up the trunk with our luggage, and we started the second part of our tour. Our morning today is devoted to Wadi Rum, the desert, and after that the city of Aqaba, on the Red Sea. But this morning it's all about the desert, and driving to our destination on the Desert Highway.

Everyone calls it the Desert Highway; if there is a real name, I have no idea what it is. The highways I'm used to are up to 16 lanes across and full of traffic and guardrails, but the Desert Highway is something else. Two lanes for the most part, scenery of sand and rock, Bedouins tending their flocks, mountains and sandstorms in the distance. Very different and exotic from what I'm used to. Very refreshing.

Wikipedia tells me that a "wadi" is Arabic for a dry riverbed that only contains water at times of heavy rain, and that Wadi Rum is a valley cut into the sandstone and granite rock. T.E. Lawrence was based there during the Arab revolt of 1917-1918, meaning Hollywood is also telling me that Wadi Rum is famous for being the shooting location of "Lawrence of Arabia."

After the Wadi Rum experience, I told myself that of everything I've ever seen in my life, it is one of the most miraculous places on earth.

I wasn't totally sold on seeing Wadi Rum. It's desert, it's rocks. Woopie. Not much to do, right? The process is even too simple: you get dropped off at a visitors center, go the bathroom, buy a souvenir if that's your thing, then go out to the parking lot in back that is chock full of pickup trucks. You pick your truck, complete with Bedouin to take you on a two-hour tour of the desert, climb in back and off you go. That's exactly what we did. Got dropped off, went to the bathroom (I got locked in and an attendant had to come rescue me), browsed through the souvenirs (and recoiled at the horrible prices), then went out to the parking lot. Chose a truck, met the Bedouin, got in back (makeshift benches, no seatbelts, sand everywhere), and off we went.

This is when it starts to get interesting. You're on road for all of ten minutes, then the truck goes right into the sand. Desertlicious, baby, and bumpy something fierce. I was thrown against Raj and James repeatedly, much to their disappointment, until we came to a very large rock, mini-mountain sized. Out of the truck, lots of people, more tour guides. We didn't feel like climbing any rocks, but pranced around the dunes instead, where I decided having sandals full of sand is no fun at all. I took them off, and spent the rest of my time barefoot.

Remember way back when I'd said I wanted to sink my feet into the desert sand? It is an extraordinary thing. I dug myself in, ankle deep and stared straight ahead. Sand for miles. I threw my hands up in the air and Raj took a picture, then I took both my girls for a ballroom dance in Wadi Rum. Thank goodness they humour me.

For those not climbing the rocks, Option B was having tea in a Bedouin tent. That sounded very nice, and so we headed in that direction. Since it seemed that everyone else and their mother had decided to climb the rock, us three had the place to ourselves. For one dinar we relaxed in a breezy tent, sitting on woven rugs and leaning against camel saddles, drinking tea with the Bedouins of Wadi Rum. Their tea isn't about bags, but herbs and spices: cardamom, sage, cinnamon and mint.

Back in the truck. More bumpety bump, and a short drive to the Seven Pillars of Wisdom. English for, gigantic rock formation containing what looks like seven pillars. Back out of the truck to join yet more tourists, to climb as far as you can in the deep crevices. This we did, James saved me a couple of times from almost breaking my neck (should've worn running shoes), and we admired the engravings and drawings made by natives hundreds and hundreds of years ago.

Again, back in the truck. I should add that the driver never actually opens up the back end of the pickup so you can get in and out with ease, instead it is sealed shut so you have to climb in and out like a moron.

We drove and drove, then stopped the truck again, chock middle in the desert, and parked next to a gigantic sand dune the colour of bricks. We got out. Our Bedouin pointed to the dune and said most stoically, "This was in Lawrence of Arabia."

Well, alrighty then. I've heard of tour buses driving by Aaron Spelling's house, but a dirty pickup driving by Peter O'Toole's sand? I wanted to ask if he was positive that each and every single grain was still in place from the original set in the sixties, but then his English wasn't all that good. I'd have to learn more Arabic for next time.

The Bedouin left us to ponder the sand. I don't know why, maybe he took his firstborn there or something. I didn't ponder it too much, because I was busy noticing something else. The truck was off, the Bedouin was now quiet, Raj and James were out of earshot. Everything around me was completely still; all I could hear around me was the wind, and my heart.

