Day four was fairly uneventful. We went down for breakfast ("This is appalling," sniffed Waleed as he looked at the display of cold cuts and cheeses. "And they call this a five star hotel.") and then ended up sitting around the lobby drinking Turkish coffee. After three hours of this, we went to Centro for lunch, which was very much a business-lunch kind of venue, and then went to the Royal Automobile Museum, at Samer's request.
"I want to see the cars," he insisted. Dimah, Waleed, Samer, Fahed, Fares and myself all went, along with Waleed's cousin, Niveen. Fahed, Waleed and I picked up Niveen from one of Amman's many roundabouts.
"Wow, this isn't suspicious activity at all," I said as we passed a policeman, who was watching our car circle the roundabout for a fifth time. Once Niveen met up with us, we drove to the museum.
The museum was atop of a hill, overlooking Amman. "They want to tear all of this down," Fahed told us, "to build high rise apartments." We all looked at the sprawling green hills, taking in the contrast of the bright green with the white buildings in the distance. "That is disgusting," said Waleed.
Behind the museum was the new Children's Museum that was in the process of being built and a new mosque. When Fares, Dimah and Samer came, we all decided to check out the mosque. "We have to cover ourselves though, don't we?" I asked. "Nah, its fine," responded Fares, marching up to the mosque with confidence.
We were stopped by a shout from one of the men sitting in front. Gesturing wildly at the three of us girls, he indicated that we should, in fact, have covered our hair. We backtracked to get scarves for those of us who had XX chromosomes and walked back.
"This is the first and last time you all will see me like this," I informed everyone, as I adjusted my make-shift hijab.
"What if you marry someone who forces you to do it?" asked Fares.
I fixed him with a steely gaze. "I wouldn't."
As we walked towards the mosque, our “guide” stopped us. "No pictures," he said, in Arabic. He walked us around the back of the mosque, into the courtyard and then back out. Our tour was done. It lasted all of five minutes.
"That's it?" I said, pulling off my scarf. "That was kind of ridiculous. We didn't even see anything."
“You went totally Iran style on your abaya!” said Samer. “It was just like, boom, Iran!”
After the so-called tour, we walked back towards the Royal Automobile Museum. As we approached the building, Fares turned to me. "Don't say a word," he said. "We're going to try and get the Jordanian citizen rate for everyone instead of paying full price."
We looked at the price. The cost for a Jordanian was 1 JD. The cost for non-Jordanians was 2 JD. The difference was less than $1. Whatever Fares' plan was, it worked. We went into the museum and were face to face with… cars. Lots of cars. Fancy cars. Cars that kings died in, cars that queens were married in… just, cars everywhere. I had never been to a car museum and always figured they would be dull. I was right. Cars are cars. However, we had a tour guide who insisted on telling us, in Arabic and in great detail, about each of the cars.
“This is the car that King Abdullah was married in!” Waleed would translate to me. The Jordanians were fascinated. I was bored. After about 45 minutes, we finally left the car museum to go to Blue Fig, which is apparently the place to go in Jordan. “All the cool people are here,” I was informed. “This is where you go to see and be seen.” Blue Fig is your standard bar/coffee shop. After Blue Fig, we went back to the hotel bar where the Kuwait-refugees all kicked back with some alcohol. Day four was quiet – but after our weekend in Wadi Rum, quiet was what we needed.
Day Five: Amman
Our last day in Amman was spent eating more of the hotel breakfast, visiting a mall called Mecca Mall (we were informed that “It’s called Mecca Mall because it’s located on Mecca Street.”) and going to the airport.
And, because it’s me, the airport couldn’t be as simple as checking in, boarding the plane and getting home. Oh, no.
The Queen Alia International Airport in Jordan is made up of two terminals. The building is about a hundred years old and the combination of the two terminals is the size of one, normal, fully functioning terminal in Los Angeles. I was in Terminal 2, flying Jazeera Airways. The boys were in Terminal 1, flying Royal Jordanian.
The airport is structured as such: You walk into a waiting area with two coffee shops. If you’re actually flying, you walk through a security check (where you show your passport and ticket) and only then do you walk up to the counter to check-in.
After I was dropped off, a porter rushed to me, grabbed my bag and asked me what airline I was flying. I told him that I could take my own bag, but he shrugged me off and asked me again what airline I was flying.
“Uh, Jazeera.”
“They are closed. Come this way!” he said, walking purposefully in front of me. I stopped at the security check and showed the guard there my passport.
“What airline?” he asked.
“Jazeera.”
The guard chuckled. “Jazeera is closed!” he said, handing me back my passport and waving me through. I didn't get it. Was it closed because I was early? I thought my flight was at 2:30. It was 1 p.m. I chalked it up to a language barrier and walked through the second part of the security check, which involved scanning my bags and getting scanned myself. As I walked towards the counter, the porter walked next to me.
