The joy of dirt.

I dreamt of showers. Literally I awoke this morning disappointed there was no high-pressure, steaming hot water pelting my skin; only two comforters and many layers of clothes kept me so warm. I won't complain though, as this is a nice change from the nightmares that have tormented me night after night for exactly three weeks. Last night there were no friends being murdered, dogs hunting me down, or witness protection programs. I cannot stress enough how these terrors are not a reflection of my feelings here--I've been happier in Amman than most of my recent life. The nightmares constantly visited regardless and I constantly awoke happy I was not falling off a cliff.

I'll attribute the blessed dream of a long, hot shower to switching my night-time reading to something more pleasant thanks to my Australian flat mate/litterateur. But waking from happy places in my head also means these places are not real--and thus frustrating. But why am I ranting about showers? One might think complaining about awaking right before biting into a cupcake or discovering you haven't found The Most Beautiful Person In the World to marry is more offensive than not being able to shower. If you know where Jordan is, you'll know it's in a desert, and water isn't east to come by. I shower every third day. 

Yes, believe it, the Italian with "Extra Virgin Olive Oil hair" flicks on the water heater thirty minutes before stepping into the shower every three days. I'm then allotted about 3 minutes of torture during which I attempt to keep as much water as possible in the actual bath tub. Our landlord would of course not waste money on shower curtains when a person only spends about 27 minutes a month in the thing. Nevertheless, I found a morsel of hope among the dirt in which I wallow.

During the down moments we have in the apartment, which are few, we have developed the Michael-and-Mary Special of reading The Economist to each other out loud. I was thrilled to find an article (named quite similarly to this one) about why people should stop trying to be so clean. It said, "Some researchers in Britain have even found what they think might be dirt that can make people happy. The results, says Chris Lowry, at Bristol University, 'leave us wondering if we shouldn’t all be spending more time playing in the dirt.' "

I find solace in these words as I enter a yellow taxi every day to class that hasn't been vacuumed in three years and who's main function is an ashtray for the driver. Emma spotted a driver cleaning his car with water from a lake made of 54% shoes and tires. My leg was brushed by a poor stray cat with 1.5 eyes. The set of clothes I wore to Petra (for two days--we didn't expect it to be an overnight trip) have been washed but still look to me as though they are painted red with dirt.  

I do all that I can to remain presentable with one suitcase-full of clothing and the few toiletries I've purchased. A couple coats of deodorant is a must even in the cold weather, plus plenty of perfume. I've caught Michael stealing my scarves for their "wondrous odor of blessings and good tidings," so I must be doing something right. 

After trying to convince myself that I'm alright with few cleanings, I finally had the dream about the shower and everything changed. I have decided to join the local gym--free showers, as long as I like, every day. And a plug for my hair dryer so I don't use up a million dinars worth of power--every third day. 

This realization was made all the more important when Sam and Diwa brought home Hedgehog Slice that we have lovingly dubbed "Pig Muck" because of the situation in which Sam caught Diwa and me.

Back by popular demand...the photo. 

Definitely going to the gym tomorrow. I already bought shoes.

On Being Black

The ATMs scammed us. Emma and I both lost a significant amount of money trying to withdraw dinars for grocery shopping and our bank decided it was up to us to get it back. The idea was frightening because going into a bank anywhere to ask for money without some sort of receipt is not on my to-do list--let alone in the Middle East.


So we went to the University Hospital to find Cairo-Amman Bank. Surprisingly enough they wouldn't help us and sent us away to an even scarier establishment, but this is beside the point.


Walking down the 100%-grade hill toward home we were stopped by an official-looking man. We asked him if we weren't allowed down this road and at first he told us no, then proceeded to ask us where we're from, what we study, etc. After chatting he points to my fair-skinned friend and says rather emphatically in Arabic "White! You are white!" We nod politely and agree (so maybe he'll let us down the hill) and wait for him to finish. Then he studies my face for a while and, in English, says rather sullenly "Black, eh? You black." We politely nod and chuckle a bit, knowing I'm not at all black. He then turns back to Emma pointing to her eyes and says, "Bluuuuue!"


He turns to me, studies my eyes, and says "Okay, you go."

And I still need my money.

A Reasonable Title

After almost three weeks of teasing from my flat mates and (dare I say it?) friends in Amman, I've finally decided on a name for my blog. It's inspired by the broadway musical showcasing a slave on a journey to win his freedom. Along the way he stumbles over what are supposed to be hilarious roadblocks from the viewpoint of the audience but horrible for him at the time in terms of achieving his goal. 


This is parallel to my journey in Amman. I'm hoping to gain serious freedom, but it's still really funny to watch.


Rather than blab about mundane life stories (which are reserved for those closest to me and thus those who are doomed to suffer the most), I thought it best to pare down to what's interesting. I want to share the best faux pas and blunders of both the American and the Jordanian--basically what I've deemed the definition of experiencing "foreignness." 


I'm currently wearing my pastel pink fluffy ear muffs drinking hot chocolate waiting the week of rain to come. Yes, I am in the desert. After the years and years of homework I have in store for me this evening I will tell all about being called "black," accidently asking for drugs at the schwarma shop and many more tales of living in Amman.


Here's my 'hood at sunset!

Ma'al-salaama!