Stunning. Maybe sometimes, having nothing to do is the best thing of all.

Tour over, our Bedouin drove us back into Wadi Rum town and to Abu Fadi, who was waiting for us at a restaurant. We saw some camels by the side of the road and gracious Abu Fadi agreed to wait a little longer while we bought ourselves another go on the dromedary carousel.

Hoping to duplicate the magic of Zuzu from the day before, I saddled up with Shailan. Tall, grumpy, spiteful Shailan, who was the exemplary stereotype of a seriously pissy camel. I couldn't blame him, though. For one, his day job was lugging around stupid tourists like me. For two, the ride became extra long when Raj's happy-go-lucky, lazy camel decided to abandon the rest of us for a little snack. We didn't even notice Raj was missing until his shrieks of "HELLO!" forced us to turn around. And for three, James' camel bit Shailan's tail so much the entire time, it started to bleed.

Poor Shailan. If I'd had a treat he would've gotten it, but I had to settle for scratching his ears just like I'd done with Zuzu. This is where Shailan tried to bite me. What the hell? Dumbass.

Leaving Wadi Rum tugged at my heartstrings. I have been comfortable in a lot of places, and I have fallen in love with many. But something happened to me in the desert. Oli always tells me that when she is at the ocean, she feels at peace. I thought I knew what she meant, since I too love being near water, but being in Wadi Rum struck a different chord completely. I felt home.

No, I am not moving to any Arabian desert, the Sahara or even the Mojave. I know my place in this world, no matter what direction my soul points to. But I did get a Bedouin bracelet before I left. It looks like a friendship bracelet, deep red and sand coloured, handwoven from camel hair. Something to keep Home with me. I have worn it every day since.

Day 10 3/4: Petra

My time with Zuzu was over much too soon, and with great reluctance, I slid off the saddle. I took his picture, he smiled. I shot a video clip, he smiled. I pet him on the head, scratched him behind his ears again, then leaned over and touched my nose to his. "I'll never forget you, Zuzu," I told him, and he grunted in return.

I seriously considered kidnapping him via jumping back into the saddle and riding like the wind, but our relationship could never last. There isn't much sand back home and besides, I couldn't afford the entire two rows of plane tickets Zuzu would need to fly comfortably. Camels live for something like 30 to 50 years though, so I took comfort that we just might see each other again someday.

Rides over, we now had a bit of time to run around Petra. We climbed in and out of caves, up and down dilapidated staircases, and played hide-and-go-seek in the hundreds of chambers that used to be rooms. And, we talked to more Bedouins. Bedouins here, Bedouins there, Bedouins everywhere, mostly selling handmade jewellery and knick knacks at atrocious prices. We spoke with two Bedouin sisters selling handmade necklaces who let us take their picture. Then, wouldn't you know it, I got proposed to for the second time in two days.

One bracelet selling Bedouin (who wouldn't give me a discount on any of his wares, by the way), offered half a camel for my hand in marriage. Half a camel? That's not even alive. After Adham's stellar pledge, there was no way I was settling for half a camel. Raj mentioned that I'd scored a two million deal just the day before, so the Bedouin changed his offer to 100 camels for my hand, IF my family was rich.

Let's contemplate this. If my family is loaded, I get 100 camels in return for a smelly man who sells overpriced souvenirs in a tent. Honey, if I was loaded, I could buy a better husband off ebay. Second, if I'm just as poor as he is, all I get is half a camel's worth of meat. If he'd offered me Zuzu I might have consented, but only before spiking his drink with valium and smuggling my new pet onboard the plane.

We were getting antsy, and so started the long walk out of Petra. Raj didn't want to walk, though, and hired out a little donkey named Zorro to carry him back. It took two people, a lot of patience, Raj clawing a rock and James and me doubling over in laughter until he made it onto that donkey's back. He clippety clopped until we got back to the horses, where I was given a fine Arabian mare to ride this time back. Nice horse, nice Bedouins. I was a happy camper.