“See!” he said. “They are closed!”
He put my suitcase next to the counter and looked at me expectantly.
“What do you mean it’s closed,” I said, beginning to panic.
There were three other men standing around the counter. One of them looked at me. “See,” he said, pointing at the screen above me. “The flight is at 1:30. It is 1 right now.”
That panicky feeling wasn’t going away. Yes, I was cutting it close, but come on. I’ve been on flights where they’ve held up the plane for an hour. I needed to get home.
“Um, I need to get on this flight,” I said.
The men all chuckled. “Jazeera is gone!” they said.
“Gone where??” I asked, still panicking.
“To the gate!” he said. “You are late!”
“Well, can you get them? Please?” I wasn’t trying to be a brat here, but I just really needed to get home. I had a job to get back to. And what would I tell my parents? Would I send them a postcard with a picture of Petra on the front and a message saying “Sorry, I misread the ticket. I’m still in Jordan, will get home when I can! XO, Your Daughter”
The man chuckled again and disappeared behind the door without actually answering me.
My faith in Middle Eastern efficiency is almost none. I pulled out my cell phone and called Waleed.
“Are you still at the Royal Jordanian counter? Are there still tickets?” I asked him, sending bargins to whatever holy deity was listening to me.
There was a long pause, during which time I think Waleed was debating whether or not he should even bother asking me why I needed to know this. Instead, I heard him turn to the person behind the counter and ask them if there were still tickets available. There were.
I quickly recapped the situation for him, adding in a few curse words here and there. I told him I would wait a little longer and call him back.
I hung up the phone and surveyed the scene before me. My porter was leaning back against the counter, studying his cuticles. Two other airport employees were sitting on the side, chitchatting. My porter looked up at me and grinned.
“Look!” he said, pointing behind the counter. “Jazeera is now Iraq Air!” He chuckled to himself while I tried to decide if murder was too harsh of a punishment. I looked back at the two decorations sitting on the side and called to them.
“Hey. Is anyone coming?”
The two men looked up at me and grinned. “Nope!”
I grabbed my suitcase and bolted to the other terminal. On the way, I called Waleed. “I’m coming on your flight,” I said, and hung up the phone.
I ran to the other terminal which wasn’t far, but meant I had to navigate my way though two buildings with a big bulky suitcase in kitten heels. I reached my destination and, panting, I handed my passport over and went through security. Waleed was on the other side, waiting for me and holding in his hand the most beautiful sight ever – a ticket home.
Together, we went back to the check in counter where I handed in my bags to them and tried to catch my breath. The lady checking me in looked at me and smiled. “Window or aisle?” she asked.
“I don’t really care,” I said, panting. “Just get me on the plane.”
Waleed explained the situation to them; since I was too busy trying not to die to explain what happened. They laughed, handed me my ticket and sent me on my way.
By some miracle, I cleared customs and onto the plane. Of course, since I was traveling with Waleed, Samer, Ziad and Fares, the plane ride couldn’t be all that smooth.
As we sat waiting to take off, Ziad propped his leg up on the chair, with his arm dangling in the aisle. As one of the stewardesses walked by him, she walked into his arm, causing it to hit the chair in front of him. “Ow,” he said loudly, rubbing his arm. The stewardess kept on walking. Ziad turned to the rest of us. “Did you see that?!” he asked us in disbelief. “She smirked! I said ‘Ow’ and she turned around and smiled!”
He was livid. The rest of us laughed.
The plane ride itself was uneventful, save for some video and picture taking. As we prepared for descent, we tried to settle in to our seats, but it was proving difficult. Samer was still taking videos. And Ziad was keeping his eyes out for the bitchy stewardess who hurt his hand.
As we were lowering towards the ground, the pilot decided that a smooth landing was just too boring and that an air show was actually far more appropriate.
There was turbulence.
An insane amount of turbulence.
Then the plane went diagonal.
When I get nervous on plane rides, my reaction is always to look at the stewardesses and see if they look nervous. If they don’t, I figure everything is okay. In this case the stewardesses were still wandering around the aisle, preparing for landing, despite the fact that the plane was in no position it normally would be in.
Ziad’s Stewardess walked by us as well. As she did, the plane was suddenly rocked with turbulence. She was thrown off balance and stumbled down four rows before catching herself and continuing walking. As he saw this, Ziad smirked.
“What goes around comes around, yeah?” he shouted.
The rest of us dissolved into nervous laughter as the plane did a 180.
We somehow landed and didn’t skid off the runway. As we taxied to our gate, I spied a Jazeera plane parked at the gate next to us.
“Oh, look. There was my original plane,” I muttered bitterly. One thing was for sure: I was never going to fly Jazeera again.
As we walked into the airport and drove home, the familiar scenery passed me by. It was time to go back to normal life. Jordan was one of those trips that I wouldn’t soon forget.
fin
Part One | Part Two
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