Amman

Two recent episodes that I think really highlight the character of Amman:

There are Roman ruins at the top of tall hill in downtown Amman. Looking down and across, all one can see are simple, blockish buildings, yellow and dun with age, climbing the hills in every direction. Though they are not stacked, the first thought that sprang into my mind was “cliff dwellings.” I vastly prefer this part of the city to Western Amman. Downtown Amman has the comfortable, worn-in feel of a city with history and character. Western Amman just feels empty.

The ruins themselves are little more than foundations, but are still massive and impressive. A few columns are even now towering 30 feet in the air despite the 1500 years that have likely passed since their erection. (Heh, I said “erection.”) The rest have toppled, their stones spaced like fallen dominoes. We’re allowed to climb on the ruins and everyone does, scrambling for the shady parts so we can sit on the cool stone.

Ten feet away from the ruins, some men are constructing a winding concrete pathway. They wear baseball hats and fluorescent green vests, and there seem to be too many men for the job.

Ten feet away from them, three large goats with black silky hair, one with a blue udder bag, wander completely unsupervised. They nose through the yellow grass and chomp happily at the lowest branches of an evergreen.

I honestly couldn’t have put together a better triptych for Amman if I’d tried.

The other typical Jordanian experience happened last night. I and some friends had gone out for drinks and dancing, succeeding in the former but not the latter. So on the ride home last night I found myself crammed uncomfortably into the back seat of a taxi, a little fuzzy from the liquor and trying hard to soothe my soul into a state of serenity, because the driver was a crazy man and I didn’t want to die pissed off. My irritation only increased when the man (who’d been talking to my more Arabic-fluent friend in the front seat) suddenly pulled over and shouted at a stand for coffee and cigarettes. The sellers brought us a little cup of coffee, which the taxi driver promptly gave to his (slightly drunk, very American) passengers. It tasted more like cake than coffee – Jordanians don’t find drinks satisfactory until they’re oversaturated with sugar – but it did help me forgive the driver. Besides, it’s hard to dislike a man who pulls out his cell phone to show you pictures of his sixteen-day-old daughter, even if it’s while he’s driving.