Raj rubbed the magic lamp, and Abu Fadi flew out to do our bidding. Joke, joke. He did respond to the text super fast though, and we went back to the hotel to relax a bit before dinner. We relaxed for 10 minutes, then went down to the bar for... drumroll... happy hour! The great thing about happy hour in Islam is, there's always *plenty* of seats available at the bar. James had beers, Raj had wine, I had martinis and an iced coffee spiked with who knows what. We hadn't eaten since breakfast either, and absolutely devoured the platter of cheeses and olives the bartender made up just for us, on the house. James discussed Jane Goodall's masturbating monkeys; Raj and I giggled like schoolgirls. Good times, my friends, good times.

Abu Fadi reappeared to take us to dinner in town, to a restaurant called the Sand Stone. The restaurant proprietor was a slick Arab with too much Brylcreem in his hair, a brown 70's suit and thick, gold pinky rings on both fingers. He recommended the lamb chops. I looked at the menu, but it took me awhile to recognize "Lamp Shops" as lamb chops. I ordered the chicken.

And then afterwards, we did a bit of walking, some browsing, and almost some shopping. If you're planning on shopping in Petra, bring lots of money because the markup is insane. For instance, Jordan is famous for sand bottles. Bottles of any and all shapes and sizes, full of coloured sand arranged in such a way to make pictures. The most popular ones have mountains and camels in them, big surprise. I wasn't intending on buying something so cheesy, I mean that's almost as bad as getting an "I heart Jordan" t-shirt, but then while in Petra I saw this small bottle about the height of my index finger, with a very simple picture of a woman from a Picasso painting inside. Price: $220 dinars.

This thing wasn't even three inches high. I started coughing out of shock and spluttered up some of my complimentary tea when I got that figure. I backed off so quick I actually forgot to give the cup back, and had to make a return trip. Just for laughs, James asked if they had a sand bottle with "Guernica," but the vendor didn't get it. I got it though, and flipped out laughing. James had to carry me out.

The rest of the night was your usual night in. James and I watched a Bruce Willis movie while tossing each other Arabic pastries, and Raj shuffled around the room wearing just a towel and digging through all our bags, wanting to know where on this great earth his special moisturizing body wash was.

OPENING SCENE: MESSY HOTEL ROOM, OCCUPANTS CRANKY.

James: What are you looking for?

Raj: Anything to wash my bum with!

James: Use what I put in the shower.

Raj: No, I want my special stuff. I packed it!

James: Packed what?

Raj: My stuff!

James: What is it, what's your stuff?

Raj: Pfft! My stuff!

Me: Did you want to borrow my soap?

Raj: NO!

BATHROOM DOOR SLAMS; END SCENE

In anticipation of spending the night in the same room as two hairy men, and remembering Raj's crashing subway-like snoring from our school days, I brought my earplugs with me and slept like a dead woman.

Fast Forward: After I'd arrived back home and developed my stacks of pictures (mostly from disposable cameras), I found a shot of me and Zuzu. I've just gotten on the saddle, but he's still on the ground. Raj took the picture without warning: I was in the middle of saying something, and Zuzu was halfway through a grunt. We both look like we're in protest. It is now in a frame on my windowsill.

Day 10 1/2: Petra

The day before, Marco had quizzed me on camel etiquette, or, how not to get your ass kicked by one. This is what he told me: Don't stare a camel directly in the eye. Don't touch it. Never approach one from behind. Or from the sides. Or even from the front unless it knows you're coming. Go slow! Always slow. Don't forget to speak in hushed tones. And, heaven forbid, if it bares its teeth at you, RUN.

I was determined not to leave the Middle East without having ridden a camel. And here in front of the treasury at Petra were dozens of tourists, vendors, and camels. Our guide told us this was the end of the tour anyway (hallelujah!), so we were free to do as we liked. James and Raj weren't nuts on my idea, but I whined so much they relented. Ecstatic, I ran around to find me a camel.

There were plenty of camels, and they were all lying down with their legs folded underneath them. Camels aren't particularly warm creatures, in fact it's generally known that they have a huge disdain for human beings. And when they grunt, it sounds like Jabba the Hut.

I saw a huge one, single hump, draped with traditional Arabic blankets on the saddle and a small number 23 hanging around its neck. It was him. My camel. Don't ask me how I knew, I just did. I approached it from behind and walked right alongside until we were face to face. I looked him directly in the eye and in my most normal voice I said, "Hi."

He grunted, then bared his teeth. It didn't look scary or threatening though, in fact, it looked like he was smiling. So I put my hand out to scratch him behind one ear, and he leaned into it like my dog Bluetooth does, eyes closed. I was thunderstruck - he liked it.

There was no way in hell I was leaving Petra now without my own camel tour, on this camel, and I stood my ground until Raj and James found their own creatures to ride. We paid our five dinars, and jumped on.

Well, strained to get on. Getting on a camel is hard work, especially when it's a big one and you have no boost or stepping stool. The top of the saddle came to my chin and you all know how tall I am, but I made it with a lot of squiggling and pulling myself up. The Bedouin who owned the camels (and happened to look a lot more like an Australian Aboriginal) informed me that I'd chosen Zuzu, 15-years old and raised in Petra. Then he made some strange hissing noises and nudged Zuzu on the rump, signalling him to get up.

If getting on a camel is hard work, being on one while it stands is even harder. A sitting camel doesn't just rise up on all fours, it goes up back legs first, then front. Meaning you're yanked forward onto this crazy slant, then suddenly pushed backwards really hard, all while grabbing onto the saddle horn for dear life.

When Zuzu got up I closed my eyes and shrieked, happy as a clam. I was even happier when I noticed that of all the camels here, Zuzu seemed to be the tallest, giving me the best view of all. This was more like it! I settled into the saddle, waited until Raj & James were functional with their camels, then prepared for our Bedouin to lead us through the ruins of Petra. But then the Bedouin did something completely unexpected. He gave me Zuzu's reins. And then he walked away.

What the hell was this? I don't know how to ride a camel, I'm just a useless city girl, really. So I called out, "Excuse me, sir? Hey!" I gestured with the reins to the questioning look on his face. "Isn't this your part?"

The Bedouin laughed. "You stop, you pull. You push, you go. He smart. You fine."

Okay, then. I was supposed to do all the work. That didn't sit well with me at all and so I yelled back, "This wasn't in the brochure!", but the Bedouin just walked off anyway. I heard James clearing his throat, and Raj muttering something. They were both behind me, their camels tethered and being led by yet another Bedouin, who made no move to assist me. From the looks of it, I was in charge. Fabulous. Let the clueless white girl take the lead. My family could read all about it in the papers tomorrow: PETRA MASSACRE: DOZENS CRUSHED TO DEATH BY CONFUSED CAMEL. TOURIST TAKES BLAME.

James cleared his throat again in the most sarcastic way possible, and I swore at him with some of Arabic I'd picked up. We did have to start at sometime though, and it might as well be now. "Alright camel, it's just you and me. Be nice, okay?" Zuzu grunted. Here goes. I gently kicked, and he took a few steps forward. I panicked and jerked on the reins; he came to a dead halt. Well, that wasn't so bad. I leaned forward to pet Zuzu on the neck and heaped mountains of praise on him for being such a good boy - force of habit from my dog - and then sat back up, more confident, ready to try again. Another slight kick, and off we went.

It was marvelous. Riding a camel is nothing like riding a horse. You're much higher, and constantly being thrust forward then back again from their slow, almost awkward gait. Instead of hooves there is the soft thudding sound of their large, padded feet. The Bedouin was right: Zuzu was very smart. He knew the way with barely any direction, and was never temperamental. I got confident and strapped the reins around the saddle horn, hanging on with my legs so my hands were free to take pictures.

Petra is magnificent. Once you turn past the treasury, the narrow roads disappear and the city sprawls before you in the most remarkable way. Everything, everything is carved from the rock and so the city itself is part of the mountains, and not the other way around. There is a monastery, there are tombs, there are entrances in caves absolutely everywhere that show where people and the famous Nabateans, ancient traders, once lived. The architecture is superb; the notion itself is staggering. And I saw it all from Zuzu's back, where for that one short hour, I was Queen of the desert.

One of my favourite Arabian moments started out as a scare: a seniors tour group was up ahead, and they were moving slow. I pulled on the reins to stop, but Zuzu had seen some pistachio trees up ahead and wanted some of those leaves. He was bearing down quick, and even though James' and Raj's guide started whistling and calling out, "Attenzione!", the seniors and their canes didn't move. If something didn't happen soon, we'd be in the middle of one giant, geriatric slush puppy.

I stood up in the stirrups, and at the top of my lungs shouted out, "Yela!" ("Let's Go!"), and to my amazement, the sea of white hair in front of me turned around. Shock registered on every face at the behemoth of Zuzu, and I'll be damned if they didn't clear the hell out of the way!

I was having so much fun that when we reached the end of our road and caught sight of the Aboriginal Bedouin waiting for us, I opened my wallet while still on Zuzu, and paid him right there for the ride back. I had even more fun hearing a heavy thud thud thud and turning around to see James's camel running at top speed, and the other Bedouin guide running behind them.

Mine and Raj's mouths dropped open, and James shot us a mystified look before galloping off into the horizon. We caught up with him later, and he told us that the Bedouin had purposely smacked the camel to make it run, and then led James into a cave to take pictures of him with his cell phone.

Featuring in Petra: the Great White Hope. Look out, Britney.

Day 10: Petra

The reason we are packing our bags and leaving at 6am is because Raj, James and I are going on a three-day tour of Jordan. Not all of Jordan, just some hotspots that visitors tend to find appealing. We are going to be tourists.

For the low low price of 230 dinars apiece we will see Petra, Wadi Rum and Aqaba. Petra is the fabulous ancient city that everyone knows from "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade," Wadi Rum is the desert featured in "Lawrence of Arabia," and the Port of Aqaba is on the Red Sea. As in Moses, parting, slaves from Egypt, etc.

Also included in the 230 dinars fare is one night at a Marriott with breakfast the next morning; one night at a Radisson SAS with breakfast the next morning, and our own personal driving whore. Mr. Abu Fadi is our driving whore because not only is he hired to drive us to said locations, but at all times will remain a text message away for any and all of our automotive needs. Nice option. The one drawback is that the whole shebang starts early, so at six sharp Abu Fadi arrives to collect us in his town car. We are half-asleep, we are grumpy, we don't even know if we've properly packed, but off we go anyway.

With two pit stops and one souvenir shop, it takes us three hours to get to Petra. Like Jerash, Petra is two parts: modern and ancient. Modern Petra is a town atop a mountain, buildings and shops spiralling down to the canyon at the bottom. In the middle of this canyon is Ancient Petra, sprawled across several kilometres and carved right from the rose-coloured rock.

But before we see any of this, we have an hour at the Marriot Petra to unpack a bit and freshen up. The hotel is gorgeous. Stunning. Not "treat me like Robert DeNiro" five-star stunning, but a jewel in the desert all the same. It was a modernized casbah with bellboys. Gorgeous comes at a price though, and I haven't been fortunate enough to snag a room of my own. Budgetary issues, so I'm sharing with James and Raj. Yay. I love my boys, but I love them better in their own room. It's especially bad this time running, too - remember All Bran? Two days ago, James and I had dug into a box of All Bran cereal because neither one of us could take a proper crap. Well, now we can't stop crapping. Not wanting to experience the essence of James, I make my way down two floors to use the hotel guest bathroom.

Raj summons Abu Fadi, we have an early lunch of shawarma and then right over to the entrance gates for the tour to begin. The Petra experience is three parts: first, you get on a horse and ride about 20 minutes until you reach the edge of the canyon, which was also the beginning of the ancient city. I love horses but don't have much riding under my belt, so I was a little nervous. Not much to be nervous about since a Bedouin leads you the whole way; lots to be disgusted about if the Bedouin who owns your horse doesn't treat it properly. Needless to say, I nearly kicked mine in the head. The Bedouin, not the horse.

The second leg of the journey is right in the canyon itself. A tour guide meets you and takes you down the long, narrow road that leads to the heart of the city. As a rule, James and I don't like tour guides. They usually don't like their jobs and rarely say anything interesting, so we quickly become annoyed and insolent. For instance: "Here is a natural rock formation in the ancient city of Petra." We're walking, we're walking... "Here is another natural rock formation in the ancient city of Petra." We're walking, we're walking... "Here is a man-made rock formation in the ancient city of Petra." James snickers, I laugh, we crack jokes about natural and man-made outhouses in the ancient city of Petra. As a rule, tour guides don't like us much, either.

Besides, why would we listen to a boring tour guide when we can soak in the city for ourselves? Petra is spectacular. Imagine yourself on a road not more than ten metres across, red rock walls a hundred feet high on either side of you, rock with soft waves and curves made from the elements and carvings of days long ago. You go down, down, you turn a corner and then out of nowhere is your first glimpse of the magnificent treasury building.

In the last Indiana Jones movie, the Petra Treasury is where Indy rescues his father, finds the knight, the grail, yadda yadda. It is the most popular site of the whole city, where the hubbub of people collect. This is also the third part of the journey. After turning the corner around the treasury, the entire city of Petra is spread out before you in all its glory.

This is where I met Zuzu.

Goodbye, Marco

Put the champagne glasses away. It's not necessarily what you think.

You see, I can't tell you what happened. Not for the moment; maybe not for a long time. It was magic, that's no word of a lie... but for now, I want to keep that magic for myself. I need to keep it for myself, if only for a little while.

Then again I'm not totally merciless, and while I said I wouldn't write about *exactly* what happened, I didn't say you couldn't guess. So here are your options:

A) That night, I gave myself to one of my dearest friends, Marco. No, we gave ourselves to each other. We made intense, passionate love until the sun came up, and it was an experience like no other. This is one of the most important people in my life, after all, and something the both of us have been waiting for. It was beautiful, it was perfect, and it was a night like no other. I will cherish the memory forever.

B) Alas, neither one of us was ready for the next step, not with each other. But, that didn't stop us from making out like horny 15-year olds until the sun came up. Marco sent me off to Petra with swollen lips and two giant hickeys on my neck, covered under gobs of concealer. It was beautiful, it was perfect, and it was a night like no other. I will cherish the memory forever.

C) Marco is Marco, and I want to keep him that way, always. I know my life, I know where it is going, and there are relationships I don't want to jeopardize. Funny thing being Marco wanted to keep me the way that I was, too, and I was good with that. We talked and we connected until the sun came up, just like our days past. It was beautiful, it was perfect, and it was a night like no other. I will cherish the memory forever.

As for what really went down, I can give you this one extra tidbit: what happened was exactly what needed to happen. For the first time in his four days with me, I was completely at peace. And I still am.

We settled in for an hour's sleep; Marco's cab was coming at 6am, and so was ours. When we woke up he was shivering and running a fever, a kickback from having the flu a week before. I was concerned and wanted to help, but he assured me he'd be fine after a little more sleep. I packed, he rested some more, then quickly got himself together right before the driver called up. His taxi was here.

I walked Marco down to the ground floor, but instead of going straight outside, he put his luggage down at the bottom of the steps. "For a private goodbye," be explained, then wrapped me up in a gigantic bear hug that lifted me off the ground and made me catch my breath. "I would love to kiss you, but I'm sick. I want you to always know... that I loved Amman because of you."

That part made me speechless. After a couple of minutes, I helped him with his bags and we walked outside to the waiting car. The cabbie was loading up the trunk when Marco stood in front of me one last time and quietly said, "Goodbye."I fixed his collar, kissed his forehead, we hugged once more, and I told him goodbye. And then he got into the taxi.

When I'm seeing someone off, I usually wait until the car is out of sight to go back inside. I didn't wait for Marco's car to disappear around the corner; I went back into the building right away. I didn't want him to see me cry. Not again. I sat on the entrance steps that early morning in a futile attempt to collect myself before going back up to the apartment, thinking of the past few days and the amazing man that had been a part of it.

I loved Amman because of you, too.

Unlike cartoon consciences that have an angel and devil sitting on either shoulder, I have what James calls an Orthodox Left and a Catholic Right.

My dad is Orthodox, my mom is Catholic. Forever straining to keep balance in the household, Oli and I are both. According to James, the fiery, heated, arrogant gypsy girl in me who leaps before looking and has the libido of a thoroughbred is due to the Orthodox Left side of my body. Demure, sweet, guilty "Angela's Ashes" me who still cries watching Humane Society commercials is all about my Catholic Right side.

I hate to admit it, but he's not far off.

I am with Marco on the balcony, and I've just been told that I'm a sexy lady. I am feeling spirited, I am feeling wild. I am feeling free in a way I haven't felt in forever. I am hearing Orthodox Left: Pull him into your bed, woman, and take him right now!

Orthodox Left never comes without Catholic Right; they are the most demented twins in the world. This is his last night here. Do you really want him to remember you this way?

Orthodox Left: Yes. Yes! He loves you for who you are, and you expect nothing from each other. Do it!

Catholic Right: You're not good at letting go, honey. What if you fall in love?

Orthodox Left: You're not a child anymore, and you know better than that. It's okay to look at other men and have casual sex.

Catholic Right: This isn't casual sex. This is Marco.

This isn't casual sex, this is Marco. Big sigh. I can't do that to him, and I can't do that to myself. Catholic Right usually wins, anyway. I don't know why I'm at all surprised.

But then out of the blue, Orthodox Left gave me one final kick: That's right, sweetness. This is Marco.

What did I want to happen? I wasn't sure yet, but I wanted to find out. I took a very deep breath. And then I took his hand.

The whole drive back, I was high with the magic of Jerash. Ancient city. Julius Caesar. Two million camels. Art. Marco.

It had been a glorious day, especially when I'd pulled Marco into one of Adham's secret Jerash hideaways, and unabashedly kissed him. We'd been kissing ever since. Nah, fooled you again.

That didn't happen, but for the first time since his arrival I'd been completely relaxed and at ease with everything. When he took a picture of smiling me with the Temple of Artemis in the background. When he helped me off a high, crumbling wall. When he held my hand.

It was a laid back atmosphere in the apartment, with James and Raj watching TV and enjoying a light snack of breadsticks and jarred cheeese. I'd changed into something a "little more comfortable"; striped pajama pants and a blue soccer tee. Marco was on the balcony smoking a cigarette, and I went out to join him.

I put my arms up on the railing and rested my chin in my hands. It was a beautiful night. Clear, starry. A sheikh's calm, steady voice recited the fifth and final prayer of the day. It was Marco's last night here, and I didn't want him to go home remembering me the way I had been. So without looking at him I said, "I'm sorry, Marco."

He didn't say anything, but I knew he understood. Marco always understands. He edged over closer, put his arm around me, and we were like that for a long time.

We talked about a lot of things on that balcony. Actually, Marco did a lot of talking, and I did most of the listening. And what he mostly talked about was... me. Marco's known me forever, remember? My career. My writing. My finances, my family, my love life. We even talked about Jess, and he gave me the smallest and best bit of advice anyone has given me so far. "If you see anything with him, you have to go for it. You have to. If nothing is there, you have to be brave."

The hell of the last few months came down on me when he said that, and even though I didn't want to, I started to cry. I mostly don't want to cry because I don't want people to see me crying, and I did my best to hide it. A lot of elements were on my side: dark night, long hair, and when I cry I start off really quietly. Until my nose kicks in. A few sniffles later, he gathered me up into his arms to let me finish what I'd started.

I don't know how long we were like that for, a few minutes perhaps. The phone rang inside and startled, I pulled away, completely embarrassed for breaking down the way that I had. As you can see, I embarrass myself a lot. Around Marco, it seems I've broken all my own records.

The standard is that when I'm completely humiliated, Marco takes it all in stride. He didn't disappoint. I was looking down to hide my face; he put one hand under my chin and lifted up so we were looking right at each other. Marco wiped away my tears with his thumbs, kissed my nose and quietly said, "Hi, sexy."

Sexy? I almost looked behind me to see if anyone else was there. I didn't feel sexy right now, not in PJ pants, wrinkled shirt, mussy hair and a tear streaked face. In fact, sexy was something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Do you know what it's like to believe you're not good enough? To have been thinking for years that you're not pretty enough, or skinny enough, smart or successful enough and most of all, not sexy enough, so much and so often, that you feel you just don't matter anymore?

It consumes you. It consumed me. This is who I have become.

And then, along came Marco. I looked back up at him. There was a huge grin on his face; he wasn't kidding. This man, here on this random balcony in the Middle East, thought I was sexy. And he was serious.

I felt I could fly.